“You started it,” she said, her voice breathless, her chest rising and falling in a fast rhythm that matched his.
Feisty to the end.
“I should go,” he repeated, pulling back, but he squeezed her hand one last time.
“Don’t trip on your way to the car,” she said, her shaky smile turning into a grin, like she had him and he just hadn’t come to terms with that yet.
Hell. She probably did.
“Goodnight Amanda,” he said, nodding at her car door, willing her to get inside and shut it between them before he gave in and took her home with him and pressed her against any available surface in his condo.
He was doing an inventory of surfaces when she finally slipped into her car.
“Goodnight Ben,” she called back. “And if you’re up for mini golf, maybe I’ll see you next weekend.”
His response was unintelligible as he nodded at her and headed toward his own vehicle.
She was going to be the death of him. But when she was wrapped up in his arms, he wasn’t sure he could find the will to care.
Chapter 6
I made it to Australia, and I’m staying just for the accents. It amazes me how much of this continent is unexplored, uninhabitable, when almost every spot in the United States is filled with people. When you get here, don’t miss out on an Outback tour. I also recommend the wine.
~ Adventurous Amanda, April 2012
She refused to wait any longer. She didn’t wait for guys. Especially guys she hadn’t made plans with, firm or otherwise.
But she’d hoped. And she shouldn’t have.
She huffed and took a gulp of her beer. It was Saturday night. Almost a week since she’d run into Ben at the blues bar, and tripped over herself in lust watching him play. Holy fuck. If he added one more thing to the hotness scale she was going to combust the next time she saw him.
And then she’d kissed him. To be fair, he’d started it. Looking all swoony and kissing her cheek. She’d played that scene over in her head all week. After an amazing night of sharing stories, some superficial and some a bit deeper than either of them had intended, she’d refused to end it with his chaste kiss on her cheek, so she’d planted one on him. And now she wondered if it’d reeked of desperation. Not that she’d been desperate, but when a guy says goodnight and kisses your cheek, no matter how intently he stares into your eyes, swallowing you up in his rich brown depths, he’s probably not expecting you to stick your tongue down his throat.
She bit back her groan, wondering if she’d scared him off, scarred him for life.
Okay, that was a bit much.
So, here she was. Staring at the front door of City Putt, waiting to see if he would show. She’d been nursing the same drink for forty-five minutes since she’d walked in. Forty-five minutes of her gaze darting toward the door whenever it opened.
What was wrong with her? She did not do this—ever. She knocked back the rest of her drink and pushed away from the bar, putter in hand, and walked over to the first hole. No more thoughts of Ben. And that kiss. And when she was going to see him again, if he wouldn’t mind a repeat.
Nope. She was here to have fun, and this place was awesome. It used to be an old bank, the teller counter now a long gleaming wood bar, with a variety of San Francisco themed drinks listed on the chalkboard wall behind it, along with a dozen pub food items. She would recommend the spring rolls. The dipping sauce had been a combo she’d never had before, and it was delicious.
Nine mini golf holes were scattered throughout the space, each following along with the San Francisco theme, from knocking your ball across a Golden Gate Bridge to teeing it off at the top of Lombard Street and watching it meander down the famous crooked street and into the hole.
People would love this place, with its eclectic food options and extensive cocktail menu. The vibe was funky and energetic. And she would not think about Ben’s version of adults only activities. Her face flushed at the thought of him in a sex club. Was he an observer or would he participate? She ignored the shiver that rolled through her at the image.
Hell, she’d never been to one and she’d never expected he’d been to one, either. Not that he’d admitted to going to one. Every time she thought she’d figured him out, another mystery presented itself.
But he wasn’t interested in her. Regardless of those kisses. If he was, his ass would be here tonight, putting alongside her. She had to stop. This line of thought wasn’t doing anything for her but riling her up with no means of satisfaction, in more ways than one.
