Birthday Girl: A contemporary sports romantic comedy (Minnesota Ice Book 3)

by Lily Kate

  I watch her leave, surprised by how quickly I’d decided that I liked the woman. Usually it takes me some time to warm up to a person, but something about Leigh—her independence, her fierce love for her son, her ability to laugh despite what must be a tough gig as a single, working mom, required an instant boost of admiration for her.

  Another week, I thought, chancing one more glance over my shoulder at Cohen. Maybe I could suffer through one more week of coughing my way up and down the lap pool, but only for Leigh.

  If I show up at class again, it’s absolutely not because I want to see Cohen James.

  Chapter 6

  ANNIE

  The rest of Gran’s lesson flies by. Thankfully, from what I could tell, none of the women sustained injuries of any sort from their leaping and bouncing through the pool.

  Now, I’m leaning against the edge of the front counter, waiting for someone—either my mother or Gran—to arrive. Gran’s in the shower, mom’s grabbing the car, and I’m stuck somewhere in between, loitering around the front door like a high school hoodlum.

  Okay, it’s not the waiting at the front door that has me feeling like a hoodlum, it’s the shifty eyes I’ve got going on, half expecting to see Cohen at any second. I’m sneaking glimpses down the stairs like I’m waiting for a getaway driver.

  But I have a plan—at the first sight of him, I’m bolting outside, rain or not.

  Ten minutes pass, my mom’s nowhere to be seen, and Gran’s still singing in the shower. The lady at the front counter won’t stop staring at me, so I shift into the seated area a floor above. It’s a balcony-style lounge, so I can see the front door, the desk, and the coming and going of everyone including Gran... and Cohen. It’s a safe place.

  There’s a pot of coffee gurgling in the corner, and I approach it carefully, with a little bit of caution, like I might approach a lion. Turns out it doesn’t smell half bad, so I pour myself a cup.

  And nearly gag. It’s thick mud, sludgy in color and peppered with the dregs of the pot. I frown, watching as a few men Gran’s age play chess and sip the concoction. I can barely hide a shudder.

  In fact, I’m mid-shiver when a hand lands on my back, startling me. My half-full cup tips straight into the trash can as I stifle a yelp of surprise.

  “Sorry,” Cohen says, wincing as I turn to face him. “Seems I have the habit of surprising you today.”

  “Surprising me?” I wipe the coffee remains off my hand with a napkin from the coffee station. “Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”

  “Annie, I...” He stalls, running a hand through his hair as his eyes come to rest on me. He’s changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, and he looks comfy and perfect. “I came to apologize for what happened in the pool.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have surprised you like that.”

  “Correct,” I huff. “I’m glad we agree on something.”

  “I would have never let anything happen to you, I hope you know that.”

  I raise my eyebrow, watching his colorful eyes as they dart across my face. He holds my gaze, waiting for a response. “Fine,” I say. “I believe you.”

  “Good,” he exhales. “We agree on two things.”

  “I still think you’re an asshole.”

  “Join the club.”

  “I guess I owe you a thank you, too,” I say grudgingly. When he looks surprised, I cross my arms. “For sticking up for my bathing suit.”

  He laughs, a contagious sound. A few of the older gentlemen turn around and watch the pair of us until Cohen puts his arm around me and guides me into the hallway around the corner.

  “It wasn’t the suit that did the trick,” he says. “I think it’s the woman who makes the suit.”

  My thank you has completely and utterly backfired. Heat’s rushing to my face, and there’s a slight tremble in my step as I move away from him.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “It’s just a fact. I already told you that I can’t hit on you.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “Because you’re not my type, anyway.”

  “Ouch.”

  I shrug, pretending I’m not affected by the way his eyes flicker over my body. There’s not much to see now: a winter coat, yoga pants, little-to-no makeup. The traditional Saturday college attire. “It’s true. People like you and people like me aren’t a good fit.”

  “Tell me, what’s your type?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He flings his keys in a circle around his finger, catching them as he gives me a wry look. “So, are you coming back next week?”

