Page 18 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

“Younger by about three years. In fact, I think that might’ve been why I didn’t start hockey earlier. Mom didn’t want to deal with an infant and getting a toddler on the ice.”

She nods. “I can understand that. Did he play hockey too?”

“For a while. Not like I did, though. He quit by the time he was in high school. I always figured it was because he didn’t want to grow up in my shadow. He needed to find other ways of distinguishing himself.”

“That makes sense,” she murmurs as the waitress shows up with our food.

My plate is piled high with golden brown French toast, a slit in the side of each piece overflowing with sausage and eggs, and a small container of maple syrup on the side. Anna’s plate is similarly piled high, but her French toast is covered in whipped cream, a garnish of berries dripping down the side, a small container of purple syrup on the edge of her plate.

Her eyes widen at the sight. “Oh my god. I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat all that.”

Picking up my fork, I give her a goofy salute with it. “We’ll have to do our best.”

She grins. “It’s our duty, right?”

“Exactly.”

CHAPTER NINE

Anna

After our giant breakfast—that I didn’t finish and am taking home with me in a box—Troy offers to walk me to my car.

“But didn’t you say you had to park several blocks away? And you came from that way,” I point in the direction he came from. “I’m over here.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder.

He’s standing close to me. So close. And he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, which has me so flustered I feel like I might swallow my tongue.

“I don’t mind walking a little extra,” he says, his voice so low it’s more of a rumble in his chest.

“Oh, well, um, okay then.”

He gives me a crooked smile, then reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “Is this okay?” he asks softly, and I nod because I’ve suddenly lost the power of speech.

We walk hand in hand but don’t speak. This time, though, it’s comfortable, unlike the awkward silence we faced at the beginning of our date.

How in the world have I ended up on a date with a professional hockey player?

Sure, he’s retired now, but still.

When we arrive at my car, I point at it, clicking the fob to unlock it. “This is me.”

He glances around, eyebrows raised. “How’d you manage to score a place so close to the restaurant?”

I shrug, not trying to repress my grin. “Just lucky I guess.”

He pulls me around in front of him, our hands still joined. “Hmm. You’re not the only one.” Then he leans down and brushes a kiss on my cheek. “Is it okay if I call you later?”

Once again tongue-tied, I can only nod. I don’t trust my voice to come out as more than a croak, and that would be embarrassing.

He grins, squeezes my hand, releases it, and steps back, giving me room to get to my car. Part of me doesn’t want to, doesn’t want this to end, but I don’t know what to say or do to prolong it. And maybe it’s best to end the date now. He’s walked me to my car. Kissed me on the cheek (!!) and said he’ll call me later.

Even if he doesn’t, this was a perfect start to my plan to get out more, be more adventurous, and become a different person. One who’d know how to extend a date they’re enjoying. But I’m not that person yet.

Next time, I promise myself. Next time I want a date to continue, I’ll figure out how to make it happen. Maybe I can google it when I get home. Come up with some phrases and suggestions to have in mind for future reference.

It’s been so long since I’ve been on any kind of date that it’s understandable I’d be flustered.

And future dates aren’t likely to include professional athletes. Future dates will likely be with normal, run-of-the-mill attractive guys, not professional model-looking guys like Troy.

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