She dropped her purple golf ball at the top of the first hole and lined up her shot, knocking it through a windmill that resembled Coit Tower. The ball hit the side of the structure and rolled back toward her. She walked down the fake green and putted it again, this time making it under the windmill.
Mini-golfing alone was depressing. There was no one to compete against. But she had a job to do, an article to write. And she refused to make it as pathetic as she currently felt. The woe-is-me attitude was not her usual thing. She could have fun anywhere. She glanced at the front door one last time and cursed herself.
Snap the fuck out of it. He’s not coming, and you don’t need him to have a good time.
“Are you playing alone?” a voice said from behind her, and she couldn’t fight back a small snort that escaped.
Like she needed the reminder.
She looked over her shoulder. The guy behind her was hot. Tall, blond, cheekbones she could use to cut glass. But no dimple. God dammit. She wanted to growl at her own ridiculousness. Dimples were overrated.
She bit back another snort. No they weren’t. They were lovely.
The guy quirked his eyebrow, gesturing to her putter that she gripped tightly in her hand. And then he smiled. It was a pleasant smile. He had all his teeth. Did Ben have all his teeth? Maybe a few were fake. Hockey players were known for missing a few.
Shit. Could you internally stomp your foot? Because that’s what she was doing right now. Why was she so hung up on Captain Cheese? It wasn’t like her. But sitting in that club with him—just enjoying the music, his company—that kiss. Not that the chemistry wasn’t ridiculous on top of all of that, but…
She shook her head and plastered a smile on her face, pushing Ben aside.
“Yes, my friend bailed, so it’s just me. I’m Amanda.” She offered her hand, his warm grasp enveloping her fingers. No zing, but sparks were overrated. Much like dimples.
“That sucks. Feel free to join us. We need a fourth. This is Mark and Cora. Oh, and I’m Ben,” he said, and this time her snort wasn’t internal.
What were the freaking odds?
“Nice to meet you,” she said, resisting the urge to glance at the ceiling and mutter really?
“Can I get you a drink?” Ben asked.
Why did he have to be a Ben? Not that he looked anything like her Ben. Not that Cheesy was her Ben. She needed to reel this shit in pronto. This Ben probably was regretting asking her to join them already.
“Sorry. I’m good for now, but thanks. And it’s nice to meet you, Ben, Cora, and Mark,” she said, offering the other two a big smile.
They exchanged greetings, and Amanda urged Cora to go first. Mark leaned in, giving Cora a few pointers. Amanda didn’t miss the woman’s pink cheeks.
She hung back with Ben. “So, do you guys come here a lot?” She resisted the urge to groan at her horrible pick up line.
Ben laughed. “Shouldn’t I ask something like that to you?” he said, grinning.
Point to Ben.
“Do you excel at cheesy pick up lines, Ben?”
Note to self: don’t use Ben and cheese in the same sentence with a different Ben. Just plain weird.
“Not usually. And this is our first time here. How about you?”
“Yep. I’m actually writing an article about it.”
“Really? That’s so cool. What’s it about? I mean, aside from putting through local landmarks.” He really was cute. Sparkly
blue eyes, full lips that ached to be nibbled on. And still nothing.
Son of a bitch. Damn that Cheese for ruining her potential sex life. For firing her up the other night, not delivering, and not letting her call up an alternate.
Okay, that thought was insane. But painfully accurate.
She continued to make small talk with them as they meandered through the course. They cheered when she got a hole in one and Ben bought her another drink. But at the end of the night, when he asked if she wanted to head out to another bar for one last drink, she turned him down, and grabbed a cab, to head home, by herself.
Whatever Ben—the real Ben—was doing to her, she needed to snap out of it or get him in line with what she wanted. She’d never been the type to sit back and let things happen, and the chase was always fun, but with Ben it would be messy. Mutual friends, his prickliness over her job.
The fact that he hadn’t shown up tonight should’ve been enough for her to move on to the next guy. But she wasn’t ready to walk away just yet.