  “Depends. Are you planning to steal my noodle?”

  “I won’t take your noodle if you don’t wear that horrible bathing suit.”

  “No promises,” I tell him, fighting back a smile. “I don’t own a bikini.”

  “Shame.”

  I furrow my brow. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

  He leans in, so close I can smell his freshly shampooed hair, the expensive gel he probably used to lather every inch of his lean, beautiful body. “I’m a man, sweetheart. I’d have to be dead not to appreciate you.”

  “Cohen!”

  He waits a moment, but I don’t have a follow up, so he gives me a wink and heads down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  My eyes are drawn toward him, watching him jog through the front doors, wave to the receptionist, and then turn forward. He even opens doors like an athlete, smooth and confident, with full control over his limbs. Unlike my wild flailing in the water.

  I’m in the middle of coming up with a great, witty-but-belated retort to yell after him when he pauses to hold open the door for a young mother from the Baby-and-Me class.

  As she passes by, he gives the baby a smile, and the kid laughs. It’s adorable. I watch the whole thing as if Cohen’s performing magic tricks. It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

  Then, Cohen says goodbye and finishes his exit. He climbs straight into some fancy-looking Porsche. Straight into the passenger’s side because there’s a girl behind the wheel, and she’s gorgeous.

  That’s when the spell breaks, and all fantasies I might’ve ever entertained about Cohen James are shattered. He leans across the seat, gives her a not-so-chaste smooch on the lips, and then slams the door shut.

  “Asshole,” I murmur under my breath.

  “Whoa, Nelly. Now, I love the language, but your mother won’t,” Gran says, appearing at my shoulder. “How about that class though? Boy, do I feel limber. You really should join us, dear.”

  “No, thanks.” I’m unusually gruff in my retort. “Ready to head out?”

  “What got your undies in a twist?” Gran sidles up next to me, looping her arm through mine. Then she follows my gaze to where Cohen is getting whisked away in a shiny sports car. “Oh, I see. Men.”

  “Idiots, more like.”

  “He is handsome, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t tell,” I lie. “I’m not interested.”

  “Sure you’re not,” Gran says. “How about we go shopping? I think we need to find you a swimsuit that doesn’t look like something my great aunt should be wearing. She’s dead. Have I told you about Frannie? She had nine cats.”

  “Fine,” I agree. “Shopping it is.”

  Chapter 7

  COHEN

  “Hey, good lookin’,” Erica greets me. “How’d it go?”

  “Mind if I drive?” I ask, even though she’s already pulled onto the main street. Still, she’s moving like a turtle, and I suddenly need to get far away from that YMCA.

  “Oooh, you want to take me for a ride?” Erica purrs, then giggles. “The car, I mean.”

  “Sure,” I say, but only because it’ll get her to agree faster. “Let’s pull into the Starbucks up here.”

  “Oh, I love coffee. Spontaneous coffee date? Your treat?”

  I give a shake of my head as she parks. “I’ve gotta get somewhere, sorr
y.”

  “Aw bummer! I was hoping we could spend some time together.”

  I look across the seat at Erica and raise my eyebrow. At least, I think it’s Erica. It might be Erin, but I can’t say for sure—it was dark last night, and the bar was loud when we met. She only told me her name once, and I’d feel like a tool asking for her to repeat it after all this time.

  Last night had started out innocently enough. After the bar, a group of my buddies ended up at an apartment with a group of girls—friends of friends. Turns out the apartment belonged to Erica. Erin? Whatever.

  The group of us played a round of Cards Against Humanity until five in the morning and, instead of trying to drive home at that hour, I found myself asking to stay on her couch.

  Erin-slash-Erica had readily agreed, inviting me straight into her bed. Judging by the fact that she’d had her hand on my knee and her ass halfway on my leg the entire night, I had a good idea what she had in mind. Even so, I’d turned her down.

  I’ve been there, done that, earned the puck bunny t-shirt. I love women, don’t get me wrong, but this one is a bonafide Stage-Ten clinger, and I just do not have the time, patience, or energy for someone like her at this point in my life.

