“Are you a closet puck bunny, Fireball?” I flash her a smirk so she knows I’m teasing.
“I am probably the farthest thing you can get from that,” she replies with a sheepish smile. “I avoid hockey like the plague but… well I have…”
“Let me guess,” I interrupt because I’ve heard this before. “You have brothers or uncles or your dad who are hockey fans?”
“All of the above.”
She looks away. Suddenly she seems skittish again. “I make you nervous.”
She shrugs a little and looks around the room, but I don’t know why. I think she’s just trying to avoid eye contact. “Everything makes me nervous. I’m horrible that way.”
“I’m sorry. Anxiety sucks,” I tell her. “I’ve had some incredibly intense bouts of it in my life. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
She finally lifts her gaze to me. “You? Mr. Cocky Confidence? Son of the King? Born with blades strapped to your feet and athletic excellence in your bloodstream? So hot that you probably dehydrate any woman that looks at you too long?”
“I’m sorry, are you my new PR person? Because you should be.” I smile at her. She’s stroking my ego and I have to admit it’s almost as appealing as if she was stroking something else.
She gives me the cheekiest grin while rolling her eyes at the same time. Her hands go to her tiny hips as she tilts her head. “Tell me more.”
“Well, first off I wasn’t born with skates strapped to my feet.” I walk toward the bed. I can feel her eyes track me. “Although technically they did put very tiny knitted booties made to look like skates on our feet for our newborn photoshoot. And that was released to the media so they keep posting it and I will never live it down.”
“I meant tell me more about the anxiety.”
I quirk my lip. “I knew what you meant.”
I sit on the bed. I can see her tense up. She is not ready for this. “Well… there was a time in my life when I… made some wrong choices and instead of admitting defeat I doubled down and went the fake-it-till-you-make-it route. And spoiler alert: sometimes you do not, in fact, make it. But you develop a shit ton of stress and anxiety trying.”
“Huh.”
“Do you know enough about hockey and my family to know I was once married?”
“Married? Wow.” She cocks her head again and folds her arms across her chest, not in a defensive way, but a protective one. “And a failing marriage gave you anxiety.”
I lean back on my arms, my spread fingers sliding easily across the five-star sheets. “Actually giving up was the least stressful thing about my marriage. The holding on was the anxiety part.”
She nods slowly. I have no idea why I'm word-vomiting my failed marriage to a stranger I'm just supposed to be getting naked with. But the more I share the less tense she looks. And I’ve got an idea on how to make us both less tense.
“Got any alcohol?”
“It’s a suite in a luxury hotel. Duh.”
“Grab some of those fancy liquors off the bar. I promise to pay for them.” I use my index finger to make a cross over my heart.
She hesitates a half-second but then walks over to the minibar in the corner of the room and surveys the selection. She walks back over to stand in front of me at the foot of the bed and presents the stash.
Spiced rum. Premium gin and…. Fireball.
I grin. “Good girl.”
I gently sweep the bottles out of her open palm. I tilt my head to find her gazing down at me, looking almost sad. “I am so sick of being a good girl.”
“Then let’s play a game, Fireball,” I suggest and pat the bed beside me. “Ease you into your bad girl era.”
She slowly turns and lowers her cute behind onto the edge of the mattress beside me. Her bare thigh brushes mine and a warm tingle settles in my lower abdomen. I crack the seal on the bottle of Fireball. “Two truths and a lie. Know it?”
“Yeah.”
"Well, we're gonna play two lies and one truth. Similar premise. If we guess the wrong thing as the truth, we drink."
