Can I carry a tune in a bucket? No. But I don’t let a little thing like lack of talent stop me, at least when no one is around to hear my off-key wailing.
When I have the facility all to myself, I give a show-stopping concert in a shower stall or a storage closet. Showtime will have to wait until I know I’m the only one down here, though. No way am I going to get caught by one of the guys. Ollie would start filming me and I’d be all over the team’s social media feed by morning. I don’t need to make the internet’s ears bleed.
I’m humming along to my favorite off-Broadway soundtrack. The song is upbeat and fast-paced, and I use the tempo to throw myself into my work. The guys are wearing special throwback uniforms for the games this weekend, so once those are prepped, all I need to do is re-shelve this big-ass box and then settle in behind my sewing machine for an hour or so. Unfortunately, even half-empty, this box is bigger than I am and weighs a freaking ton. Pulling it off the shelf was a lot easier than putting it back up there, but I’m not one to back down from a challenge, or to ask for help. I mean, I would ask for help, if I really, really needed it. But I don’t. I’m fine. Totally…ugh…fine…
“You doing okay there?”
I don’t need to turn around to know who’s behind me. Not only can I freaking recognize the scent of his cologne and the timbre of his voice, but I also have the worst luck. Of course, Blue’s the one to catch me struggling. It couldn’t be Mickey, or Leo, or even Dutton. Those guys would silently hoist the box up an extra few inches until it slides back into place. Well, Mickey wouldn’t be silent about it—the guy is a nonstop chatterbox—but I’d take him over Blue any day.
“I’m fine,” I grit out, stepping back with my left foot to balance both the box and myself so I don’t wind up flat on my back buried under a pile of navy jerseys.
Suddenly, the weight is literally lifted from my shoulder. “I got you, Liza,” Blue says, his voice low and soft.
I’m so damn tempted to pull the box off the shelf just to prove that I don't need his help or his sexy, seductive voice. But thatwould be stupid, and it would be a waste of time. So, I bite my tongue and offer him a tight smile. “Thanks.”
“It’s no problem,” Blue says, looking around the storage room. “What else do you need? And where’s Isaac?”
“He’s sick, apparently. And I don’t need anything from you.” My words are harsher than they need to be, and I know it’s because of my own embarrassment. I’m still not over the laptop incident, and I doubt I ever will be.
The infuriating man in front of me just smiles. “Well, if you do, I’m happy to help.”
“I don’t. I’m fine,” I say, my words clipped.
Blue’s smile doesn’t falter. “You sure? Yep. Because you seem…stressed, and?—”
I should repeat that I’m fine. I should turn away from him and start another load of laundry. Instead, I let my frustration unload as I open my mouth. “You know what, you’re right. I am stressed. I’m stressed that there aren’t enough hours in the day. That I have two tests next week, and a project due Sunday. That I have to prep for the game without Isaac’s help. But like I keep saying,it’s fine. I’ve got it covered, so you can just hit the showers and then head back to the hockey house.”
Blue blinks at my outburst, but he recovers quickly. Of course he does. “Then let me help. I can run a washing machine. And I’m really good at lifting things up and putting them back down. Got any more big-ass boxes you need to re-shelve?”
“What? No. And even if I did, why would I ask you for help? We’re not friends,” I tell him. Maybe I’m being rude, or too blunt, but it’s not like Blue and I have ever been friendly.
“Why am I offering to help? Because, contrary to your opinion, I’m not an asshole. I’m actually a decent guy, and it looked like that box was going to tumble on top of you and swallow you whole, so I figured I’d give you a hand.”
“Well, you did. And now the box is on the shelf, you’re a cardboard hero, and I need to get back to work, so you can head back to the hockey house to play video games or whatever it is you do on a Thursday night. But you don’t have to stick around here because—and please hear me when I say this—I don’t need your help.” My hands are on my hips, my breathing is labored from repeating myself, and I’m totally sure my cheeks are flushed. Any normal person would take that as a sign to get the hell out of here, but not Blue.
He nods once, and just when I’m sure he’s going to turn away and let me get back to work, he opens his mouth again. “I hear you loud and clear, Liza, but if things change and you do need?—”
“What? What could I possibly need?” I ask, way too loudly.
He doesn’t answer, but his lips curve upward and I swear his eyes are twinkling. Damn him. “You are such a dick,” I mutter.
“How am I dick?” he asks, picking through the pile of laundry. It takes a second for me to realize he’s separating the lights from the darks, even though I absolutely do not need his help. “I just know you’ve got a lot on your plate between working for the team, and taking classes, and…” He lets his words trail off.
“And what?” I prompt. If he’s going to be a dick, then he can be a dick right in my face. Okay, that’s a poor choice of words, but you get my meaning.
“How’s the study going?” he asks, still picking through the laundry like we’re two old friends just shooting the shit as we work side by side.
I close my eyes and take a breath, but when I open them, Blue's still smiling at me like all of this is normal and that there’s no better way to spend an evening than hanging out in the locker room with me. “Fuck. You.”
“Sure, if you think that would help,” he says easily, as though we’re discussing the best remedy for split ends.
“You said you would keep that to yourself,” I remind him. “You promised.”
His right hand goes up like he’s giving a scout’s oath. “And I have, I swear. Look, I’m fucking this up in every way possible. I’m just teasing you. And I really was just coming to check on you because you seem super stressed lately.”
“It’s college, Blue. We’re all stressed,” I say, dumping another basket of dirty laundry out so I can sort through it. If he insists on talking to me, at least I can get some work done while we have this pointless conversation. And damn him. Why is he still helping? This is my responsibility, not his.
“Yeah, same here. I also have two tests to study for, and a game to win, and an ultrasound at the vet to find out just how many kittens Hazel’s going to have. I understand stress, but you look like you’re about to crack. I just want to help, if I can. I’m serious.”
