“Ooohhhh, sexy. Maybe we should reconsider the harness.” Though I would like to head in the opposite direction and never stop, once I regain the ability to breathe I amble back over to the comedian I wish I never befriended. As soon as I’m within reach, he pulls me in by the shirt and wraps his arms around me. “Who’s the kid?” The first thing he says when he stops slapping my back.
“What kid?”
“The kid you kept looking at over my shoulder. The one that made your face contort whenever he touched the girl attached to his side. The kid that—” Fucking hell. Shoving my palms onto Ryan’s chest, I push him away then fix my twisted shirt, then pants then hair. Am I stalling? Absolutely. It fails. The second I look up. “The kid with the glasses that looked like he wanted to stab me in the eyes with a tooth pic when you touched me.”
“He’s not a kid,” I say, feeling the tips of my ears burning. “He’ll be twenty-one soon.”
“Oh, you’re right. He’s practically geriatric.”
“See. And I wasn’t watching him. I was … monitoring. He’s on the team and I was just making sure he didn’t drink too much. We have an early practice tomorrow.” The last part is true. The start is not.
“Wasn’t aware a team physio’s role was to babysit. But I do know a way you can ease your mind.”
“One, I wasn’t babysitting, and two, how?”
Ryan tilts his head to the side then nods in the direction of something over my shoulder. “Why don’t you ask him? He’s been staring at us since we walked out, and oh, look, here he is now.”
Apparently my circulatory system is back up and running, heating my face as I turn. Like a man on a mission, Cory is advancing on us, that girl still hanging off him. The closer they come the more familiar she seems. Maybe she’s a BC student?
They’re within earshot now, Ryan appears delighted, me not so much. The kitchen arrhythmia I narrowly survived is regrouping, the rib crushing, heart adjacent spasms doubling me over.
“Not a fish. Not a fish. Not a fish.” I unfortunately repeat out loud. “Breathe. James. Breathe. Not a fish.” Oh shit he’s so close, I need to do something. “This is very inappropriate, Mr. Malkovich,” I holler, while for some reason standing on my tip toes, my voice three octaves higher. “You cannot accost me in this manner.”
BEEP BEEP. An ominous glow is emitted from the silver Prius to my right. Holy shit. Ryan is cackling, and again, I am not. “Oh my God. He’s parked next to us. This is so embarrassing for you.”
What I’m also not, is close enough to Cory’s car for him to rub against me the way he does while moving between the two cars. “Excuse me.” He smirks, his hand running over my hip and stomach, slowing now that we’re chest to chest. Should he be taller, or I shorter, we’d be eye to eye.
How unfortunate that would be.Side note, his hair smells like mint.
“Not a fish. Not a fish. Not a fish.”
Cory’s face shines brighter than the street lights, the stars, and the almost full moon above us. “Not a, what?”
“Not a Finn.” Suddenly at my side, Ryan knocks his shoulder into mine, pushing me closer to Cory. “I was asking if the surname Plum is Finnish. It’s not, apparently.”
“English,” I blurt. “Or north German. Not a Finnish … name.”
“Huh, ya don’t say. Malkovich is the Americanized version of the Slavic Matkovic, but my family is from Ukraine.”
“Right, of course.” There is no need for me to extend this conversation, but I can’t seem to help myself. “And your friend?”
Confusion clouds those baby blues, until Cory glances over his shoulder to the blonde. “Oh, myfriend,” he giggles, she doesn’t. “She’s Ukrainian-American, too.”
“Huh. Small world.”
“You know what they say, sexy thingscomein small packages.” He leans in, and I lean back to the point of almost toppling. “And on big furry chests. Guess you’ll never find out, though.” Observing me wobble, he pokes my pec, right where my tattoo lies. “What’s wrong? Having trouble with yourbalance?”
Cocky little fucker.
Before I can collect myself and reply, a grumble comes from the blonde behind him. “Good God, Cory. Can you please take me home now? I have to get out of these pants.”
“Sure thing …sweetheart.” He winks, then steps back which is both a relief and a crying shame. “See you round, Doc.”
What’s the difference between a hockey player and a one year old baby? The baby would have more teeth. Noah ‘Dad Joke’Petterson, told me that one, and never has the comparison between my teammates and infants felt more apt. Teeth, it seems, aren’t the only things babies come out on top in. They’re infinitely more mature, too.
Although O’Reilly’s was nothing more than clinking glasses, familiar voices and blurred shadows for the first twenty minutes or so, the boys were in fine form, a little too flirty with my sister, but other than that, everything was going well. But as soon as I tried to drink from the ketchup bottle, and Cherry hounded me into wearing my glasses, it started.
Four-eyes, poindexter, Stuart Little, Chicken Little, the taunts were harmless enough, and of course I sat there, taking it all in good humor as I have been trained to do all my life. But for a guy who is one hundred percent faking it ‘til he makes it, busting his ass to earn the respect of his team, all the mockery does is reaffirm my belief that the real me has no place in the hockey world.
