“Of course. And it won’t happen again. The help.”
“It won’t,” he says, with a longing that tells me he wants it to happen again and again.
He takes the basting brush, my panties, and the kitchen towel with him when he heads out, saying over his shoulder, “We should really get a new basting brush. This one is mine.”
25
DAYS LIKE THIS
CORBIN
The puck drops, and I’m off, skating hard down the ice at the start of the second period. Chicago has possession, but I’m closing in fast, stick ready to steal it away. Lake’s calling for it, and all I have to do is snag it, then pass it to him.
Instead, my mind rewinds to this afternoon and Mabel standing in nothing but that too-small towel.
The Chicago player cuts left, and I follow—a half-second too late. An image of the towel falling flashes before me, and I lose my focus and the puck.
“Fuck,” I mutter, skating hard to catch up. Chicago doesn’t score, but that’s not the point. That’s not how I play the game, not who I am on the ice. I’m the goddamn playmaker. I ought to act like it.
I reset my mind and blot out anything but hockey.
It works.
Mostly.
Later in the third period, Lake passes to me, and I snag it clean, skating around the back of the net. For a second, everything clicks—the ice, the stick, my blades. Then I see the towel falling to the floor. Revealing her creamy flesh, her glorious tits, her pert nipples, and?—
The puck slips off my stick.
Again.
By the end of the game, we’ve won 3-2, but when I look at that scoreboard, I don’t see the W. I see three goals scored by my teammates with zero assists from me. Three opportunities where I should have been there, should have contributed, and instead I was thinking about the way Mabel’s skin smelled like sweet peas, and fantasizing about how she might taste. Everywhere.
In the hallway after I’ve showered and changed, Theo catches up to me, slapping my shoulder like he didn’t even notice how scattered I was when I played.
“Tomorrow. Be there. Don’t forget,” he says.
I laugh, because of course I’ll be at Afternoon Delight. “What would I do without your reminder?” I deadpan.
He starts to walk away, then turns back with that grin that means trouble. “And don’t forget to show up on the ice too.”
I wince. Shit. He noticed. He fucking noticed.
But then he adds, “Just kidding. You’re always here, buddy. I don’t know how you do it.”
My head feels like it has whiplash. Is he saying I played badly? Is he giving me a hard time? But then I remind myself that Theo’s always given me a hard time. That’s what we do. That’s our friendship.
“Thanks, man,” I say, then ask him how he’s doing. He talks about the job a bit, since he works too hard, but then mentions he had a good date the other night.
“Nice,” I say, offering a fist for bumping. “You’re getting back out there?”
He knocks back but shrugs. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
He’s skeptical, since like most people, he’s been burned by love. When Ginny left, he was devastated, and I did my best to help him through it. Sometimes that meant golfing with him, which was no hardship. Other times, it meant just having him over for dinner with Charlotte, Mom, and Ray. “I’m rooting for you.”
“I know. And I appreciate it,” he says, then takes off, leaving me standing in the corridor with the uncomfortable realization that for the first time in my career, hockey wasn’t the only thing on my mind during a game.
His incomparably sexy, incredibly flirty, and big-hearted sister was.
