Page 22 of Pucking Never

“What? I don’t want to get food. I want to go home…”

At that moment, my stomach releases a loud growl, as if to intentionally protest my statement.

"I rest my case." His smirk is infuriatingly smug, and I can't help but roll my eyes.

"But at this hour?" I protest feebly, taking in how deserted the streets look. "Everything's closed."

Knowing him, he probably knows a place, or owns a place that opens just for him. Rich athletes and their privileges. "Not everything," he proclaims mysteriously, and I sigh, deciding to just go along with his plan. It saves me the trouble of preparing something back home anyway.

We finally pull up to an all-night diner, its neon lights casting a warm glow in the dimly lit street. The mere sight of it makes my stomach rumble again.

"I thought you'd appreciate a more… casual setting," Jensen says as he parks the car, killing the engine. "No dress code here."

"Can't say it's not considerate," I grumble, unbuckling my seatbelt.

He steps out of the car and maneuvers his way to open my door. The gentleman act is really getting on my nerves, especially knowing it's just a facade. There is no way he wants the real me. A part of me is still convinced he’s only caught up in getting me back in his bed. Nothing serious past that, just like every other hockey player I’ve ever known, including my brother. The other part of me—that part that does think he’s serious—knows he’s serious about Lynn, not me. Either way, it’s not good.

"Let's just eat quickly," I say curtly as we step into the diner. The smell of sizzling bacon hits me instantly, and I almost drool.

The diner has that typical old American charm about it — red leather booths, checkered floor tiles, and vintage Coca Cola posters decorating the walls. The jukebox in the corner plays some old tango music softly, adding to the quaint ambience.

We settle into a booth by a window and a waitress comes over to take our orders almost immediately.

When we’re alone again, the silence between us is heavy. I fiddle with the straw of my water glass while Jensen watches me quietly from across the table.

"Grace," he says, his tone serious. "We need to talk about what happened tonight."

"No, we don't." I argue, not ready to face the issue of our annoying chemistry head-on.

"Yes, we do," he insists. He clenches and unclenches his jaw, the determined glint in his eyes hard to miss.

I press my lips together, bracing myself for whatever he's about to tell me. “Fine,” I grumble. “Say what you need to say.”

Jensen runs a hand through his hair, his bright eyes locked on mine. He's usually so confident, so certain of everything he does. Now, he seems… nervous?

"Grace," he says again. "I think… we need to admit that there's something here. Something more than just what happened in Miami."

I scoff; I can't help it.. "Oh really? And what might that be?"

He winces slightly at my sarcastic tone but doesn't back down. "I think we both know," he says quietly. "You feel it, don't you?"

I want to deny it. I want to laugh in his face and brush off his words as nothing more than a bad joke, but I can't because he's right.

The silence stretches between us as I fight off the feelings that are rushing to the surface.

Finally, I murmur, “Jensen, Miami wasn’t real. I wasn’t Grace there. I was Lynn… and she was just a facade. You didn’t actually fall for me.”

“Don’t say that,” he insists. “You might have used a different name, but you’re still the same girl.”

My heart sinks. “In Miami, I was relaxed and fun-loving, but that’s not how I really am. I’m anxious and type-A. I arrange my pencils by length, for god sakes! I’m not the kind of girl who has sex with a stranger on a beach!”

“Yes, you are,” he replies sharply. “Maybe you felt freer in Miami than you usually do, but everything you did there you did because you wanted to. I know you well enough to know that.”

I open my mouth to reply, but then close it when no words form. A part of me wants to latch onto his words and believe them, but a far more cautious part of me still thinks he doesn’t fully understand. Still, what he’s saying kind of makes sense… everything that happened in Miami happened because I wanted it.

"Grace," Jensen breaks the silence again, leaning forward in his seat, putting his elbows on the table. "I'm not asking for anything right now, believe me, but I think we owe it to ourselves to explore this… whatever this is. We don't have to put a label on it or anything."

My heart pounds against my rib cage at his words, my breath hitching in my throat. Is this really happening? That is just the kind of proposition I would expect from any other player, but here I was starting to think Jensen was different.

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