Hours later, the worry that I was wrong in bringing Cade into my space rode me hard as I paced back and forth across my apartment, waiting for the clock to hit 4:30 p.m. so I could head over to my office to meet him.
“Poe, I’m definitely an idiot,” I commented to my cat, who sat nestled in a regal-shaped ball in the corner of the living room sectional.
Poe gazed back at me with the beleaguered expression that suggested I didn’t buy him expensive enough treats for him to deal with this kind of problematic human shit.
“Thanks, dude. Super helpful. I’m feeling really loved.”
Despite my sarcastic word choice, I couldn’t keep the affection out of my tone.
What could I say? I loved that cat an unhealthy amount. Even if he was a shit listener.
Exhausted by the circular pattern of my thoughts, I collapsed onto the opposite end of the couch, careful not to jostle Poe.
Relieved of his duty, Poe resumed his pre-dinner grooming ritual, which did absolutely nothing to reduce the short black hairs that clung to almost every object in the apartment.
I let my head fall onto the cushion behind me, the conflicting emotions still rioting inside my chest.
Unconsciously, my hands ran through my hair in frustration, no doubt messing up the thick, dark waves that had settled into a semblance of order after my post-practice shower.
It was an old habit that came back with a vengeance when I was nervous.
The urge to go into the bathroom to fix the mess atop my head before heading to the arena had me shifting in my seat.
This is not a date, I reminded myself.
The muted buzz of my phone alarm in my pocketsignaledit was time to leave and saved me from thinking too hard about my appearance.
As I stood, I swiped up the Hammerheads ball cap that I’d dumped on my coffee table, flipped it around in my hands, and tugged it over my hair to sit backwards on my head.
There. Nothing says casual-non-date like a sweaty team cap.
I made my way to the door, pausing for the briefest moment to suck in a deep breath in an attempt to settle my nerves.
My body was confusing this hangout with a round one playoff game for some reason. All the adrenaline from second- and third-guessing my choice to offer Cade this one-on-one session had revved up my system to the point where I would have enough energy to play double my average ice time if I were allowed to set foot, or skate, on home ice.
Locking the door behind me, I hoped the fresh air on the walk to the arena would help me cool off before I had to meet Cade.
Twenty minutes later, the faint knock came from the doorway in my office.
Chucking my hat on the side table next to the couch where I sat, I looked toward the empty threshold, confused.
Was this thing I felt for Cade literally driving me crazy to the point I was hearing shit now?
“Cade?” I called out.
I swore to god that I could smell the scent of his crisp, minty body wash on the wave of air created by the momentum of the door opening.
My mouth practically watered with the urge to reach for him and pull him into me so I could press my face against his neck and discover the scent of his skin hidden under the mild scent of his soap.
“Um. Hi, Asher.” His nervous greeting as he appeared in the doorway jolted me out of my lust-filled stupor.
Fuck. I’d been obsessing all afternoon like some idiotic sixteen-year-old waiting for his first date to pick him up. I hadn’t even uttered a goddamn word to him other than his name, too keen on devouring every little detail about this non-Hammerheads player version of Cade that I’d only caught glimpses of one or two times in the weeks since we’d met.
I waved him in, indicating he should sit in the space next to me. There was no way in hell I was going to sit for two hours on some hard-ass wooden chairs at my desk.
Dressed in worn navy sweatpants that hugged his toned thighs like a glove and a plaingrayT-shirt that had seen so many washes it now molded itself to his skin, I knew I would have tocome up with a way to keep my eyes off him for the next couple of hours.
You know exactly where your head is at, dumbass. It’s currently keeping all the blood in your body company—in your cock.
