Page 50 of The Attack Zone

It’s been three days since the Blizzards got kicked out of the playoffs, and the guys are finally ready to see the light of day. Or really, I guess it’s the dark of night, since we’re all going to out to dinner and a bar after.

I arrive at the restaurant alone since Mitch and I don’t want to tell everyone else, other than Hazel, about what we’re doing. But of course, as soon as I walk through the door, my eyes land on him. Maybe it’s because of his boisterous laugh, or maybe it’s his massive frame, or maybe it’s the way he and I seem to instinctively know when the other is present. But it’s terrifying regardless because I do not do the whole room-going-silent-when-your-eyes-meet thing. And that’s exactly what just happened.

A small, knowing grin reaches the edge of his lips as I approach the table and take the seat between him and Caleb. I’m the last to arrive, so I didn’t have a choice butto sit next to him, I tell myself. But I know I wouldn’t have sat down so eagerly if there’d been another seat.

Get it together, Stacey.

“Hey guys,” I say. “How’s everyone holding up?”

I know the answer of course, because Mitch told me that Thomas threw his stick and broke it. Plus, the press published photos of Caleb just sitting there in a trance after the loss in his full gear for nearly an hour after the game had ended. I think it’s safe to say they are not taking it well.

But that’s why we’re here; to help them get through this and get them to let loose and have some fun. So, we’ll eat a fancy dinner and then head to a pair of bars next to each other that suit both Caleb’s need for quiet and Mitch’s need to dance.

Mitch has honestly been handling it pretty well, all things considered. He’s sad, of course, but I was expecting him to fall into a deep depression or something. Instead, he stayed up until two last night talking my ear off about everything under the sun. I hate to admit it, but it was actually really nice. Even if it was surprising that he didn’t stick to his strict sleep schedule.

“Holding up just fine,” Thomas says absentmindedly. It’s a lie, but he seems distracted by staring at Hazel, so I let it slide. She looks stunning, per usual, so I can’t exactly blame the guy.

“Yeah,” Caleb says. “I’m doing better. Those photos were embarrassing though.”

Poor Caleb. He hates attention and he got the most of it the other night because of how sad he seemed. He went viral on Twitter with all the fans feeling so bad for him, and fans of other teams calling him a big baby and whatnot. It’s exactly the kind of thing he doesn’t handle well.

Cassie kisses his cheek gently and a small smile reaches his lips. Those two are too adorable for words, honestly. I’m so glad they found each other. And that I get to help themmake it official. I might even be glad they forced Mitch and I to work together. Not that I’d ever tell him that.

Sitting next to him and not touching him is proving to be difficult, though. We haven’t been together in public much since we started hooking up, and I’m not sure how to handle my intense want to have his lips on mine while sitting in the middle of this nice restaurant with our friends. He must be feeling the same thing, because his hand finds my leg and gives it a quick squeeze. Shivers run up my spine, and I reach out and lace my fingers into his under the table. How am I going to control myself when he starts dancing later? I can barely control myself now, and Mitch Greggs dancing is one of the hotter things I’ve ever seen.

Dammit.

I did not think any of this through.

And now I’m holding his hand under the table like some sort of secret couple.

We are not a couple. I should stop. I should do anything but squeeze his hand and let out a little sigh when he starts rubbing my hand with his thumb. But I can’t help that he knows exactly where and how I like to be touched. It’s not my fault that he has this effect on me, right?

So, I let him rub my hand and when we finally have to take our hands apart when our food arrives, I let him brush his leg up against mine under the table as we eat. It’s subtle enough that no one else at the table will notice, but my body notices. The entire thing feels completely aware, and I know that this has always happened. It can be as sexual and intense as it was the other morning in his shower, or as simple and sweet as an accidental brush of our hands as we walk through a fundraising venue, but regardless, I feel alive in a way I only feel when I’m being touched by Mitch.

I have to focus hard on eating my steak and drinking my wine, but I somehow manage to get through dinner and walking down the street to the bars we’re planning to hit upwithout giving in and dragging Mitch back to my apartment to get him alone.

The rest of the group decides to hang out at the quiet bar next door for at least a bit while Mitch and I opt for the dance floor. We’ll still have to be careful because someone else could show up at any time, but at least I’ll get to dance off all this pent-up tension I have in my body.

We each grab another drink, and he guides us both to the dance floor. It’s not super busy since it’s a weeknight, but it’s full enough that we can blend in. It helps that Mitch isn’t as known as Thomas or Caleb, too. We make our way to the center of the crowd, and I start to dance. I expect Mitch to join in right away, but he just stands there, staring at me.

“What is it?” I ask, refusing to stop moving despite his stare because the beat is just too good.

“Nothing,” he says. “You’re just really incredible is all.”

It’s not something a friend says about a friend, and I know it. I know I shouldn’t be okay with it. But the cocktails are good and the music is loud and I can’t bring myself to give a shit.

“You’re not so bad yourself, as it turns out,” I say, stepping towards him so he can hear me.

“Wow,” he laughs, his hips starting to move to the beat. “Such high praise.”

“Fine,” I say. “You’re pretty incredible too, Mitch.” I reach out and touch his arm, running my hand down it until our fingers lock together. It should feel silly, holding hands while we dance to some electronic mix, but it doesn’t. He tugs me closer until our hips are pressed together, placing his free hand on my lower back.

“Is this okay?” he asks in my ear. “I know someone could see us. I just really want to touch you.”

I really want to touch him, too; I have all night. So against my better judgement, I place my hands on his chest and plant a kiss onto his cheek. It’s tender and sweet and far too couple-y, but Mitch doesn’t seem to care. Granted he’s had a lot of whisky tonight, which is pretty unlike him. I thought he was a big partier, but he actually rarely drinks. So him being three or four in already means that he’s not using his best judgement right now. And my wanting him the way I do means I’m not either. We should stop this. I know we should. So why am I rising to my toes and pressing my lips into his?

Our lips meet and as soon as I kiss him, I stop caring about anything but being with him in this moment. And he must be feeling the same way, because I’m pretty sure he just moaned a little into my mouth. Our tongues play and our hips grind together to the beat, nothing else seeming to matter. That is until I hear a familiar voice yell, “What the hell?”

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