After I’m on an airplane.
36
Fletcher
Goldie at a hockeygame is a cutthroat competitive banshee.
It’s fucking gorgeous.
“Where’s the penalty, ref?” she yells midway through the second period while boos erupt around us. “My grandmother saw that high-sticking from halfway around the country and she has cataracts.”
I stifle a grin and take a swig from my water bottle.
She glares at me. “Why aren’t you outraged too?”
“Don’t know the rules.”
The glare turns to a stern librarian frown. “Yes, you do.”
God, I love this woman.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I didn’t think that.
I didn’t mean it like that.
I meantit likeshe’s funny.
Likewho wouldn’t appreciate someone who cares about a sports team this way?
Yeah. That’s the word. It’sappreciation.
It’s notlove.
My balls aren’t sweating.
My heart isn’t racing.
My whole world isn’t flipping upside down whiledanger, dangeralarms blare in my head.
And I’m a bloody liar.
“It’s more fun to pretend I don’t know the rules,” I say.
My voice is hoarse. I don’t even believe myself right now.
And it’s notfuntopretendthat Idon’t know the rules.
It’s a coping mechanism to believe that I don’t have to acknowledge the thoughts in my own damn head.
She stares at me, curiosity overtaking the sexy stern librarian eyebrow tilt.
I stare back like I don’t want to shed my jacket and my T-shirt in search of some cooler air.
Here.
