Page 41 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

I stare at her response for a beat before starting the car. Her immediate response communicates excitement, but the words less so. But she seemed into the idea last night, and she called me earlier to set this up, so I’m just getting into my head about nothing. So what if she’s not an enthusiastic texter? If she put a bunch of exclamation points and emojis, that would make me feel weird too, because it doesn’t fit with her personality, so I need to quit spinning myself out about her acknowledgment and just go already.

As I approach the little building that matches her address, I drum my fingers on my steering wheel, unaccountably nervous. Sure, we spent most of yesterday together, but somehow that fact doesn’t make me feel any less like a rookie about to go on the ice for his first professional game—a complicated mixture of nerves, excitement, anticipation, and the words don’t fuck this up echoing in my head.

After parking on the street, I let out a breath, double-check that I’m looking for unit D, and climb out of the car.

When she answers her door, it’s clear I’m not the only one who’s nervous. Her smile looks strained, and she sounds overly bright when she says, “Hey! Troy! Come in! I just need to grab my shoes and my purse and …” She trails off, looking around like she can’t remember what else she might need.

But I take the invitation and step inside her open door as she moves around, her movements distracted and jerky.

And for some fucked up reason, her nerves soothe mine. Taking a deep breath, I reach out and catch her hand, pitching my voice so it’s low and soothing. “Hey. Anna. C’mere.”

She stops like a toy robot who’s had the power cut, but when she turns toward me, the frantic, jerky quality of her movements has disappeared. She lets me reel her in, moving toward me easily, no sign of protest in her body language or face.

When she reaches my chest, I loop my arms around her, just holding her. It takes her a second, but then her hands come up behind me. Letting out a big sigh, she returns my hug.

I wait a few seconds, rubbing her back before I ask, “Better?”

She nods against my chest, then steps back, finally meeting my eyes without that forced smile from before. “Sorry,” she murmurs, but I shake my head before she can go further.

“Don’t apologize. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Sitting in the chair pushed against her tiny dining room table, she puts on her sandals and buckles them one at a time. “I feel like I shouldn’t be nervous about this, but at the same time, I really, really am.” She lets out an almost rueful chuckle.

A smile tips my own lips. “Hey. I get it. I was nervous too.”

She lets out a breath, looking toward her living room as she takes in that piece of information. “Huh. It’s funny to me that you would be nervous.”

Part of me wants to press that, but I decide not to, instead taking time to look at her apartment.

It’s neat and tidy, which doesn’t surprise me, with a knitted blanket of various shades of cream and brown draped over the back of her tan couch, which faces a nice flat-screen TV. It’s a little small, but so is the living room, so it seems like it works. There’s a matching armchair to one side with a brown throw pillow perched just so and a lamp flanking it. There’s another lamp on a side table on the other side of the couch. The walls feature fairly minimal decor, but what’s there is tasteful and neutral. It looks like something out of a magazine spread about making your space a retreat—natural colors and textures in varying neutral shades with a heavy emphasis on white or cream.

It’s nice. Soothing, if a little impersonal. I search for some clue about the woman who lives here, something indicating the spark of passion I felt from her yesterday, but it seems this is more of the tight control that she expresses most of the time.

“Nice place,” I tell her as she finishes gathering her phone and keys. She seems to hesitate as she stares into her purse. “Have everything?” I prompt.

Her mouth hooks to one side, then she gives a decisive nod, putting the long strap of her dark brown purse over her head so it drapes across her body, bisecting her breasts in a way that puts them on display, though I’m not sure that she realizes that. I can’t help dragging my eyes down and then back up her body. She’s wearing a clingy moss green tank top tucked into loose cream shorts that make me want to slide my hand under them and see what she’s wearing underneath.

Clearing my throat, I tear my eyes away, looking instead at her minimalist kitchen. The small amount of counter space is bare and free from clutter. Only a microwave, a toaster, and a one-cup coffee maker taking up any counter space. There’s not even a stray cup or coffee mug sitting out. She must be one of those who loads her dishes in the dishwasher as soon as she’s done using them. Not a thing out of place.

“Ready?” she asks.

Blinking, I nod, stepping through the door when she opens it. “I usually drive downtown,” she says when she locks the door behind us, “but it’s not that long of a walk if you’re up for that.”

She promised me a tour of downtown today, so I smile and hold out my hand for her to take. “That sounds perfect.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Anna

I feel oddly conspicuous walking down the street hand in hand with Troy, but I know it’s all in my head. No one’s around this far from the main downtown area on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Sunday’s probably not the best day to give someone a tour of downtown, and I’m not sure why I thought this was a good idea when I suggested it. Well, that’s not true. I am. I was thinking we should do something together, but I didn’t really know what. The art festival wraps up today, though I’m not sure how into art he is, so I thought we could swing through there, I could show him the big sights, and if he wanted to check out things like the Christmas Emporium or something, we could do that. And it seemed better than just inviting him over to my house, though I have a strong feeling we’ll end up there eventually.

We walk in silence through my neighborhood, Troy looking around and taking it all in. I look around, too, trying to see it like I haven’t been living here for years. Shady trees dot people’s yards, a mix of native conifers and transplanted maples and various decorative trees that bloom in the spring in a profusion of white and pink flowers. By this point, they’re all covered in leaves, though, which makes the walk pleasant.

“It’s pretty,” Troy says after a moment. “Do you like living here?”

I nod. “Yeah. Like you said, it’s pretty. And the neighborhood is quiet. The summer is full of different seasonal festivals, which lasts from about May to October, and then we get a little break before ChristmasFest gears up after Thanksgiving. But of course, that’s just when it runs. The city starts putting up lights in late October so there’s plenty of time to make sure it’s all working before the festival kicks off. It’s really pretty, though. I like the quiet times when the city’s not packed to the gills with tourists, but the festivals are fun, too.”

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