Page 52 of Patrick

“True.” I go up on my elbow and lean over him, staring into his eyes, something I could do for endless time, but before I get lost in his mesmerizing eyes, I lean down and kiss him.

“You need your sleep. You need to take care of yourself to play your best.”

“You’re awesome, you know that?” His hand slides down and squeezes my rear. “Did I tell you one of the reporters—a good one, reliable guy—says there’ll be a couple of NHL scouts and maybe even a few agents at the game tomorrow?”

“No. That’s fantastic. They’ll be so impressed with you.”

He pulls my head down for a kiss until I’m breathless, and I wonder if I’m stirring him up, but I’m not sure if I’m feeling more guilty or excited about it.

“Fifi, you’re so tempting.” He runs a hand under my shirt up my ribs to my breasts, and I weaken, my body reacting with that excited clench of nerves, but I stop it—stop him.

“Why would agents be there? Wouldn’t they do business by calling?”

“Maybe. But the word is they’re checking out players on campus for NIL deals if they’re promotable—or some shit like that.”

I sit up. “Really? That could be an opportunity for you. You have what every promoter wants.”

“What’s that?” He smirks.

“Sex appeal.” I’m dead serious, even in the face of his grin and the hand that cups my breast to find my nipple with his thumb. He squeezes, and I nearly lose my train of thought.

“I’ll give you sex appeal,” he growls.

“I thought you needed sleep,” I murmur in his ear, torn between encouraging him and discouraging him. But he resolves my dilemma by releasing another massive yawn, ending with a chuckle.

“Sorry, sweet lips.” His hand comes to rest on my hip, heavy and warm and comforting, and he pulls me to lie down and rest my head on his shoulder.

I’m content to fall asleep in his arms because he’s tired, and though he may want to fuck like there’s no tomorrow, I’m betting there will be many more tomorrows for us.

In the meantime, the here and now tomorrow is the day he needs to play his best to impress everyone who still needs impressing. Because unlike him, I believe there’s more than a vague possibility of a successful NHL career for him, and I know that’s his most cherished dream.

Which means it’s my dream too.

The UNH – BC Game

Ricci, Nina, and I bundle up against the cold of night air as we leave to walk to the arena for the game. We’re not alone. A few other groups of students from the Hamlet complex are going early and heading the same way.

“I can’t believe you made us leave so early,” Nina says. “The game doesn’t start for another hour.”

“Quit whining,” Ricci says. “Can’t you see she has a secret assignation planned?”

“Assignation?” Nina stops in her tracks.

I laugh and nudge her forward, anxious to get to the rink to meet my family. Dad is a stickler for being on time—read super early.

“No assignation unless you count meeting Mom and Dad.”

“It’s really too bad you have to sit with them and root for the enemy,” Nina says.

“I’ll be sitting with them, but I’m not cheering for BC, I promise you.”

“Your parents won’t be mad?” Ricci says. “I thought you promised to cheer for Vincent.”

I shrug. “Maybe. If he scores, I might clap politely.”

Ricci chortles. “I can picture it. You’ll be sitting in the middle of people jumping up and down yelling, quietly tapping your hands together while you seethe inside hoping your brother loses.”

“Something like that,” I admit. “But I’m not worried about it.” Poor Vincent isn’t a big scorer.