“Fair enough,” he replies.
It’s funny. When you first meet this guy, he’s this big, intimidating Viking-like dude with longish blond hair, a height of about 6’4”, and a body loaded with muscle. But once you get to know him, you discover he’s actually kind and a bit of a gentle soul.
You wouldn’t know that on the ice, though. Out there, he’s downright vicious and tough. He’s smart as hell too. That’s what makes him such a formidable defenseman who commands respect.
I respect him off the ice as well. He’s three years older than I am, having just turned thirty, and he has a lot of sage advice, especially regarding women. I guess you could say he’s a bit of a ladies’ man.
Lord knows I’m not.
I have the worst luck with girls. Brock has become my go-to for when it comes to some of the perplexing things chicks so often do, at least when it comes to me.
He tells me I’m a good-looking guy and should be killing it out there. He says I’m just too nice. I need more “edginess” about me in order to rein them in and hold their interest.
I don’t know about that.
I can only be who I am—me.
My thinking is that somewhere out there, there’s someone meant for me.
Shit, I hope that’s true.
Easton and Lennox found their significant others not all that long ago. It’d be nice to have someone as well. There are days that I tire of this lonely life I lead.
But hey, it just is what it is.
I’m done with trying and failing.
The way I see it, it’s in fate’s hands now.
The server comes around again and clears the table. She also refills our waters before she leaves. She returns a few beats later with a portable credit card reader.
Brock pays for the check at the table, adding a very good tip. The waitress thanks us and strides away.
Leaning back in his chair, he asks me, “Seriously, though, if our season does end tonight, what are your plans for the summer?”
I actually do have a plan, and I’m pumped to share it with him. “You’re going to love this, dude,” I say.
“What are you cookin’?” he replies as he crosses his arms over his wide chest and chuckles.
I smile over at him, then share, “Well, it’s not golfing, I’ll tell you that much. I scored a great deal on a sweet-ass beachfront rental property down in the Bahamas.”
“No way,” he says.
“Yep. It’s located on a small private island, but there is a little town, so you can get supplies and shit. It’s not total isolation. There are a few restaurants and even a tiny hospital, I think.”
Brock nods approvingly. “Nice. How long are you planning on staying?”
“Shit.” I blow out a breath. “I told the owners—they’re an older married couple—that I’ll be there at least through early August. I rented it for the whole summer basically. But I also let them know that I may not make it down there till late June. That is, if we were to go all the way to the Final.”
I don’t dare say the words “Stanley Cup.” That might jinx us.
Raising a brow, Brock asks, “So, you can go in June…or earlier?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “From what I understand, it’s pretty much mine already. I can head down there anytime, even tomorrow.”
“Though we don’t want that,” he says, sounding concerned.
“No!” I exclaim. “Hell no.”