Ben tried to focus on the game clock on his TV, but his eyes continually darted to the actual time. She was probably at City Putt by now. He refused to think that she was waiting for him to show up, and he was irritated with himself for staying home tonight instead of meeting her. He’d even bailed on dinner with a few of the guys in favor of moping on his couch.
Not that he moped.
He had a game to dissect. Sure, they’d watched game tape of Chicago before practice this morning, but it was always good to be prepared. Chicago was at the top of the Central Division and the Strikers’ opponent tomorrow night. Ben was tired of floating around the wild card spot for the last few weeks, and winning tomorrow night was a necessity. As they drew closer to the end of the regular season, every point counted, and two tomorrow night would make the rest of the week easier. They had three games in the next five days and a four-game road trip coming up in ten days.
Chicago was up by two halfway through the second period. Yes, he was watching to see who was playing. Who looked tired. If the goalie had a weaker side. Yes, it was slightly mercenary, and he didn’t make those mental notes in order to go after an injured player, but if someone was skating slower than normal, or favoring a side, it was good intel when Ben went face to face with them tomorrow night.
He would never intentionally exploit another player’s injury. Sure, there were guys that did that, but that wasn’t the type of game Ben wanted to play. Hits were par for the course, but intentional injury was an entirely different matter. Players got seriously hurt, sometimes career-ending hurt, when some rogue asshole played dirty. It was what had led to his concussion two years into his professional career when he’d been twenty. Newly named captain, one of the youngest ever, and guys had been gunning for him. A veteran from Vancouver, known for questionable hits, had slew-footed him right into the boards. Head first. His memory of the actual hit was sketchy at best, but he’d seen it on loop more times than he’d liked over the years. One of the national commentators liked to pick something specific about each player and repeat it ad-nauseam when he called the games. Ben’s concussion had been the tidbit the guy focused on, so his brush with hanging up his skates earlier than he’d wanted was shoved in his face more than he’d like.
After that hit, Ben had been out for the rest of the season. It’d taken months to come back, but he’d been determined. He’d refused to go out that way.
The reception he’d received at the home opener at the start of the following season had been deafening, choking up a young kid who was living his dream. Even when the dream had seemed beyond his reach in the first two months after the injury. He’d miraculously not broken any bones, but he’d spent more than enough time in dark rooms, his senses rattled, while he followed concussion protocol. His fear of not getting back on the ice had consumed him in the beginning, but he’d pushed through…with the help of his girlfriend. At least that’s what he’d thought.
He shook his head. Thinking about Tara never accomplished anything, except to infuriate him.
He turned his focus back to the game. Chicago had scored another goal while he’d been off in his head. They were on fire tonight and tomorrow would be a tough battle, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Maybe Amanda would be at the game.
And now his focus was back on her. Thinking about her smile when she’d talked about her grandparents, her grin when she told him how hot he’d looked on stage at the bar, and the soft sigh she’d let out when he’d brushed a kiss across her cheek.
And the kiss she’d planted on him when his innocent peck on the cheek hadn’t been enough. He’d ached to continue the kiss, but something had pulled him back. He was still wary, and he was damn tired of that. Not that Amanda had let him pull back that far, planting her own kiss on him. Fuck. He wanted to kiss her again.
He’d read her article this morning, relieved that she hadn’t mentioned his presence, let alone that he jumped up on stage and played regularly. The last thing he needed was puck bunnies showing up at his sanctuary, claiming to love the music. Amanda had raved more about the bar to him than she had in her article, only briefly mentioning that it’d been her grandfather’s favorite and that his picture was behind the bar. Why had she downplayed it?
He shook his head. He shouldn’t attempt to figure out her reasoning, or think it maybe had to do with him. He’d come across so arrogant, demanding that she not mention that he was there. But the media loved shit like that, showing the guys off the ice. Which was fine. He was more than willing to visit hospitals and participate in every meet and greet that the team required. But the bar was different. It was his. Well, not actually his. He had no ownership, though he’d offered to be a silent partner if Oscar ever wanted the help. He wanted to ensure the bar remained exactly how it was. Low key, a little divey. Forgotten by the masses.
