Page 64 of The Hat Trick

His hands reach out and cup my face and he moves my head back to look up at him. His hazel eyes gazing down at me with that little smile still on his face.

“Why are you nervous right now?” he calls me out, and it makes my face scrunch with annoyance that I am being so easy to read.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“There’s nothing for you to be nervous about.” He rubs his thumbs along my cheeks while holding my face, and I feel my shoulders drop slightly. “Sit down on the couch, do you have anythingyouwant to drink?”

I think for a moment, licking my dry lips before speaking, “There’s a bottle of wine, it’s nothing fancy.”

He’s probably used to wine that costs hundreds of dollars, not my shitty ten-dollar bottle. He leans down to brush his lips against mine lightly, it barely could even classify as a kiss, and tells me to sit down again.

I do what he says while I hear him in the kitchen. A part of me wants to watch, but I decide to turn on the TV to some random channel with the volume low and pretend to watch. He comes back with two glasses in his hand. I take mine with a small, “Thank you.” After my first sip I can’t help but apologize, “Sorry, it’s probably not what you’re used to.”

“What, the wine?” he asks after a sip of his own, and he’s not gagging which I assume is a good enough sign.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m sure you only have the top-of-the-line alcohol.”

He chuckles. “Do you have more assumptions about me, because I think I’d like to hear them.” He leans back on my couch, his large frame taking up so much of it our limbs brush against each other.

I really don’t know much about the man sitting next to me, and realize I really am basing a lot of my thoughts on my own assumptions. I take another large gulp of my drink before I ask, “Do you really want me to tell you?”

He nods. “I promise not to be offended.”

I take a deep breath before thinking about how exactly to not give him anything to be offended about. “Let’s see, I thought before you were an only child, but since I met your sister, I know that’s not true.”

He groans, “I almost forgot about that, she still wants to meet you. I think she’s hoping you will come to our game the day after New Year’s with her.”

“Really? Would that be weird or anything?”

He shakes his head. “Not if it’s what you want to do.”

My cheeks heat, and I take another sip. “I’ll think about it.”

“What else?”

“I think you’re the oldest child in your family.”

He nods slightly but doesn’t give me anything else to go off of, so I continue.

“You like control. You like things a certain way, and always ensure everything is exactly how you want it. I’d say you might be a perfectionist, but I also think you don’t see yourself or anything around you as ‘perfect’. You just want things your way. Which isn’t a bad thing.” I feel the need to clarify because I might be reading too much into things and delving a bit too deep.

He keeps looking at me, clearly wanting me to continue while not confirming or denying what I’m saying. Even though I’m a little worried I’m upsetting him I continue. “You probably had a supportive family that went to all your games and made sure you had everything you needed for hockey. You love hockey, and it wasn’t a question for you to turn pro. You knew you would and weren’t going to settle for anything less.”

He sips from the wine glass that looks miniature in his large veiny hands. He’s still not giving away anything he’s thinking, and I need him to say something. My nerves are roaring back and I finish off my drink while I wait for him to say something.

“Anything else?” he asks, his voice low, almost intimidating.

I shake my head.

He hums and doesn’t say anything else right away, taking a leisurely sip from his own drink. I sink a little lower into the couch feeling like I fucked up.

“Do you want me to tell you what you got right or wrong first?” he finally says.

“Wrong,” I answer wanting to get it over with in case I did, in fact, offend him.

“You’re wrong about my family. I am the oldest, but all perceptions you have about how I was raised are wrong. Hockey wasn’t something they supported me through, hockey was an escape. It was my way out.”

I swallow roughly, feeling bad about that assumption. I open my mouth to say just that when he continues, setting the glass on my coffee table, and turning toward me.

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