Page 3 of Stick Work

Once again, his words—not to mention the fist playfully nudging my chin—remind me I’m his best friend’s kid sister, and I had to have been imagining the interest in his eyes.

He makes a move to go. “We need to get a move on it.”

“Wait, do you think they’ll be concerned about our age difference?”

He shrugs. “I’m sure they’ll be concerned about a lot of things.”

I think about pushing, to find out what happened in his past, but when he glances at the door, like we need to move, I let it go. “Let me grab my bag.”

“I got it.” He walks around me, and I don’t even try to avert my gaze. Nope, I stare at his perfect ass, packaged in snug dress pants that hug his tight buttocks to perfection. Hockey and a strict gym regimen have done this man wonders.

I glance down at my own attire. Dammit, I’m in yoga pants. I dressed for comfort. Elias, however, always dresses well. I guess he has to. The media are all over him, not just because he’s NHL star Elias Ariti, but because he’s the son of a prominent political figure.

He hikes my bag over his shoulder and walks out of my bedroom door. Phone in hand, I follow behind and he grabs his bag from the front door. Outside, he heads to the Uber he ordered, and tosses our bags in the trunk as I lock up.

Every few minutes I glance at him, and mostly find him deep in thought, scrubbing his hand over his chin. My insides tighten. Everything in me wants to unbuckle my seat belt, lean into him and help him forget his troubles for a while. But no…that would be wrong.

“You enjoying your program at Boston College?” he asks, making small talk.

I’d floundered for a while back in Darien, not knowing what to do, and after Grandma died, I moved here with Kalen and found my love of theater. “Yeah, I love it. Have you always wanted to be a hockey player?” I ask him. We might live in the same house and eat around the same table, but our conversations are usually light and about everyday things.

A smile comes over his face and it warms my insides. “Dad would have liked for me to follow him into politics, but from a young age, I loved hockey. It’s a game and it’s hard, but there’s a freedom when I’m out there on the ice. I can tune everything and everyone out, and while it’s work, it doesn’t feel like work, you know?”

“Hockey always came easy to Kalen, too. He was a natural like you. He never had to work too hard at it. He didn’t even have to work hard at school. The guy is good at everything.” Except relationships. He’s not good at those. I’m hoping that will change for him soon, though.

As I take in Elias’s profile, I think about what he has to work at—putting on a performance for the paparazzi. What would this man be like…unleashed. I realize he’s kind and protective like my brother, and I live behind closed doors with him, but what would he really be like if he didn’t have to keep himself in check all the time.

“You’re good at acting.”

He casts me a fast glance and I nod. “I’m not Meryl Streep, but when I’m on stage, I get to tune everything and everyone out too, and be someone else.”

“You don’t like who you are?” he asks with real curiosity in his voice.

“I do, but sometimes it’s really nice to let go.”

His brow furrows and dammit, I really want to be the girl to help him let go. I get the feeling something happened to this man, something that has made him cautious, reserved. Not that he’d tell me. He and Kalen keep me out of the loop most of the time.

We talk a little more about hockey and acting, until we reach the airport, which is crazy busy for the holidays. The Uber pulls up to the curb. Elias tugs a ballcap low on his head and grabs our bags. We make our way inside and his hand closes around mine when I nearly get caught up in a stream of people hurrying to their gate.

“Hey. Stay close. I don’t want to lose you in here,” he warns in a concerned voice, like I’m some accompanied minor.

Yes, Dad….

Ugh, he really does think of me as Kalen’s kid sister.

Prove to him you’re not, Taylor.

Yeah, sure, and then destroy my brother and his relationship with his best friend. Not going to happen.

“I’m trying,” I tell him as he drags me closer, anchoring me to his body, and I try not to revel in the warmth curling around me. I guess that’s why they call him the anchor on the team. He’s their stability, strength and reliability.

We make our way to security, and his body stiffens when someone calls out his name. “Shit,” he mumbles, and squares his shoulders. Going into professional hockey player/son of a politician mode, he turns, a smile on his face. I’ve seen it before. His hand tightens around mine, and I’m not even sure he’s aware that he’s squeezing, but it says so much about his turmoil.

“Hey,” he says to the man hurrying our way, giving a nod of his head to greet him politely. The man, obviously in the media, gestures for his friend to get his camera ready and the next thing I know, I’m seeing stars, and not the good kind, you know from sex—at least the battery-operated kind that I’m accustomed to. No, these stars are from all the damn flashes.

The journalist’s gaze slides to me, and my vision clears because I realize it’s time to pull out Taylor Turner—my stage name—and slip into character.

“And who might you be?” the man asks, a shine in his eyes, like he’s about to win the Pulitzer Prize.

---