“My happy trail, huh?” Mr. Beautiful smirks, rubbing a hand over his bare belly.
“Yeah. I mean, I like your shirt. I love a crop-top. I almost wore one tonight, but I had sushi for dinner, so…” I trail off, feeling like even more of an idiot.
“Ah, soy sauce bloat?”
“Exactly! You get it!”
“I do, but from the looks of you, I don’t think a little soy sauce and rice is enough to kill your vibe.” Mr. Beautiful’s smirk grows into a full-fledged smile as he eyes me up and down, and I preen a bit. I work hard to keep my body in tip-top shape for the ice, and it always feels nice to be appreciated.
“Well it’s not just the bloat I’m worried about. I’ve got a bruise on my ribcage the size of Rhode Island and it's in the nasty banana-yellow phase of healing. I’m pretty sure the ultra violet lights in here would make me look like something straight out of Ghostbusters.” His eyes go wide with surprise, and I chuckle. “I’m Alex Holmes. Goalie for the San Francisco Thunder and magnet for slap shots that cut through regulation padding,” I say, holding my hand out for a shake. Mr. Beautiful shifts his beer bottlefrom one hand to the other and meets mine in a firm grip that has the hair on my arms standing on end.
Damn, he’s got a good handshake, too. Tough, commanding, the kind of handshake that would make my dad say “Nowthat’sa man’s man. Why can’t you be more like him? Why am I stuck with a doughy idiot for a son?”
“Elliot Baker. Long kicker for The Redwoods. Can I get you a drink, Alex?”
“Oh, I’m good. I’ll grab some water next time I see someone walking by. Or maybe some peppermint hot chocolate. Do you think they have that here? Or is it too early in the holiday season to expect festive beverages? They might still be in pumpkin spice season. Maybe I’ll ask for a pumpkin spice chai instead.”
“Uh…” Elliot says, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t know about hot chocolate, but if they have vanilla vodka and cream I can probably find someone to mix you a sugar cookie martini?”
Blegh. My nose scrunches up at the thought.
“No vodka for this guy. I’m not a drinker, but thanks anyway.” Never let myself get near the stuff after watching my dad drink himself to liver failure. Because apparently, a “man’s man” not only has a firm handshake and a firm spirit, he also values the alcoholic content of a bottle of whiskey more than hisfamily, too. I don’t know how much the whole “nature vs. nurture” thing plays into the addiction gene, but I’m perfectly fine not tempting fate and steering clear of the booze.
“Not a drinker, and yet here you are in the VIP area of a club surrounded by alcohol.”
“Such is the life of a professional athlete,” I shrug. “What about food? Everyone knows that mozzarella sticks are the antidote to bad juju. But there could be vegans here, or people who are lactose intolerant. Oh! Maybe they have Baba Ganoush!”
I mean to do a quick scan of the room, looking for a door that might lead to a kitchen or a server that I can ask about appetizers, but despite my overwhelming desire to get ahead of this karmic juju, I can’t seem to take my eyes off my new friend, Elliot.
And honestly? I don’t think I want to look away.
3
YOU BRILLIANT LITTLE BITCH
Elliot
God, this guy—this Alex—is fucking cute. I clocked him the second he walked into the room, all messy hair and neon fanny pack lit up by the ultraviolet club lights. He’s big, sure, similar to me in height and build—but he’s a goalie, a hockey dude, not a football player. Hockey and football are two entirely different worlds. I mean, they play on ice, for fuck’s sake.
That’s enough cognitive dissonance for me to shove my ‘avoid the jocks’ stance into a drawer for the night. It has to be, because looking at Alex Holmes’s button-nose with the bump in the middle, his canine tooth that sits askew amongst his other, straighter teeth, and the dopey grin on his face whilehe muses about the universe and finger foods, I know one thing for sure.
I want this king of the ice to be mine tonight.
Alex looks over at me, long lashes fanning his cheeks as he blinks rapidly, and I realize that he has been waiting for me to answer his question. Apparently, he was serious about the mozzarella sticks and Baba Ganoush…whatever that is.
“Uh, I don’t think this place has a kitchen, sorry. Are you hungry or something?”
“No, I just…” Alex pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and worries at the little pink strip of flesh, his hands coming up to his chest where he pulls at his fingers, probably cracking his knuckles. His dark eyes dart back and forth, and I get the sense that he’s on the edge of spiraling out. He just got here, and I can’t imagine what has him so upset already. But maybe this is Alex tweaking? He said he doesn’t drink, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have hit some poppers or something in the bathroom before he got up here.
“Hey,” I say softly—well, as softly as one can in a loud nightclub when they still want to be heard—and reach out to gently brush his shoulder. “Come here, let’s go someplace a little quieter.”
Alex doesn’t fight me when I take his hand in mine (it’s surprisingly soft, unlike my rougher, morecalloused skin) and lead him to the far corner of the VIP room. It’s not exactly private or quiet here, but there’s a place to sit and it’s far enough away from any dry-humping teammates and topless women having their nipples sucked.
“You okay?” I ask once we’re settled into the round, velvet bench. Alex’s knee is bouncing wildly, and when a server passes by, I hand them my half-empty beer bottle and a twenty and ask them for two bottles of water.
“I’m fine. It’s just…the juju.”
I…don’t know if evenheknows what he’s talking about at this point.
