“I always thought deep-dish pizza came from Chicago.”
“It does, but the Detroit kind has the sauce drizzled on top and is baked in pans that aren’t quite as deep as Chicago’s. They say that the original Detroit deep-dishes were baked in pans sourced from the automotive industry.”
“So we’re actually having not-quite-as-deep deep-dish pizza.”
“Shut up,” I said, laughing. “It’s good. You’ll see.”
The pizza was excellent. Hudson was surprised to see a rectangular pan arrive and I was happy to see a nice crunchy edge with the highly anticipated cheese bark. It crunched when I took a bite and a rich tangy umami mixture of the crust, toppings and sauce exploded in my mouth.
“Oh my God, this is so good,” I said, panting a little because it was still piping hot.
“I don’t even have words,” Hudson said, after taking a bite. “This is the best damn pizza I’ve ever had.”
For a couple of minutes, we didn’t speak. We reveled in pizza nirvana. The beer was the perfect complement and we clinked bottles when we started on our second.
After he polished off his first piece, Hudson said, “We have two more questions to get done, right? So choose a number.”
“Let’s go with our table number, 16.”
He scrolled down the list. “Okay, I’ll go first with this one. ’What do you strongly suspect but have no proof of?’ I strongly suspect you like me, but I don’t have any solid proof. I’ll have to kiss you some more to be sure.”
My face turned red but I gave him my flirtiest smile.
“I plead the fith,” I said. Damn it. “Fifth. I plead the fifth.”
“I also strongly suspect someone is a lightweight, and I think I do have proof.”
I scoffed, even though he was right. It didn’t take much to have me stumbling over my words.
“Whatever. I’m not sure why being able to drink a lot of liquor is such a laudable thing. The way I see it, I can get the same buzz as everyone else but for a lot less money.”
“Touché,” he said, tapping my bottle with his. “Your turn. What do you strongly suspect but have no proof of?”
Unfortunately, this question hit a little close to home.
“Hey,” Hudson said, sitting up in his chair. “What’s wrong? All of a sudden you look like you got bad news.”
He reached across the table and took my hand. His was cool and damp from the condensation off his beer bottle, but I didn’t mind. I was heating up from the way he was looking at me, his eyes full of concern.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “The question reminds me of something that happened when I was a kid that I really should be over by now.”
“You want to talk about it?” he asked, his thumb stroking across the back of my hand. “I’m a good listener.”
“No, it’s ancient history. I don’t think about it that often.” I shook my head to clear out the bad memories. “To answer the question,” I said, “I strongly suspect money can buy happiness. No, there’s no real proof of that, but I’d be happy to test the theory any time.”
“Has your family had to struggle?” he asked, concern still shadowing his brow.
“Oh, no,” I assured him. “No, we’ve always had food, a roof over our heads, all the necessities. I just meant I fantasize about how much easier life would be if I didn’t have to worry about money.”
“Honestly, my family has money.”
Ha. They were wealthy.
“But if you don’t have money worries, you end up worrying about other things. And it doesn’t guarantee happiness. That’s for damn sure. Not the real kind anyway, not the lasting, deep-in-your-heart kind of happiness.” He frowned and scratched at something stuck to the table. “I think real happiness comes from things like loving and being loved, doing good things, fulfilling some kind of purpose. The work you’re going to do, for example. Helping those kids live normal lives.”
My heart did a little somersault when his eyes met mine. Tonight, they were the color of the hydrangeas that bloomed in my parents’ garden—deep blue with a hint of lavender and that intriguing green ring around the irises. I couldn’t look away.
“That’s the kind of thing that will make you happy.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Does hockey make you happy?”
“Sure it does. It’s what I’m meant to do.”
“That’s what your family thinks. I want to know what you think. Does hockey make you happy?”
This time he was the one who looked thoughtful.
“It does,” he said after a long moment. “I love being part of a team, because there’s nothing better than being in sync with your teammates and executing a perfect play. There’s a lot of trust that has to occur on the ice and when you give your trust to a teammate and they come through, or vice versa, it’s the best.”
“And there’s the satisfaction of putting everything you know into practice too,” I said. “Using skills you’ve honed with hours and hours of work.”
“Exactly. I love that too. Hockey is never easy, but that’s what I like about it. All the highs you experience—scoring a goal or killing a penalty or winning the game—they’re sweet because of the challenge.”
“So meeting challenges can bring real happiness, too,” I said.
“Yes, absolutely. We should write a book,” he said with a laugh.
After tackling one last question—an easy one since we both just wanted to be done with it—he paid the bill and we headed back to the campus.
I was pretty drowsy—a result of the delicious pizza and the two beers. I must have fallen asleep on the five-minute drive back because I woke to find we were parked in front of Carter Hall.
“Oh my gosh. I can’t believe I fell asleep.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“How long was I out?”
“Not long. About five minutes. You were so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you.”
