“I’m trying to be supportive here, Alex, but I’m not following.”
He sighs, blowing air into his face that makes the hair on his forehead fly up and land messily. Damn, he’s adorable as hell.
“When we got here, there was a super long line to get in, but we didn’t have to wait.”
Right, because we’ve got the VIP room blocked out for the Redwoods and the Thunder. We’re not supposed to wait. I look at Alex, waiting for more of an explanation of what that has to do with karma and mozzarella sticks. When it doesn’t come, I raise a brow in question.
“It’s not fair. Just because we’re athletes andfamous or whatever, we got into the club and into this cool room without having to do anything while everyone else waits outside. It’s karmic injustice. So I was going to right those wrongs by buying drinks for everyone, but then I remembered that I don’t drink. And if I don’t drink, there’s probably people out there that don’t drink either. And the ones that do drink are already drinking. So then I thought, food! But you said there’s no kitchen here and I don’t know how to right the wrongs I’ve put out into the universe and now I’m afraid that the city is going to be mad at me and it’s going to affect my game and?—”
Ahh, okay. It’s all making sense now. As a group, athletes tend to be superstitious, and hockey players are the funkiest of them all. But Alex is a goalie, and goalies are the holy grail of superstitions and general weirdness in the world of professional sports. It’s common knowledge that goalies are just…odd. Something is going on in his head that has him worried about hockey.
“Got it, I’m on board now. You think the universe is going to rain down its punishment for line cutting in the form of messing up your hot streak.”
“Exactly!” Alex beams, slapping a hand on his thigh. The light hits his eyes, and I can finally see that they’re a warm amber color—not quite brown, butnot a greener hazel like mine, either. No, Alex’s eyes are like honey, warm and melty in a steaming hot cup of tea. A perfectly sweet window into what I’m learning is an equally sweet soul. His nose crinkles, and his bright smile transforms into something a little sinister. Almost Cheshire-cat like in its wryness, though it doesn’t make him look any less adorable.
“You know I’m on a hot streak, huh? You’ve been watching me, Elliot Baker?”
Ah, shit. I feel my cheeks heat as I reach around to rub at the back of my neck. The server comes back with our waters, and Alex pops the top on his and takes a long sip, never breaking eye contact with me. He knows he’s got me. It's not like it's all that surprising that I, an athlete, would be interested in and caught up with another sport. But I did pretend not to know him when I introduced myself, however, and now Alex knows it.
It's embarrassing that I was caught trying to act coy and aloof, but on the bright side, at least now I’m pretty sure he’s flirting with me. And I am not mad about that at all.
“Well, it’s my duty as a long standing San Francisco athlete to scope out the new kids in town and make sure they’re living up to our impossibly high standards. Hockey isn’t usually my thing,” I lie through my teeth. Next to football, hockey is myfavorite sport. I mean, I’m from Minnesota. We’re all basically born with a puck in our hands back home. I probably would have taken up ice hockey as a kid if it wasn’t so expensive, but it's for the best. Ice hockey is played on skates with blades sharp enough to slit a man’s throat, and that shit is unsettling. I’d rather risk enduring a traumatic brain injury on the football field than end up toothless and all cut up, thank you very much.
Alex waggles his eyebrows at me maniacally, and it's clear that he knows he’s totally got my goat. I wave a hand between us, feeling flustered and more than a little turned on at his wordless teasing.
“That’s enough, we have problems. Karma to deal with, remember?”
Alex’s face drops, and then he’s blowing a wisp of that messy hair off his forehead once again. Goddamnit, this man just exudes the kind of boyish charm that always seems to get me in trouble. The concern on his face regarding this karmic injustice is so sweet and genuine, I figure I have no choice but to step up and be the guy who saves Alex Holmes’s day.
And thenmaybeget my hands under that hot little cardigan, which has no right being so goddamn sexy.
But getting him naked is no longer my primary goal. It's just a very close second.
“I just feel bad, you know? I didn’t even want to come here tonight, but here I am in the lap of luxury while the good people of San Francisco wait outside in the cold.” He slumps, and the sag of his shoulders makes my heart ache. I don’t bother pointing out that it is an unseasonably warm evening and the people waiting in line to party on a Sunday night likely wouldn’t give a shit about the weather either way.
“What if I told you I have an idea on how to make everything better?” I ask, and Alex looks up at me from under long, dark lashes, hope shining in his irises.
“Are you going to get everyone in? The line is pretty long and I think it might be against the fire code to shove a bunch of people on the dance floor, but maybe if we work in shifts?—”
“You’re so fucking cute,” I say with a shake of my head. Setting my forgotten beer to the side, I reach my hand out. Alex doesn’t hesitate to take it, locking his fingers with mine as I pull him to his feet. “I can’t get everyone into the club, but I do have another idea. You just have to trust me.”
If any of our teammates notice Alex and I slipping out of the VIP section and down the back staircase, they don’t comment on it. I pull him through the door that is marked an emergency exit but that I know is used by those of us who like toslip in and out of the club without being seen. Either the hockey guys are too new to the city to be in with the bouncers around town, or they were hoping that some candid shots quickly posted to social media might get the puck bunnies running after them.
Either way, I’m not mad that they came in through the front. Even though it caused Alex’s mental spiral, it means I get to hold his hand as I lead him down the street towards the smell of tomato sauce and sourdough crust.
“The club may not have a kitchen, but…” I trail off as a smile spreads wide across Alex’s face. The light is better out here, and I can make out more shades of gold that shine in his eyes like day break. My stomach swoops, something coiling tight in my chest.
“Oh my god. Elliot Baker, you brilliant little bitch. How did I not think of this? Pizza is the answer to everything!”
He drops my hand and grabs my face, cupping my cheeks and pulling me down to his level. I’m taller than him, and the time it takes for my face to come down to meet him is just enough for my brain to get fuzzy. For the briefest, most delusional of seconds, I think Alex might kiss me. That he might press his lips to mine, slip his tongue past my teethand show me all the wonderful, dirty things he’s capable of doing to my body with his mouth.
But as quickly as the thought comes, it's squashed by the press of Alex’s lips to my temple—which, disappointing though it may be, makes a lot more sense. Sure, I’ve had hookup experiences that have traveled the “glance across the bar to jerking each other off in a bathroom stall” pipeline without so much as a word passed between us, but that’s just orgasms. Kissing is…familiar. Intimate. Serious. And from what I know about Alex so far, he does a whole lot of thinking. People who use their brains so much don’t usually kiss strangers on the mouth within minutes of meeting each other.
But I’m not going to turn up my nose at a bit of affection, and Alex’s sweet little peck to my forehead makes me feel down right bubbly. And that bubbly feeling lasts as we head into Pie Society and order a plethora of pizzas. I can sense Alex experiencing some decision fatigue as he tries to anticipate the taste buds of a bunch of random strangers waiting outside a nightclub, so I suggest we stick to cheese. That, of course, brings up the possibility of vegan club-goers, so we settle on a few classic cheese pies as well as a handful of vegan mozzarella pizzas that look like they’d make my stomach churn but leave Alex smiling. I offer to pay, but he says that wouldthrow off the universe and sendhisgood karmamyway instead, and I can’t argue with that.
Watching him dig through his lime green fanny pack for a credit card is something that shouldn’t be so damn charming, but that seems to be Alex. All charm, all the time.
We’re the only ones in here, and after signing some autographs for a few of the guys working in the kitchen, we sit at a shiny, red linoleum table coated in a sheen of something sticky while we wait for our pies in the oven.