  A few years back... maybe. I might’ve taken her up on her offer for a single night of fun, but I’m too old to deal with the aftermath of it, now. Does that mean I’m finally becoming an adult? I sure as hell hope not. I’m not a fan of responsibility.

  I glance over toward Erica who’s inching her fingers up my thigh even before we’ve left the Starbucks parking lot. I’ve changed over to the driver’s seat after handing over her nonfat skinny latte, and I realize that maybe... becoming an adult isn’t so bad. If I’d have slept with her last night, I’d feel guilty and annoyed. Right now, I’m just annoyed. I feel like I deserve a fucking pat on the back.

  But she did drive me to my first day of volunteer work, so I should probably take a chill pill and throw her a bone. So, I flash her a smile which earns me a tittering giggle in return.

  If only I’d woken up early enough to make the mile trek back to my place, I wouldn’t be in this position. However, because I’d slept through five of my alarms, I’d had to choose between showing up on time or driving my own car, and I’d chosen the former.

  “Bad day, huh?” she asks. “I sense a cranky panda over here.”

  She shifts toward me, her full lips forming a pout that should’ve made my pants just a little too tight. Right now, though, there’s nothing happening down there. I think even my penis is annoyed.

  “Day was fine,” I mumble.

  “Let me give you a little kiss to make things better.”

  I dodge her lips which, now that I’m seeing more clearly in the light of day, look like they’ve been enhanced by a jug of helium. My eyes wander down to her chest, and sure enough, my suspicions are confirmed. That woman could back float with only the help of the balloons strapped in by her shirt.

  That is, if the swatch of fabric over her body could be called a shirt. There’s a ‘v’ in the neckline that dips so low I can probably see her belly button if I look hard enough. I’m simply not interested.

  For a moment, I wonder if it’s because my mind is busy imagining the curves—the real, homegrown variety—underneath Annie Plymouth’s ruffled bathing suit. There’s nothing fake about her, that’s for sure. She can’t even pretend to enjoy my company.

  “Babe, I’m talking to you.” Erin/Erica frowns deeper. “Bad morning or what? Why don’t you drive us to my place and I’ll distract you for the next hour. Then I’ve gotta get to work, okay?”

  I don’t respond, instead using the moment to calculate the time it’ll take me to get to my car. Fifteen minutes if I fly. Cranking the vehicle onto the highway, I press my foot to the floor and ease the car as fast as I can legally go onto the on ramp.

  Then, I come to a screeching halt.

  Thanks to a stalled out car, the drive to Uptown takes forty-five minutes. During this time, I find out that Erica’s real name is not Erin, but Jill. Who would’ve thought?

  She finally tires of talking about her cosmetology class and tries again to sneak her manicured fingers down my pants. Against all logical thought, I find myself moving those fingers back onto her lap with the excuse of needing to focus on the road.

  Jill frowns, then looks in the mirror to check her makeup. She stops frowning immediately, mutters about wrinkles on her skin, and then settles into a vacant glare that has me wondering if I should buy her a Big Mac. She looks hungry. And she’s skinny.

  “Hamburger?” I mouth as we pass a fast food place. “Shake?”

  She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Gross.”

  “Great.” Less time that we have to spend together.

  When I arrive at my house, Jill looks around, confused. “This isn’t my house.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I really have to get going.” Ironically, we missed the turn for her house about ten blocks back and she never even noticed. “I’m not feeling great.”

  “Aww, poor baby. Come home and let mama cook you some soup.”

  I look at her. “You cook?”

  “No, asshole, we can order it from the Japanese place across the street.”

  “Sorry, Jill. Maybe another time.”

  “My name’s Julie.”

  “Oh. Shit.”

  I should apologize, but I’m finding it difficult to do so. After all, the only reason she wants to ‘cook’ for me is because of my name. She basically told me so last night after quizzing me about Los Angeles, celebrities, and other random crap that is not part of a hockey player’s lifestyle. Her vision is far more glamorous than the real deal.

