He shifts his weight and his shirt pulls tight across his chest.
I'm staring again. I've crossed from "casual appreciation" into "HR violation" territory but I can't stop becauselook at him.
Ace catches me.
His eyes meet mine and one eyebrow goes up. "What?"
I tilt my head and consider. Backtracking would probably be the safest bet, but I justneedto know if he's straight or not. One way to find out.
"Nothing. You're just hot, is all," I say.
Petrov coughs.
Ace's face does this beautiful thing where his cheeks flush pink, starting at his neck and creeping up to his ears, and his eyes go wide for half a second before he tries to look normal.
He fails deliciously.
"I—what?" He sounds strangled.
"Hot. Attractive. Easy on the eyes. A solid twelve out of ten. You know." I lean against the bar, enjoying this way too much. Watching him squirm is its own special kind of entertainment. "I'm just stating facts. Like how pizza is better than salad. Or how you have the kind of face that probably causes traffic accidents."
His flush deepens, spreading down his neck. "You can't just—people don't just—"
"Can't just what? Tell the truth?" I'm grinning now, fully committed to making this man implode. "What, did you not know? Have you looked in a mirror recently? Because buddy, I have news for you."
"I don't— I mean, thanks?" He runs a hand through his hair and I'm momentarily distracted by how that makes his bicep flex.
Fuck me, even his nervous gestures are hot. How is that fair?
"You're a bit insane, aren't you?" he manages finally.
"I preferrefreshingly honest."
"You're insane," he repeats, but there's this underlying amusement in his voice that makes my stomach do a weird flip.
Down, boy. He's straight. The blush is proof. Gay and bi guys don't blush like that when you compliment them. They either flirt back or tell you to fuck off. There's no middle ground.
Straight guys? They get that adorably confused look. Like someone just asked them a math question in a foreign language.
Ace is firmly in thedoes not computecategory, which means: off limits.
Tragic. Truly tragic. What a waste of a perfect face.
Becker and Wall head out with the firefighters, still deep in conversation about practice schedules. But before they disappear, Becker dumps a stack of papers on the bar.
"Almost forgot! Fresh off the printer." He's gone before I can respond.
I pick up the top flyer and—
"Oh my god."
It's a photo of Hendrix mid-screech, beak wide open, wings spread, looking like he's about to commit murder. The caption, in bold red letters: "KISS KISS OR ELSE."
Below that: "Pucks for Paws Charity Game – December 23rd – All proceeds benefit animals who are judged by society, but honestly? Society sucks."
"Damn it, Becker." Ace takes the flyer, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.
I flip through the stack. Each one is a different animal with increasingly unhinged captions.
