“I know that you heard me.” Margot’s fine brows drew closer together. “But I’ll ask again nicely.” Her throat clearing was loud and purposeful.
His gaze flicked to her throat, the soft delicate hollow where she made the noise. She might be joking around, but the last thing he felt like doing was laughing.
“Would you pretty please with maraschino cherries on top remove your shirt?”
He didn’t respond—couldn’t. Shed his clothes? Have the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen put her hands on his bare skin?
Christ. He’d never be ready.
If God had tailor-made a woman designed to be his type, Margot Kowalski would be it. The moment she’d leapt back from her doorway—while he stood out there trying to psyche himself up to knock—and yelped about breaking her nose... he’d been on the fast train to Gonesville.
And now she waited. Patiently. Knowingly.
The question was why? What was it that drew him in? Was it her disquieting grey eyes, the same color of a secret pearl? Those perfect-ten breasts filling out her black leotard? Or her long legs stretching somewhere into tomorrow?
But despite the dancer-type clothes and elegant bun, she didn’t give off an air of untouchable yogi beauty. Her nose was too snub for starters, and her smile too warm. Then there were those freckles smattering her cheeks in two faint constellations. They slew him one by one.
He’d been prepared to endure an hour with a yoga teacher that he didn’t take seriously, someone who wore healing crystals and was named Sunbeam Calmspring.
In truth, her apartment had more than its fair share of hippie knickknacks—macramé wall hangings, houseplants, star-shaped paper lanterns, and baskets... who needed this many baskets? But the curveball to the whole situation was how much he liked it, being here in her apartment with its lavender-painted walls and feminine energy. The faint trace of spicy incense was homey. It returned him to his childhood, of being an altar boy—a role that had brought order to an otherwise chaotic existence.
A life where Ma spent most of the day passed out on the couch bed, stinking in her own filth, her arms riddled with bruises while her boyfriend-of-the-week sipped malt liquor from a brown paper bag and watched Springer.
That dark, depressing world faded every Sunday under the soft light of the church. The cursing, the desperation and the drug-fueled fights felt like a bad dream as he’d kneel on the altar, losing himself in the rituals. The Penitential Rite chanted in unison. The Liturgy of the Word. The unshakeable belief that Father Kevin changed bread and wine into the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ.Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, grant us mercy. Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world,grant us peace.
Mercy.
Peace.
The church had been an anchor in the storm. A reminder that life didn’t have to be a hustle for shoot-up money. Or scarfing down discounted hot dogs at the corner convenience store for dinner. Or—
“In case you’re worried about protecting my virtue—” Margot broke into his thoughts. “Let me put your mind at ease. I can vouch that I’ve seen a few shirtless men in my day.” Margot sat back on her heels. “More than that actually.”
“Okay...” What was she telling him? That she’d been with men...
Many men?
“You’re blushing.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and locked her arms around her knees. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to be shy. Don’t you and your teammates strip down together in the locker room? The way Neve talks, it’s like naked man city after games. I guess I picture the players walking around with their junk waving—”
“This isn’t a locker room,” he blurted. And Margot Kowalski sure as shit wasn’t just one of the guys.
“Whoa, Tiger.” She blinked, registering his stricken expression. “Are you wound tight or what. Let’s loosen you up before something snaps.”
“I’m not big on getting touched.” His tone was clipped—the verbal equivalent to yellow caution tape. “Not big on anything touchy-feely, period.”
“Okay. I respect that,” she said. “But I’m not asking you to hug it out. You need to relax if you want to start improving your breathing.”
“Not big on loosening up either.” The way he grew up, if he relaxed anything he’d fall apart. Better to be stiff and solid, shore up defenses.
She did a good job muffling her exasperated sigh... but not good enough. The exhale roared through his ears.
This wasn’t going to work. It was a bad idea. He’d been a dumbass agreeing to come, even if Coach had him by the short and curlies.
He’d convinced himself that he could drive here, suck it up and be a dancing monkey. Anything to keep his starting position. But Margot wasn’t going to be a person that he could humor. A strange fact because he dismissed most people. Not hard to do when there were so many phonies and hangers-on floating around the NHL.
Most of the other players accepted attention as their due—the endorsement side hustles, and the blow jobs on demand, the trappings of celebrity. But Patch never bought into his own hype. And it wasn’t that he was a pious stick-in-the-mud, no matter how many think pieces were written about his stint at the seminary. It’s that he didn’t play hockey to be worshiped.
He played because the ice was the one place on earth where he could escape, tune out his thoughts, for at least three periods and the occasional overtime.