  After all, if I’d been an accountant, she wouldn’t have given me a backwards glance. I know this. I’m not a damn Armani model; I’m a hockey player. I’ve got a busted nose, scars, tattoos—I’m not what women would call pretty. Stand Matthew McConoughey next to me and people would think I’m a bum.

  “Get out of my car,” Julia says with a wobble in her voice. “You know, I thought we had something special.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “I drove you to volunteer.”

  “I’m sorry, here is some gas money.” I pull out a twenty and hand it over. “I appreciate the ride. Thank you.”

  “I’m not a whore!”

  “I didn’t say that!” I throw my hand up in exasperation as she tosses the money back at me, then lands a punch to my shoulder. It feels moderately like a blind bumblebee has crashed into my arm. “I’m sorry, I’m just not interested right now.”

  “Are you emotionally unavailable?” She sniffs.

  “Yes,” I say, seeing a loophole and grasping onto it for dear life. “I just got out of a horrible relationship, and my—uh... heart is still healing.”

  “Oh, you poor thing.” Julia sandwiches me between her set of balloons and squeezes hard. “Call me once you’re feeling better, okay, honey?”

  “Sure thing.”

  This time, she pockets the gas money and gives me a finger wave as she buckles herself into the driver’s seat. Before she pulls away from the curb, she takes one last look out the window. “So, should I call you tonight?”

  “I don’t think so,” I tell her, thinking that suddenly, it all feels exhausting. Julia, the bunnies, the stupid pranks—all of it. “Maybe a different time.”

  “Okay, honey. Feel better.” Satiated with the response, she whips away from the curb nearly crunching my toes in the process.

  I hoof it to the entrance of the upscale condo building. I have a nice place in Uptown, a two bedroom penthouse above the city. It’s more of a crash pad than a home, since I spend so much of my time traveling. It’s close enough to the nightlife to give me a place to rest up while in town, and it’s not far from the airport or the rink.

  The whole thing works for me. I’m not looking for a permanent place to set up a Christmas tree for the rest of my life; setting down roots is not my i
dea of a good time now, if ever. I’ve seen what setting down roots can do to a person when they don’t actually want it, and it’s not pretty. I know this because the result is me—team troublemaker.

  I open the fridge, pop the top off a Corona, and settle into the couch. It’s barely afternoon, but it’s been an exhausting morning. I’m ready for a nap, a burger, and bed.

  Alone.

  Chapter 8

  ANNIE

  “Nope, not ugly enough.” I look in the mirror at the fabric draped over my body. I officially look like some odd combination of a first grade art project and an ancient Egyptian goddess. The suit is probably intended to be cool and edgy, maybe a bit on the upscale fashion side, but it’s not nearly horrible enough for my intentions.

  “Sweetie, I really love that metal collar on you.” Gran pokes her head underneath the stall. She has no shame. I suppose when a person reaches a certain age, the amount of embarrassment they have left in stock begins to vanish. In Gran’s case, however, it’s evaporated. All of it. “The padding at the back gives you nice definition in your rear end.”

  “I’m not looking for definition. I’m looking for a parka.”

  “I thought you wanted a bathing suit.”

  “I do. A bathing suit parka,” I correct. “Something so ugly you can’t help but cringe when you see it.”

  “Pop that door open for me. I’d crawl underneath the stall, but my knees don’t work like they used to, and I don’t feel like getting stuck again.”

  “Again?”

  “Gertrude trapped her head in one of them new lingerie sets, and I tried to rescue her last week after church. Turns out, security had to rescue us both and call the ambulance while they were at it because Gertrude’s hip was on the fritz. But we were the talk of the town at bridge club.”

  “I’ll bet,” I mumble under my breath, sliding the lock open and letting Gran sneak through the door. “Do me a favor and don’t go crawling underneath dressing room doors. That sort of thing can get you kicked out of the mall, and you know mother hates picking you up from security.”