Page 8 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

But wait, did he just say …?

“You’re a professional hockey player?” I blurt, then clap my hand over my mouth when I realize I practically screeched it.

I’m not normally a screecher, but I guess two drinks make me lose all sense of volume control.

Thankfully, Troy just smiles at me like he thinks I’m entertaining, but I get the feeling it’s not like he thinks I’m ridiculous, but more like he thinks I’m endearing.

“Sorry,” I whisper, overcorrecting the other way. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

He chuckles, stretching an arm along the booth behind me. “It’s okay. I don’t think anyone’s paying attention to us.”

Squinting one eye, I survey the people in the bar and shake my head. “Nope. You’re wrong. My friend Brit over there is watching us verrrry closely.”

He slouches down more, his eyebrows raised, his perfect, lush lips curved in a smile. “How many drinks have you had?”

Planting my elbow on the table, I hold up two fingers. “Just two.”

His smile pulls wider. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you’re such a lightweight.”

I try to glare at him, but it doesn’t do anything but make him laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Shaking his head, he downs the rest of his beer. “You’re little. And you don’t strike me as a big drinker.”

Scowling, I try to think of why I should be offended by that statement, but there’s nothing wrong with it at face value. He’s not saying it in a mean way, just as an observation. It’s just that it’s painfully close to what my ex-fiancé always said. “Jared always called me a lightweight,” I say before I can stop myself. I can tell I’m a little tipsy because my filter isn’t working all that well right now. Plus, my cheeks and the tips of my ears are extra warm. “He always said it kinda mean, though.”

Muscles tick in that strong, clean-shaven jaw. “Who’s Jared?”

I wave a hand, wanting to wave away both the question and the growly quality of his voice. “No one. My ex.” I clear my throat. “Ex-fiancé.”

Those muscles bulge again, and he looks away. “At least he’s an ex,” he mutters.

“Why do you say that?” His reaction surprises me. Usually when I mention that I broke up with a fiancé, people stumble over themselves to apologize and say how terrible that must be—even more so if I let slip how it all went down. But I put the brakes on that line of thought before I accidentally blurt it out. I don’t want to distract Troy from telling me why he’s glad I’m not with my ex anymore.

He studies me for a moment with those clear blue eyes. He’s really pretty, and it takes every last shred of self-control I possess not to blurt those words out. Then he shakes his head and looks away. “He sounds like a dick,” he says at length.

That surprises a bark of laughter out of me, which makes him look at me again. And if laughing keeps that expression on his face when he looks at me, I’ll laugh all night long. It feels good—great, really—to have this beautiful man paying attention to me. A professional hockey player. With muscles on top of his muscles. Who saved me from the Frat Boy Brigade and thinks my ex is a dick.

I nod, twirling my empty glass. “You’re not wrong. He is a dick.” If there was any doubt, leaving me at the altar kind of unequivocally erased it. But I manage not to say that out loud too, because while this man saw me as someone in need of rescuing, he hasn’t looked at me with pity once, and I don’t want that to change.

“Uh-oh,” he murmurs, and my brows crimp with worry.

“What’s wrong?”

He jerks his chin toward the bar. “Your friend is coming to collect you. And it looks like the coast is clear. Your trio of assholes left. So I guess that means I have no reason to ask you to stay with me.”

I blink up at him. “What if I want to stay with you?”

He grins again, obviously pleased, and I smile back. Picking up his phone, he pulls another business card out of the case on his phone, and I poke out my lower lip in a pout as I pick it up. “What’s that look for?” he asks, his voice full of laughter.

“This is the card you gave to the guys. You gonna tell me to call the number to get some autographed merch? I don’t even know anything about hockey or the Seattle Emeralds. I’ve never heard of you before tonight. What do I want with autographed merch?”

Still laughing, he shakes his head. “For one, you could sell it on eBay and probably make some extra cash.”

I scoff at that idea. “Like I have the time or energy for that.”

He taps the card. “While it is the same card, yours will be special.” He pitches his voice low, making the words sound almost filthy. Then he flips the card over, pulls out a pen, and scrawls a number on the back. “This is my personal cell phone number. Call me. Or text me. Whichever. Then I can take you out for a proper first date.”

On that bombshell, he stands, holds out his hand to help me out of the booth like the perfect gentleman he apparently is, and watches while Brit hooks her arm through mine.

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