Page 37 of The Puck Player

Alexander listens to me rant in amusement, before he states, “Nah, I tried the whole secret society thing, it wasn’t really for me.”

Adam returns with our drinks, and I snatch one of the shots off the tray before he even places it down, knocking it back instantly, not even bothering with the salt or the lime. “I’m not even sure when you’re joking anymore,” I choke out, cringing at the harsh taste of liquor, but knowing right now I need it.

“First rule of secret societies is that we don’t joke about secret societies,” he claps back, slipping a hundred from his wallet and placing it on Adam’s tray before he leaves.

I watch the waiter retreat, before I turn my focus back to the bossy asshole in front of me and curse, “You’re insufferable and incredibly fucking annoying.”

Alexander leans back in the booth, spreading his wide frame out on the seat across from me, as he tips his head in my direction. “Keep going, you know it makes my dick hard when you talk to me like that, love,” he winks, sipping his water, and the blush that floods my body is instant.

It's something he does all the time, jokes about his attraction to me, except given the intensity of his stare, I’m not sure he is joking anymore, and given when he purchased the bar we are sitting in, I’m not sure he ever was.

Picking up the third shot, I knock it back like I did the first two, and all he does is watch my every move, like a predator stalking his prey. He told me he was worse than a heathen, a joke I scoffed at and laughed off at the time, but he was right, there isn’t a word to describe how dangerous he is. Which is funny, because I know he would never hurt me, but I’m starting to realize he has the power to destroy me more than anyone else has before. All of his moves have been careful and calculated, every joke executed to perfection, until my guard was down and he slid right past my defenses. A relentless and steady bond forged in his flirting, that I’m not sure I could now live without.

A heavy whoosh swirls through my stomach as we continue to stare at one another, and I don’t say anything as he signalsfor Adam to bring another round of shots. I remain silent and watchful, thinking back to how he joked with my mother in the cemetery, wondering what she would make of all this, what she would make of him.

What do I make of him?

I’ve sort of become used to his staggering good looks, given the time we have spent together, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still blinding. That I don’t notice that he runs his hand through his hair when he gets nervous, that his icy blue eyes track everything around him all the time, that he is his most relaxed and carefree when he is around his housemates. And I’m not stupid, I notice how every girl's head turns when he walks into a room, how they watch and silently wait, hoping his attention will fall on them, but it never does. Like right now, his eyes are always on mine, and even though I was looking, I wasn’t really seeing, but now I think I see too much. Too much to wonder about, especially when I am sitting here under his watchful stare when I still belong to someone else.

As if he has direct access to my thoughts, Alexander swirls the liquid in his glass, as he asks, “So, no Ben today?”

His question is genuine, but just the way he says his name tells me exactly how he feels about my boyfriend, not that I can blame him.

“I called him, he didn’t answer,” I reply truthfully with a shrug, as Adam drops off four more shots, and I take the time to actually pour salt on my hand this time. I swear I hear Alexander groan as I lick it up from the back of my hand, but I ignore him and throw back the shot, followed by the lime. Knowing I don’t really want to talk about Ben, or the fact he completely forgot what day it is today, as did Malorie, I change the subject. “Have you ever had a girlfriend?” I dare to ask, and his smirk widens at my question.

“Why? Are you wondering about your competition, Trouble?” he asks, with a gleam in his eye, and when I remain silent, he shakes his head firmly. “No, Aubree, I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

The way he says my name has me knocking back another shot, grimacing once again at the taste, as I contemplate my next question. Alexander doesn’t look rushed as he takes out his phone and taps away for a couple of minutes quietly, before bringing his focus back to me. I can feel the warmth from the liquor spreading through my limbs and loosening some of the tension there, as I lean back in the booth and study him the same way he’s doing to me.

“Why?” I eventually ask, and his insufferable smirk returns, as if he knew the question was plaguing my mind the last few minutes.

“In high school I was too busy fucking to have a girlfriend,” he starts with a shrug, without an ounce of shame, and I try not to blush at his blunt answer, mildly wondering just how many people he is referring to. “Now it’s because I learned the hard way that most people only want me for my money, and well, those kinds of relationships don’t interest me,” he admits freely, and my heart aches for him a little in understanding.

What must it be like to have the whole world fall so freely at your feet?

I take another shot, as I think about my response. “But your net worth is probably the least interesting thing about you,” I state in confusion. “Like, what about the businesses you run, the charities you donate to, the knowledge in your brain, or how incredible you are on the ice,” I reel off, shaking my head in disbelief, as I think about all his closest friends being in relationships, and him being alone.

“Not to mention my wildly attractive good looks and princely charm,” he tosses back without missing a beat, and I scoff as I down the final shot with a grimace.

“Your ego needs its own zip code,” I tell him firmly, and he smiles with another wink, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Trust me, that’s not the only thing, love.”

Once again I blush furiously, much to his amusement, but then we continue to talk back and forth a little more, and for once I answer his questions more freely than I would, given the gentle buzz of alcohol running through me. Especially after Adam delivered a few more shots at my request, except the next time I try to order some, Alexander tells him to bring me a pink lemonade instead.

Rolling my eyes at his bossiness, I slip out of the booth and stumble to the bathroom, pausing to splash some cold water on my face while I’m there, and when I return, the table is littered with food.

“What’s all this?” I ask, eying it hungrily, as I take in the mixture of chicken wings, loaded fries, mozzarella sticks, and cookie dough, and Alexander only shrugs.

“You needed something to soak up the alcohol,” he explains simply, as if that is enough to justify why all my favorite junk foods are now sitting on the table between us, and I try not to let the emotion burning at the back of my throat show as I slide back into the booth.

“Thank you, Alexander, for everything,” I whisper, only now starting to understand the extent of how good a friend he has been to me, and all he does is nod toward the food.

“Just eat,” he demands, and so I do.

I eat everything, some of the mozzarella sticks, the fries, even the cookie dough, saving the wings for last since it’s the messiest, and Alexander remains spread out across the booth watchingmy every move, like I am the most fascinating thing he has ever laid eyes on. We don’t talk, we just sit in silence and enjoy one another’s company, while I try to counteract all the liquor I poured down my throat.

Which means I note when his eyes darken a little, his fingers clenching around his glass, as his other hand drops to his lap and fidgets a little. “What?” I ask, licking my lips, and then quickly reaching up to see if I have food on my face or something, but his intensifying stare doesn’t relent.

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