“Yes,” Evie interjected. “Thank you.”
The waitress walked away, leaving me more confused than ever. Evie rested her hand on mine. “Nick. I’m not an expert in skiing, but après-ski is a thing, like after skiing drinks. Après is French for ‘after.’”
She pronounced it like,a pray. My cheeks burned. It felt like the fire from the outdoor fireplace had jumped from the hearth right to my cheeks. “I guess I play right into the dumb hockey player stereotype.”
She gave me the sweetest smile. “I would’ve thought the same thing. The only reason I know is from working at the inn. And Nick, you’re anything but a dumb hockey player.”
EIGHT
EVIE
The outdoor firecrackled and the patio bustled with skiers clicking around in their plastic boots. The first time I’d heard of après-ski I didn’t understand it. Why would anyone want to sit around in their wet ski clothes and have drinks in their stinky polar fleece?
After the first crunch of tortilla chip chased with the lager, I got it.
I was exhausted yet invigorated, and surrounded by other people who felt the same way. The day was perfect and it was all thanks to Nick. He had saved me. If it wasn’t for his patience, I would’ve still been frozen at the top of Loosey Goosey.
It turns out I was good at skiing, but Nick was great. Watching someone full of natural talent just get better and better at something was impressive. By the end of the day Nick looked like he’d been flying down mountains his whole life.
“How did you get into hockey?” I asked.
He sipped his beer. “I was introduced to it by my foster dad. He was really into the game and their daughter was notthe athletic type. He was pretty happy to have someone to take to the rink with him.”
Nick’s eyes got a faraway look. There were so many questions that I wanted to ask him, but I knew that it was a touchy subject. “It sounds like you had a good role model.”
He shrugged. “He was a good guy. I won the lottery when it came to a placement.”
I heard the wordwasand decided to change the subject. “If you skate as well as you ski, I can understand why the Bobcats wanted you on the team.”
Dimples dented his cheeks as he smiled. “I’m the goalie, there’s not really that much skating involved.”
The salsa was almost gone and I scraped the little white dish with my chip. “So you hobble to the net and try to stay standing while people shoot pucks at you at a million miles an hour?” I raised my eyebrow.
He laughed. “I started as a left-winger, I can skate. What about you? You mentioned that you used to barrel race? That’s pretty cool.”
“Hold on there, Tinsey.” I held up my hand. “You’re the goalie. I don’t watch a lot of hockey, but I have seen those thirst traps of players warming up. Can you do the splits?” The clip I’d seen had featured players on their hands and knees, presumably stretching, but the suggestive music placed over top of the clip had them looking less like players and more like Chippendales dancers.
His face turned the color of the last bit of salsa on my chip. “I sure can. Flexibility is important, not so much for me because I’m tall and it’s easy for me to cover the entire net, but yes. I can do the splits widthwise.”
“Do you do yoga?” I asked. “GJ runs a class in the parlor every Tuesday.”
“Yes,” he replied. “I’ve found it one of the best ways to stay limber…wait, why are you smiling?” He finished his beer.
The visual was too much. Nick Tinsel surrounded byoctogenarians doing downward dog. Nick was a huge man with a stocky build. He’d proven that he was gifted athletically, but yoga? The new player in town was full of surprises. “I can’t picture you doing yoga, that’s all.”
“Maybe we will have to sit in on one of the parlor classes,” he said.
The server cleared our plates and left a leather billfold on the table. Nick scooped it up and slipped cash under the plastic flap before I could reach into the pocket of GJ’s snowsuit for my credit card.
“I’m calling your bluff, Nick Tinsel.” I rested my chin on my folded hands. “The day you unroll your mat in the parlor next to Muriel and Gladys, I will happily join in on the asanas.”
Did his eyes just twinkle? Maybe it was the beer. I wasn’t used to drinking draft, and I definitely wasn’t drunk, but as Nick walked me to the car, I felt a little wobbly nonetheless.
My legs trembledas I started Uncle Edward’s Cadillac. Could my muscles already be sore from skiing? My hand shook as I put the SUV in reverse. It wasn’t muscle soreness, it was nerves. The taillights from Nick’s pickup truck lit up the gray light between us as he pulled to a stop at the end of Sugar Peaks Way.
I’d just had the best afternoon I could remember. Nick had saved me up on that mountain. After I’d expelled theI’m going to diethoughts from my mind, those thoughts turned tohow can I be falling for the new player in town? Everything was happening at breakneck speed. I was falling for Nick Tinsel faster than those skis carried me down Puppy Pause.
Wolverine Way was still out of my skill set, but Nick had picked up skiing like he’d been doing it all of his life. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nick could close his eyes, throw adart at a board filled with sports, and go to the Olympics for whatever activity that dart hit. Today I learned that athletic prowess is a goddamn turn-on for me.
