Page 60 of Crossing the Top Line

“What you rolling your eyes at, sweetheart? Have you ever watched a game?” he fires at me, smirking in premature triumph.

“A few, but I don’t need to watch every game to know that he’s right,” I say, jerking my chin at Oliver before turning my gaze to the nearest television. “First off, look at the goalies. They didn’t block shots, so of course you’re going to have double-digit goals scored. But now, goalies have pads and are physically. Not to mention, the speed. Look at that guy. He looks like he’s got lead skates.”

When I look back at the guys, I’m met with three blank, astonished stares. The blue-eyed loudmouth suddenly doesn’t have a word to say, and the strawberry blonde has lost all of his gusto.

“Hey, wait a minute. I know you!” the third guy bursts out, speaking at last.

I swallow, but his attention is fixed on Oliver. I find my companion holding very still, as if he might fade into the dark wood paneling if he doesn’t move a muscle. But unfortunately, he’s dealing with a hockey fan, not a T-rex.

“You’re Astrauckas. You play for the Mystic!” the fan says, not even bothering to keep his voice down. “I saw your picture in the paper! A hometown kid playing in the NHL. This is so cool. My boys aren’t going to believe this!”

Oliver’s shoulders slump, but he rallies quickly, taking off his hat and smoothing down his dark hair before giving him a smile. All of the tension of a few moments ago is gone, the hockey bros grinning like fiends as they ask for pictures and autographs. And Oliver, to his credit, doesn’t balk, not even when the dozen other patrons catch wind of the celebrity in their midst. For my part, I take pictures for anyone who shoves a cell phone in my hands, my stomach twisting a little. I should have known better than to expect complete anonymity when in the company of a professional athlete, but in the south, it’s much easier.

Finally, once everyone has gotten their moment, and Oliver throws himself back into the chair opposite me at the table, he lets out a long sigh before giving me a sincere apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, Tor. I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t be, Oli,” I cut him off, reaching out to take his hand again, but stopping.

I know people looking at us, and I’m all too aware of the portable cameras in everyone’s pockets. It would take one snapshot to make its way onto the internet for my life to become extremely complicated, very quickly. My stomach twists again, and I recognize the emotion: disappointment. I try not to let it show on my face, and I’m saved by the bartender returning with our food.

The rest of the meal passes in relatively comfortable silence, our conversation shallow and stunted at times. The words Oliver wants to say seem to dance in his golden irises when he looks at me, the unspoken questions that he doesn’t voice. I’m not a stranger to the spotlight, and I’m not ashamed to be seen in public with Oliver. But right now, I don’t even know where we stand, and I don’t want the media to ruin whatever’s between us before we have a chance to figure it out.

When we ask for the check, the bartender just grins and holds out a picture of Oliver, glass removed from the frame to expose the print. It’s an amazing action shot, and I recognize it as the moment of celebration after he scored his first NHL goal this season.

“The purple, green, and gold might clash with our red and white, but I’m happy to make an exception,” she says, her smile genuine.

Oliver’s returning grin is soft, eyes bright with emotion as he takes the offered marker and signs it before shaking her hand. She invites us back to the bar, and my heart softens as we watch her hang the photo in pride of place next to the till.

Oliver pulls out his phone and takes a picture of it, grin wide. “My dad’s gonna love this,” he says, thumbs moving over his phone as he sends a message.

Oliver tries to take my hand as we leave the restaurant, but I move away, suddenly aware of how many people are out and about this afternoon. And when we reach the hotel, I try to push the up button on the elevator, but Oliver grabs my wrist.

“Tori, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t—”

“It’s fine, Oli, really,” I cut in, hoping my smile meets my eyes.

But Oliver’s serious frown makes my face fall, and I sigh. Taking advantage of my silence, he pulls me off down a hallway leading away from the elevator bank, tucking us into the ice machine and vending machine room for the first floor, out of sight of anyone passing.

“I’ve gone back there a few times since I got drafted and never had any issues. If I’d known that we’d…that I’d be recognized, I wouldn’t have…I’m sorry, Tori. I ruined our date,” Oliver says, stopping and starting as he tries to get his thoughts in order.

He takes my hands in his and holds them tight. I look down, entranced by the ink covering the warm flesh. I nod, not sure what else to say.

“I’d made all these plans for how today would go, and I feel like I’ve ruined them,” he mutters, a small ironic chuckle at the end.

I look back up into his eyes, and my heart softens. “It’s not your fault. And it’s me that’s at fault for ruining the mood. I’m just…”

I trail off, trying to put into words what’s going on in my head. Today felt more serious than any of our previous lunch dates, especially after the kiss we shared in the supply closet. My own embargo on dating hockey players aside, I don’t know what would happen to me if upper management were to find out that I’m involved with a player. Sleeping with Eli had been a one-time thing, and while he might be flirty, he’s not pushing things. But Oli…

I don’t know if I could stop at one night with him.

The way his amber eyes sparkle at me when he laughs, the little jolts along my skin whenever he brushes the backs of my hands with his thumbs…that’s not fling behavior.

“We don’t have to overthink this, Victoria. We could just be friends who go out to lunch every week, and that’s it. Or…we could be friends who domore,” he whispers, taking a step closer.

I suck in a sharp breath, my head tilting back and knees going weak at the bergamot and leather scent that floods my chest. He’s giving me an out, and every rational part of my mind is screaming for me to take it.

But instead, I rise onto my tiptoes and close the distance between our lips.

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