“Well, I should have. You were entirely too distracting when I was playing.”
My heart flutters, sending hope racing through my veins. Hope that, until recently, had been in short supply.
“Maybe I’d better stop coming to games then,” I tease, although there is a part of me that’s terrified he might agree.
I love watching him play, and I'm beginning to hate missing road games. Watching on a TV just isn’t the same.
His eyes flash with determination. “Not a chance. I’m becoming addicted to looking up and seeing you wearing my jersey and cheering for me.”
I smile up at him. “Then I’ll be there. Every game I can.”
Time seems to stop as he stares down at me.
My heart races as I wait for him to lean down and do something.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” someone bellows from down the street. “Let’s go and fucking celebrate.”
We look over to find Killer and Rett grinning like idiots with Monroe trailing behind them.
“Going to fucking kill them.”
“Maybe wait until after you’ve won the Stanley Cup,” I muse.
Cole lights up. “You think we’re going to win?”
“I know it,” I state confidently.
When the guys catch up, Cole snags my hand and tugs me along with them.
Sensing his attention, I look up and find him watching me with an unreadable expression.
“What?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.
“Nothing. I just like having you here for this.”
I smile at him as we walk into the bar hand in hand.
A round of applause erupts as the guys are greeted by those who are already here.
Cole dodges the crowd that forms and tugs me around to where Casey, Kodie, Linc, and Parker are already at the bar.
“What do you want to drink?” Cole asks.
“Just a soda.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes bouncing between mine.
“Yeah. You deserve a drink. I’ll drive us home.”
A smile twitches at his lips the moment the word “home” rolls off my tongue.
“Only because I want to see you driving my car,” he mutters under his breath before he catches the bartender’s attention.
An hour later,we’re all sitting in a booth, the guys talking animatedly about tonight’s game.
“Excuse me,” Casey says, waving the guys out of the way so she can slide from the booth. “Restroom?” she asks, looking directly at me.
I don’t need to go, but from the look in Casey’s eyes, I don’t think I have a choice.
