Page 7 of Pucked On Camera
The proximity, the half vintage light above our heads, it's all conspiring to blur the lines between caution and want.
I sip my beer, and across the table, Riley's eyes twinkle with a mischief I'm learning to read.
"Okay, so you're this hotshot on the ice," I say, taking one more swig for courage. "But what about off the rink? Any secret talents?"
"Secret talents?" He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Well, I make a mean lasagna. And I can juggle—"
"Juggle?" I interrupt.
"Yep. Pucks, not balls. Helps with hand-eye coordination." He grins. "What about you? Any party tricks up your sleeve?"
"Party tricks?" I echo, feeling a warm buzz from the alcohol and his attention. "I can quote an embarrassing amount of sci-fi movies."
"Really?" The surprise in his voice makes me feel oddly proud.
"Really." I emphasize the word, taking another drink. "It’s my guilty pleasure. 'May the force be with you,' and all that jazz."
"Ah, a woman of culture," he teases, raising his glass in mock salute.
The laughter comes easy between us, a back-and-forth thing that’s comfortable. Riley doesn't press too hard, doesn't pry too deep into my personal life. It's refreshing.
We fall into a lull, savoring the last of our drinks. I catch him watching me, his gaze steady. There's an earnestness there that chips away at my defenses.
"Amelia," he starts with a softer tone, "I'm glad you said yes."
"Me too," I admit.
Hours slip by, unnoticed, until the barman shouts last call. There is one main thing that I noticed with Riley; he checks hisphone like it’s a habit. However, overall, I had a good time with him tonight.
"Let’s get you home," he insists, slipping his jacket over my shoulders when we step outside.
"Sounds good. Thank you," I agree, snuggling into the warmth of his coat.
"Of course," he chuckles, guiding me with a gentle hand at the small of my back through the parking lot.
The crisp night air does nothing to soothe the heat flushing my cheeks. We walk close, shoulders brushing. I stumble slightly just before we reach his car, blame it on the uneven sidewalk, but Riley's quick to steady me.
"Easy there, tiger," he murmurs.
"Sorry, just a little tipsy," I confess, looking up at him.
"Tipsy, huh?" There’s a softness to the way he’s looking at me. "Does that mean I finally get to hear what you think of me?"
"Think of you?" I draw out the question, playful yet honest. "You're... not what I expected."
"And what did you expect?" he teases.
"Arrogance. Ego. The usual star athlete package."
"Ouch," he feigns hurt, placing a hand over his heart. "And the reality?"
"Surprisingly humble. Charming. Annoyingly likable," I say, the last part barely above a whisper.
"Annoyingly, huh?" He stops, turns to face me, hands on my shoulders. "I can work with annoyingly."
"Good," I reply. My voice is somehow steadier than my legs. "Because I might just let you."
He leans forward as I raise up on my tip toes, and our lips connect. It’s soft and gentle until it’s suddenly hot and needy… and over way too soon with him pulling back. With a final peck to the corner of my mouth, and then my forehead, Riley pulls me close to his chest.
