And just like that, my stomach flips upside down, the butterflies crashing into a fiery pit.
Being the only one to drive his car isn’t that big of a deal.
He just said it himself; he’s not very picky. He’ll even flirt with the buck-toothed girl.
“What about you? What do you like?” he asks, and I ignore him, driving through the now-green light, so he tries again. “Men? Women? Doesn’t matter?”
“I like men.”
“Okay, and…?”
“And I don’t know. I guess I’m not super picky either.”
He makes a dubious sound. “I don’t believe that for one second.”
He can believe whatever he wants to, but I’m done playing into his games, so I tell him to direct me to the bar, avoiding any more of this conversation.
I park as easily as I drove, and Nico once again praises me for it before coming around to open my door. Knowing that I’m about to go meet up with his friends and teammates sets my nerves fluttering. Especially when he pointedly drags his attentionover the length of me. “You want to take your sweatshirt off?”
It’s a warm night, a bit humid from the earlier rain, but I shake my head, tugging it down even farther. “No. I’m fine.”
He pulls a face, his expression a mix of confusion and something else I can’t place, but he lifts a single shoulder. “Okay. Whatever you like.”
Then he pockets the keys I hand to him, and he laces our fingers together to lead me across the street to a pub that supposedly has “the best burgers you’ll ever eat.” Inside, it’s loud, with music pumping through the speakers and muted sports games playing on multiple televisions. Everywhere is laughter and clinking glasses, and with the low light and crowded booths, it’s hard for me to get my bearings, so I cling to Nico as he walks us through the crowd to a small back room, where a few players are gathered around a table, laden with food and drinks.
“’Sup, fellas,” Nico says, keeping our hands locked together as the players all turn, a chorus of greetings coming from them.
“You brought a friend with you,” Anthony Blackman notes, although all the players call him Cubby, and I’ve never understood why.
“Yep.” Nico tugs me into his side, placing his hand at my waist. “This is Josephine. You might know her as one of the team photographers.”
“Or the victim of your assault,” Carter “Buss” Bussi says.
“She’s also my fiancée.” Nico grins, and the jaws of all the men drop.
“Excuse me?” Jean Pelletier—JP—says in his thick French-Canadian accent.
“Jojo has agreed to marry me.”
Cubby starts coughing so hard that Buss has to slap his back.
JP frowns between Nico and me. “I do not understand.”
“We are getting married. Hitched. She is my betrothed.” Nico holds up my left hand, showing off the ring he gave me, and one by one, these hockey players all blink into awareness.
“You’re serious?” Cubby asks, and Nico nods.
“Since when?” Buss asks.
“The hospital.” Then Nico looks to me, as if it’s my turn to field some of these questions.
“It’s kind of a long story,” I say quietly, which has all of them leaning in.
JP puts his chin in his hand. “We are ready for it.”
“Well…” I sweep my gaze around at the group. While there aren’t many of them, they’re still big guys, professional athletes, with an intimidating presence, but Nico tugs at my chin, forcing me to release my lip from my teeth, and I tell his friends, “We’ve been keeping it a secret because of my job and his…whole…image. It’s a lot for me, but when I was in the hospital, I guess…”
“Decided you had to marry her after knocking her out?” Cubby guesses, and we laugh as Nico’s grip on my waist tightens.
