Page 31 of The Stud

Not smiling is impossible.

Damn it.

“You should stay and let me earn the bragging rights that come with kicking your arse at something.”

Once more, my mouth moves without my consent. “Why do you do that?”

“Poke the bear?” He innocently shrugs. “It’s your love language.”

“Bear is my dog, and I don’t recommend youeverpoke him.”

“So…” the accidental information drop causes him to beam obnoxiously bright, “you have a dog.”

“Imeant,” reclaiming the conversation is accompanied by a harsh glare, “go between words and phrases like ass and arse and shit and shite and contractions and separations. Why is there no fucking consistency to your speech pattern?”

“Why are you studying my speech so critically?”

“Why don’t you ever stop talking?”

Another round of open mouth chuckles makes itself known prior to him answering, “I have one parent that is from Doctenn, which is where I spent many of my childhood summers, and one parent that is from here in the states, whichis where I was technically born as well as brought up. Being actively raised by both and raisedin bothplaces naturally created this eloquent frat douche dialect you take so much pride in chirping me for.”

Great.

Now,Ibelong in the penalty box for unsportsmanlike conduct.

“One round.” Frosky flashes his irresistible smile yet again. “One round, and I’ll give you adetailedansweron cameraas to why I like to play pool.”

“Fine,” begrudgingly leaves me. “But if it you give me some half-cocked, obviously thought out between lacing up your skates answer, I will shove that stick you’re holding so far up your own ass, you’ll look like a bobble head that belongs on the dash of my jeep rather than an actual human being that’s won the Art Ross Trophy.”

His object free hand shoots me a curious point. “You drive a jeep?”

An eye roll is all he’s given before I’m lifting the device back up for recording.

He politely waits until he receives a kick of the chin that indicates I’ve begun filming to cockily question, “Miss me?”

Noiselessly gagging behind the camera gets him chuckling again.

“Hoss caught me here at the P.A.L. event playing a bit of pool.” Resuming the bent over to shoot position occurs without directing. “One thing that –I believe– sets me apart from others ishowI work at keeping my mitts so silky.”

The waggling of his eyebrows prompts me to shake my head.

“Seemostathletes – across the board – primarily focusonlyon their own sport; however,I,” he glides the cue between his spread fingers, “dabble in various forms to ensure my mitts receive a diverse range of movements and motions.” Frosky knocks his stick into the white ball, sending it towards the lonely solid green one. “Each sport offers and requires something different providing me with the opportunity to tone and strengthen my muscles as well as muscle memories in ways that quite a number of people would never consider.” Post the round object successfully falling into its appointed hole, he adds, “Plus, I like thechallengeof learning other sports. It reminds me of when I was just starting out in hockey. It did not come easilyornaturally, and that little tidbit simply made me love it more.” His crystal stare cuts upward to find my brown. “Because I had toworkfor it. I had toearnthe right to be on that ice.” He burrows it deeper into mine. “And what you’re willing to work for is always much more satisfying than what is simply handed to you, aye?”

Air struggles to find its way into my lungs, forcing me to drop my stare downward in an attempt to figure out how to make that happen.

It isn’t exactly metalsmith work or gladiator training.

You let oxygen in.

You let carbon dioxide out.

It’s pretty cut and dry, so why the fuck can’t I do it right now?!

“Arden?” the breath stealer gingerly calls, commanding my gaze upward. “You alright?”

I nod.

Which is a lie.

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