Hopefully Amanda’s article wouldn’t change that. He hadn’t been back since she’d been there. He should’ve gone tonight, but the thought of being out at the bar or with the guys, and it getting back to Amanda that he’d purposely bailed on her, rankled. It shouldn’t, but he wasn’t a total asshole. He hadn’t agreed to meet her, but the invitation had been clear in her eyes. And then he’d kissed her. Another lapse in judgment. They were plentiful around her.
Reporter. Reporter. Reporter.
The mantra was getting stale, but his reasons were justified. He’d been burned in the past, almost beyond recognition, and he hesitated to go back there. Back to what Tara had done to him. Sure, the team had buried it, but if one dug hard enough, he imagined parts of her article were floating around somewhere. Not that he wanted to look. Just the memory of it infuriated him.
That the woman he’d thought loved him, that he’d thought he’d loved more than anyone before could make up blatant lies to sensationalize her article, hurt. That she’d done it when she was supposed to be caring for him after his brutal concussion made it a hundred times worse. Up until that point, he’d planned to spend the rest of his life with her.
Not that he expected Amanda to do that. She’d treated the team in her article last week very professionally. Only remarking on her experience as a new hockey fan. Her likes and dislikes of attending the game. His teammates had only been highlighted for what they’d done on the ice.
As much as he wanted to shield himself from her with memories of past media nightmares, she’d done nothing to deserve his short temper and awkwardness every time he remembered what she did for a living while he was fantasizing about where to kiss her.
He was a mess.
He wanted to trust her, more than he had with another woman in as long as he could remember. Since Tara. It always came back to her. Not that he missed her, or still loved her. That had faded long before the NDA had been signed. It was his pride that held him back.
What if he was wrong? What if she toned down the article because she was going to pump him for information and write her first heart-hitting piece? What if…<
br />
What if he was looking for issues that weren’t there?
He should’ve gone tonight. And even though he could get his ass off the couch and meet her there, he still held back.
He was getting tired of holding back. His safety bubble was stifling, and he wondered when he would see her again. How many times could he act weird and push her away before she gave up the chase?
What if she was just in it for the chase? She dated a lot. Never settling down, because she rarely stayed in one place for very long. But she’d been here for eighteen months.
Not that he was checking up on her. That would be weird.
Chapter 7
Spend your days free of cubicle walls. Even if it is just for a vacation. Kayaking around New Zealand is a great place to enjoy your wall free days. Join a tour or find a buddy to tag along with. Just don’t forget the sunscreen like I did.
~ Adventurous Amanda, June 2012
She’d been staring at the same paragraph for the last twenty minutes, like her article was going to magically write itself. Oh God, it was only Tuesday and already her week was dragging. She had to get her draft to Betsy by end of day today. It should’ve been ready to go by end of day yesterday, but somehow the hours had gotten away from her.
At least her blog post was ready to go for tomorrow, both for the magazine and her own blog. Betsy had hinted that Amanda should mention the magazine’s blog whenever Amanda posted her own blog. Adventurous Amanda had been a little sad of late with updates, so cross promotion was good for both, but she knew that it was mostly to drive people to the magazine.
She’d been hired because of the high traffic on her own blog. They hadn’t been subtle about that. And since her blog wasn’t covering her bills, Amanda had readily agreed. She’d even started tweaking her own posts to focus on local travel spots since she hadn’t stepped foot out of California since she’d come home two months before her grandfather passed.
God, she missed him. She choked back a sigh. Staying in his house kept the memories fresh, but he’d given it to her. Fully paid mortgage and taxes covered for the next five years. San Francisco was expensive. He was still looking out for her. She just wished he was still here. She shook her head.
Skating the Line (San Francisco Strikers Book 2) Page 7
