I could stay in Nashville.
I have options.
Yet I feel like everything is a fucking mess.
Which is why I’m at the rink.
Football didn’t help.
Running didn’t help.
I would go find someone to hook up with, but that hasn’t been appealing for a while. Plus, unless she has a big butt and astory about why her name is Ambrosia, I don’t want her. Since said girl with the story doesn’t trust me at the moment, I am here for the feel of my skates on the ice and the sounds of my stick hitting some rubber to try to calm me.
I tuck my sticks under my arms and reach for a bucket of pucks before I head toward the smaller practice rink. It only has one bench that is for the skaters and then a set of wooden bleachers that is used for the spectators. No one ever comes in here because it’s old and danky. I won’t even have a goal; I’ll be using the puck bucket for scoring practice, but I don’t care. I just need the ice.
The lights are on, the ice shining from where the Zamboni just cleaned it.
And it’s all mine.
I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the frosty air. When I was younger, Louis and I would play in here while our dad and mom would run practices in the bigger rinks. While other hockey players might have had an ice pond growing up, Louis and I had this practice ice. Just walking in here gives me a sense of peace.
The door to the bench is open, as is the one to the ice, but I don’t make it past the bench before I know I’m not alone. I can’t even explain why I look to the left, but I do. And there she is.
My heart-stopper.
Ambrosia has her chin on her arms, which are resting on her knees as she looks out at the ice. She’s wearing some sweats that are entirely too big on her and hanging low to expose the honey-colored flesh along her hips. She has a delectable little roll that covers a string from what my lusty imagination says is her thong undies.
All that ass and just a little scrap of fabric? Yeah. That would be heaven.
Her oversized sweatshirt is drowning her arms and bunching between her chest and thighs. Her hair is up in a huge bun, no curls free, and I can see the AirPod bud in her ear. She blinks, and I notice the tears on her lashes.
My whole body goes taut.
Who. The. Fuck. Made. Her. Cry?
I want to say I laid my $600 sticks down gently and didn’t cause pucks to spill over the floor of the bench area, but I’d be a fucking liar. I stalk toward her, and she doesn’t notice me at first. It isn’t until I’m crawling up the bleachers that she squeaks, pulling out an AirPod.
“Dawson!”
I give her a look. “What’s wrong?”
She blinks, her eyes filling with more tears. “You’re going to fall.”
I wave her off as I continue to climb to her. “I used to not have guards on and climb these bleachers. I’m fine.”
“That’s not safe.”
“I’m not that great at self-preservation,” I say with a wink, but she doesn’t seem impressed by my little joke. I ignore that, sitting down beside her. I’m careful not to step on her exposed toes with my skates. I might have guards on, but I’m sure it wouldn’t tickle if I caught one of her cute little yellow-painted toes. She looks me over, her eyes wide and wet. “What are you doing?”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, ignoring the question that doesn’t matter. “Who made you cry?”
“No one.”
“It wasn’t me, right?”
She scoffs. “No, and I didn’t cry over you before. I was overwhelmed.”
“I apologize. Are you overwhelmed now?”