The air was cold, but I was warm with anticipation. He was going to kiss me again and oh, did I want him to. This time I wasn’t going to settle for a one and done. No, I wanted to feel his mouth on mine for a long while. I wanted to feel his tongue parting my lips, his strong arms around me.
We looked at each other and every one of my nerve endings tingled with awareness. My heart was beating so hard, I could feel my pulse in my fingertips. I swallowed and let my lips part and I saw his eyes drop to my mouth.
This was it.
I leaned forward and he brought his head closer to mine, reaching toward me to cup my neck as he had just a few hours ago at the Green Bean. Giving in and preparing for the kiss of my life, I closed my eyes.
Our lips met gently, again and again. With each soft kiss, he explored a different part of my mouth, pressing, nibbling, tasting. Then he drew back and gazed into my eyes as if gauging my reaction. I smiled and he came back for more and I was happy to give it to him. Kissing Hudson was more intoxicating than any cocktail I’d ever drunk. In a matter of moments, I was breathing hard, moaning softly and there was a restless ache between my legs.
We started fogging up the windows as he deepened the kiss, demanding more from me and getting it. Outside it had to be in the fifties, but inside the Jeep it was hotter than the tropics. I was contemplating taking his hand and putting it on my breast, but he placed it on my face instead and I was so lost in the kiss that I let him do it. I loved the feel of his big hand on my face and how his thumb stroked my cheek.
Shit. That’s when I realized.
He was stroking my cheek—the cheek with the birthmark on it.
13
Hudson
I’ll never understand the opposite sex. I know I’m not the first guy to ever say that, but I’d never been so baffled by a girl as I was by Indi that night. I mean, we were making out and it was great. Fantastic. Those little sexy moans of hers…fuck. I’d wished I’d worn pants with a lot more room in the crotch.
Then, all of a sudden, she freaked out. She
gasped and pulled away like she’d been burned. And I hadn’t even been trying for a feel.
Before I knew it, she was out of the car, babbling an apology before she dashed up the concrete walk.
I sat there, alone and horny as hell, going over what had happened bit by bit but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why she’d bolted.
I picked up my phone and texted her.
Hudson: Are you okay?
The three dots appeared, indicating she was composing a return message. I sat and waited for her reply and for my erection to go away.
The dots disappeared.
Then they reappeared.
This happened twice more while I considered going up to her room. I didn’t actually know which place was hers, but I might be able to find someone in the halls who would tell me.
Indi: I’m sorry I left in such a hurry.
Hudson: It’s not a problem. I just want to know if you’re okay.
Indi: I’m fine. I just…I have this…
Three dots, more waiting.
Indi: I have this thing about people touching my face. I know it’s weird. I probably should have told you.
Hudson: No, it’s not weird. Everyone has their Kissy crakes.
Damn it.
Hudson: Stupid autocorrect. I meant idiosyncrasies. My dad won’t let anyone touch his feet. TMI?
Indi: Ha ha. No. Not TMI.
Hudson: So are you free sometime next week to shoot the portraits?
My phone rang. It was Indi.
“Yes. I only have two classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Hey, me too, but I have practice every afternoon.”
“Do you have a problem waking up early? Because I was looking at the sign-up for the studio and everyone wants the later times. For the darkroom too.”
“Wait. What? I thought the darkroom was extra credit.”
“It is. I always do extra credit. Are you telling me you want to wimp out and just do the minimum? Because it’ll be easy, especially with two of us figuring it out. The instruction video is only fifteen minutes long and I already signed out one of the SLR cameras. There’s something cool about real prints. It’ll be like cooking something on an open fire versus your stove, you know?”
“I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
“And maybe they’ll come out good enough that I can frame one for my parents for Christmas.”
“Great idea. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re just a pretty face,” I said.
She didn’t reply for a second.
“Indi, did I lose you?”
“No, sorry. I’m here. I have to go. I’ll see you on Wednesday in class.”
I got a weird vibe from her goodbye, but I felt I’d fixed everything for the most part. All I really cared about was spending more time with her, especially in a conveniently private darkroom. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Our conversation at Tito’s had been as satisfying and fun as the one at the Green Bean, and I felt like we’d really made a connection.
When I got home, AJ was playing a video game. He didn’t look up when I sat next to him on the sofa. I watched him battle it out against aliens in a military installation on a distant planet. This was a level we’d both tried time and time again to get past. There were just too many aliens for the arsenal we were able to amass, but he had to be getting close. I saw him edging toward a pillar and on the other side, there was a disintegration grenade. Shit. That could shift the balance.
When there was a tiny break in the assault, AJ scooped up the grenade and launched it toward the enemy. When it exploded, it took out only four aliens.
“Damn it,” he swore. “Should have held it until…now.”
The creatures gathered in a tight group near a box that was labelled with alien markings. If that box held something explosive, he could take out all of them. AJ kept playing until he ran out of ammo and weapons and got torn apart limb from limb.
“How did you find that grenade?”
