Over the years, I’ve noticed how his demeanor changes the moment he’s the sole person in the spotlight. Though most players get used to it, he still hasn’t. Not that I can blame him. I can’t imagine being the center of attention every time I walk into a room, or not having privacy to even live my personal life like a normal person.
It can’t be easy to be scrutinized for everything you do on and off the ice. So even though I hate his guts, I try to make him comfortable and ease into it. It’s all for the audience and not because I’m concerned for him, which I’m not.
Clearing my throat, I indicate to him to play the clip cued. It’s the one where he got a breakaway and scored a resounding slap shot that should’ve been impossible. The whole arena stood on their feet, screaming it down.
“What were you thinking when you made that rare slap shot? We’ve hardly ever known players going for it when they have a breakaway,” I ask him as the mute video plays on the screen, catching his shot from every angle possible.
He waits for a few minutes as if recalling every emotion he was feeling before answering, “That what an idiot I am.” He shakes his head with a little chuckle. It’s clear he’s still tense but is trying his best. And for that alone, I hate that I admire him.
“Your fans would beg to differ,” I comment in my smooth reporter-like voice. He laughs at that.
“I bet. The moment I pulled my stick back to wind up for the shot, I knew I blew it. Even an amateur knows you don’t take a slap shot on a breakaway, because it needs an exorbitant amount of force and accuracy, and it often gives the goalie the time to anticipate your shot,” he explains.
From my spot behind the camera, I counter, “But that slap shot was a thing of beauty.” The moment the words leave my mouth, his head whips to look at me, his expression stunned.
“Thank you,” he whispers. We continue to stare for longer than would be considered appropriate, my face heating up from all his intense and focused attention on me.
I bite my lip to stop myself from saying something embarrassing, likeIf this is how you look at the women you fuck, no surprise you have themfalling at your feet.
His unblinking gaze slides to my lips, and I let them free of my teeth with a pop. His jaw clenches while I squirm under his intense gaze. That slight movement seems to snap him out of the trance.
Looking back at the screen, he clears his throat and mutters, “Yeah, well, it was just dumb luck.”
No, it was his talent. But I don’t correct him. Soon, we move on to the next clip, and I continue to ask him about them. Gradually, I notice the tension bleeding out of his body and his face finally lighting up as he talks about hockey.
He forgets that it’s me behind the lens and drones on and on about the game and appreciates the talents of other players. I allow my eyes to drink him in for the first time since he arrived.
His raven-colored hair is messy, as if he let it air dry after a shower. They curl at the ends and fall over his forehead, and I have this sudden urge to run my fingers through them and know if they feel as soft as they look. As if he can hear my thoughts, he runs a hand through them, making his yellow and brown team jersey hold on for dear life as his flexing biceps threaten torip it apart.
I clench my thighs involuntarily, biting back an unceremonious sound which would probably make him question my sanity.
My eyes drift down to his black shorts, his very muscular and thick thighs open as he lounges on the couch.
God, what would it feel like to have my head betw–
My inappropriate thoughts for the man I claim to hate come to a halt when he plays the next clip and calls out my name. Blinking the lust out of my eyes, afraid that the subtitles of my thoughts are running over my head, I look at him in question.
He narrows his eyes at me and repeats, “Next question, Kaeli.” I know that if my name keeps rolling off his tongue like that, I’ll be needing my vibrator tonight.
Is it now, after all these years, that I’m noticing, or has he always said my name like that?
And that’s when I realize that yes, in fact, it’s now that he even calls me by my name instead ofIntern. Now, my name on his lips is like my own personal aphrodisiac.
God, I’m utterly fucked.
Eight
Kaeli
I’m on my morning run when my phone rings. Tapping on one of the AirPods, I accept the call, not halting my feet as I run around the traffic-free streets of Jamaica Plain at seven in the morning.
Roman’s voice greets me, bringing a smile to my face. “Hey, my favorite baby sister!”
I chuckle at his goofiness. He’s the total opposite of me in more ways than one. While I’m taking a jog outside, I’m not athletic, whereashe’s the epitome of one. He’s an athlete by profession, for god’s sake.
I’m an introvert and like to keep my cards close to my vest. But my older brother is the definition of a golden retriever. He’s always laughing, making friends wherever he goes. He’s also attentive and the sweetest man I know. He shows his love and care with both his words and actions.
He always looked out for me when I was younger, backing me up whenever I needed. And that’s precisely why I needed to leave Seattle, my home city. I knew that if I wanted to do something on my own, I had to leave and not use my brother’s influence to build the life I desired.
