If there wasn’t a woman involved I’d tell him to go fuck himself. But underneath my many layers of nonchalance, I’m a closet romantic at heart. If he wants me to deliver his hockey shirt to a woman in the crowd, I’m here for it.
Except.
Shit.
I check the message where he told me where she was sitting, look at the backs of the heads in that row, doing a double take when I get to the light-brown haired woman sitting a head and shoulders above Raffi’s girl. I can’t say for certain, but I’d put money on that being the same girl who ghosted me after the Halloween party last year.
I’d know those curves anywhere. It’s also hard to forget a gorgeous woman who’s almost as tall as I am.
I remember her vividly. One minute I was playing back up for her while she sang, and getting us both drinks, and the next, she vanished, ignoring all my texts and calls, never to be heard from again.
For a while, I thought perhaps I dreamed her up. That someone spiked my drink, and she was a figment of my imagination.
Not only is she very fucking real. But Ms. Pitstop seems to be wearing entirely the wrong colors to be watching a hockey game in our barn.
What the fuck is she doing?
Doesn’t she know how to hockey?
I mean, sure, it’s early days in our season, and we haven’t exactly proven ourselves as a team yet. But it’s only polite to wear the home team’s colors when you’re in the home team’s college, right?
Fuck it. If I don’t drop off this shirt Raffi will sever my dick from my body. I take a cleansing breath, in through my nose, expelling it slowly through my mouth, settle the choppy emotions stirring inside my chest, and make my way to their row.
Yeah. I’d know that profile anywhere.
Sure, last time I saw her she had a giant taco strapped to her head, but it’s definitely her. She’s not a woman a guy can easily forget.
Tori, Raffi’s girl, narrows her eyes when she sees me scooching down the row of seats toward her. Momentarily ignoring Penelope’s searing gaze on my skin, I turn all of my attention to Tori, squatting next to her. “My buddy tells me you’re wearing the wrong name on your shoulders.”
Her face says, “Oh, does he indeed?” but she remains quiet. Instead of her eyes narrowing even more, she rolls them. It takes a long moment for her eyeballs to right themselves.
I dunno who this chick is, but Raffi definitely picked a live one. His girl’s sassy as hell, and she looks like she’s about to kick my ass, then go hunt him down and kick his too, for good measure.
I snort. “Told me you’d eye roll when I said it too.”
I drop the bag on her lap. “How about you give the jersey withmyname on it”—I jerk my chin at the shirt she’s already wearing—“to your friend here.”
I dare to throw a wink to Penelope. “She needs to replace that dish rag she’s wearing with a good team.”
I don’t need to wonder if she recognizes me, the steam coming from her ears and nostrils says she does. Why is she so mad? Is she really a Flint Flame’s fan? For real? How the fuck could she go to UCR and actively cheer for a team that isn’t ours? The fuck?
Her face is bright red, her nostrils flaring, and her eyes are hard. Where is the spunky Taco Belle from Halloween last year?
I’m not letting her off the hook that easily. Fuck that. If she’s going to be mad at me for what? Trying to talk to her after she mysteriously disappeared the night I had the best fucking kiss of my life?
Sure, she shouldtotallybe the one to be mad at that.
If she’s going to be a dick about it, I’m going to kill her with kindness. Flashing my sexiest, most dazzling smile, I stick my hand out. “Tate.”
She barely misses a beat, but there’s a definite hesitation before she accepts my outstretched hand and shakes it. “Penelope.”
Yeah, I know.
And I know that you know that I know.
I arch a brow at her. And suddenly this whole thing is less about my delivery of Raffi’s fucking shirt, and more about a staring stand-off with the woman I dreamed about for months after I met her.
And that fucking yellow dress. Thinking about it still makes my mouth water.