“While you were gone, I spent about seventeen lives just searching the room for something, anything we hadn’t found before.”
“Go ahead. Finish it.”
He picked the controller back up and restarted the level. I leaned back on the couch and watched him move through the rooms, systematically taking down the aliens with moves we’d perfected from repetition. When he got to the big warehouse with the pillars, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. This was it. He could do it.
Once again, he edged toward the pillar and picked up the grenade, but this time, he waited until the aliens formed a cluster near the mystery box.
“Now!” I urged just as he threw it.
The explosion was three times as big as before. Smoke billowed and the music hit a crescendo as bodies and shrapnel flew through the air. AJ had his shields up, so he was unharmed.
I gave him a high five and he grinned as he set the controller down. “That was epic.”
“Yup.” He turned the TV and the console off. “I’m going to bed.”
“Hey, hold up a second. We need to talk.”
“Ya think?”
I looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry for that shit with Kurly earlier. I shouldn’t have called you out on it in front of the team.”
“Damn straight you shouldn’t have. I mean, what the fuck? I’ve supported you the whole fucking time, telling everyone who’d listen you’d be a better captain than those two seniors. I defended you when Kurly called you an entitled piece of shit.”
“I know. You’re a good friend. You’re my best friend and I’m really sorry. Tell me how I can make it up to you.”
It took him a moment to realize I was using the relationship re-boot on him but when he did, he laughed. There was a hint of evil in that laugh.
“What can you do to make it up to me? Let’s see. You can clean my fucking bathroom.
“Oh, fuck you, man.”
“Okay. I guess you’re not as interested in redemption as I thought you were.”
I sighed. AJ wasn’t a slob and our bathrooms had handheld shower heads, so it would be relatively easy to sponge down the walls, door and floor with cleaner and hose it clean. I just needed to block out the fact that those walls probably had dried jizz on them. And the toilet…Fuck. I didn’t even want to think about it.
“Oh, all right. I’ll clean your bathroom,” I said. “Will that square us up then?”
He met my eyes. “Yeah.” We shook hands and he said, “For the record, you were right. I did put you on the spot, and I’m sorry about that.”
“Sorry enough to let me out of cleaning your bathroom?”
“Hell no.”
A week later, I met Indi at the photography studio at seven a.m., which was hella early for me, especially considering the fact that I stopped at the Green Bean on the way to school and picked up lattes and croissants for us.
“You got me an almond croissant?” she said, delighted when she opened her pastry bag.
“I remember you said that was your go-to.”
“It is. I love the filling and the toasted nuts on the top.”
After breakfast, we got down to the business of shooting the photos. There was a stool, a background and lights already set up for us. We were supposed to be capturing an aspect of the person that we’d discovered during the interview. I wasn’t quite sure how to do that, so I just made a game of it, pretending that she was a high fashion model. There was one of those wire things that allowed you to click the shutter by pressing a button in your hand, so I didn’t have to glue my eye to the viewfinder.
“Show me happy. Sexy. Pouty. You’re a goddess. You’re a vamp. Now you’re contemplative…now, calculating…”
And she did the same when it was my turn to pose. We laughed a lot and by the time our allotted studio time was up, we’d used up two rolls of film.
The darkroom was not the little closet-sized space I’d expected. It was almost the size of the photography classroom. There were six machines
called enlargers along one wall and the same number of developing stations. It smelled weird and I wondered briefly about the effects of inhaling the fumes of the chemicals we would be using.
To our surprise, there was a darkroom assistant named Randi there to develop the film on a giant machine and guide us through the rest of the process—using the enlarger, the three-step process for developing, adjusting contrast and making the final print. While this made our work a hell of a lot easier, I wasn’t getting the alone time with Indi that I’d hoped for. So with the third wheel in the darkroom, I had to get creative.
As Randi demonstrated how to adjust the enlarger to ensure the proper print size, I stood very close to Indi and placed my hand on her ass. She turned toward me, one questioning eyebrow raised, but I maintained a look of innocence as I slowly squeezed. Her eyes widened as Randi droned on about refocusing or something. I wasn’t paying that much attention. I was too busy enjoying the luscious handful I had in my hand.
Indi tried to listen to Randi, but, bad boy that I am, I persisted. I slid my hand down and between our bodies. She was wearing jeans, but I could tell she liked what I was doing by the way she subtly arched her back to give me a little more access.
Then, I felt her hand on me, which wasn’t something I had anticipated when I’d started this. Shit. My jaw clenched as her fingernails scratched their way from the bottom of my fly up to the button at my waist and then back down again.
That was some sweet fucking torture right there. In a matter of moments, I was hard and ready with shit-all I could do about it and no one to blame but myself.
“Now, shift the card every five seconds to expose one more inch or so of the paper each time,” Randi said. “Like this…one, two, three, four, five, shift. See? One, two, three, four, five, shift. We do this to determine the correct exposure time…”
Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance Page 8
