Page 21 of Left-Hand Larceny

“It’s a b-bit late to worry a-about that, d-don’t you think?”

Panic blanks my brain. A hard reboot, like pulling the plug on an ancient desktop computer stuck on the blue screen of death. It takes precious moments for me to register that Ragnar is kidding, his grin wide and his eyes practically glittering across the table. I smile back and roll my eyes as he winks.

“I am r-responsible for…for m-my own e-emotions. And I was j-just kidding.”

“Careful there, big guy.” I point a French fry at him, ketchup dripping off the end. “Don’t mess with the bitch in charge of your training. What if I decide to tell you that the best way to dispel awkward silence in a crowd is to moon someone?”

He frowns for a moment, brows tipped together, lips scrunched, as if he’s flipping through the dictionary in his mind.

“M-moon?”

“Jack Spaeglin,” I say with a smile, “first practice of his rookie season. Someone—I’m not saying who—told him to—”

“Ah. W-with the—” he gestures behind him and I laugh.

“Yes.”

It had been my first day, too, on my official tour of the Stand Arena. I remember rubbing my hands along my bare arms, feeling the goosebumps on my bare skin. I learned quickly to have layers. The ice can get cold. It also gets wet. Kneel to check a player’s pupils after a hard hit and end up with frozen-solid kneecaps. On that day, I’d stepped up next to Greg as a strange hush went around the rink. In my memory, all the warning signs were there. I had time to avert my eyes. Jack’s stick hit the ice and his hands shook as he grinned at my boss.

“Good morning, sir.” He’d had the stilted formality of a kid, still unsure how he ended up on NHL practice ice. “I’m Jack Spaeglin.” And then he’d dropped his pants, his shorts, his jock. And showed his ass to the team's head trainer.

“I would never ask you to moon someone, Rags,” I try to hide my laugh in another French fry. Spags might not mind dropping trou in front of authority figures, but I bet Ragnar would.

A shame, my brain supplies.He has the better glutes.

I beat that part back and slam the door. Hard. Boundaries. I basically just defended a fucking doctoral thesis on why I need to be careful about this man’s feelings. Lusting after him now, even if he doesn’t know, feels like leading him on.

Our waitress wanders by, making brief eye contact with me. Her jaw almost hit the floor when we walked in. Now she raises her eyebrows and tilts her head, asking if we need something. I mime for the check, but Ragnar already has his wallet in his hand. He tosses a handful of bills on the table before standing up. When he stretches, his shirt pulls tight across his chest and I see the tiniest, palest sliver of skin along his abdomen. There’s the finest layer of copper-red hair dipping below the waistband of his pants.

I’m a pervert.

Boundaries, Sadie.

“I-I h-have to get b-back.” Ragnar holds my gaze, steady. Sure. “I’m s-sorry for l-leaving before you’re d-done.”

There are approximately two point five fries left on my plate, drowning in an ocean of ketchup in this tiny little diner I dragged us to.

I wave off the apology. “I’m leaving in a minute. Thank you for paying.”

His ears turn pink and this time he drops his gaze.

“I hope I didn’t keep you too late.”

“Y-you d-didn’t.” He slaps his oversized hand to the back of his neck, copper hair falling into his eyes. “I h-have to go finish m-my w-w-workout.”

Wait. What? Why the fuck did he let me kidnap him if he had more to do? He even let me take him to a secondary location. And okay, it’s just the little diner across the street from the rink, but still! Doesn’t the man watch true crime? Listen to podcasts? Scroll social media mindlessly for hours? Something?

I can’t believe I didn’t think. Of course he wasn’t done with his workout. I was on the treadmill long before he showed up. Why on earth would I assume he finished just because I was? If I’d been thinking, I wouldn’t have asked him to come to the diner with me. I would have told him I’d think about it, and I could have sent him an email.

I want to apologize, but I don’t.

“Hey,” I call as he turns for the door. “You’re off on Thursday, right?” He nods once. “Keep the day open for me. I’ll text you plans for our first lesson.”

He pauses, looking at me over the bulk of his shoulder. Wary, like a bunny backed into a corner by a hungry predator. Adorable.

“You d-don’t have t-to do th-at.”

“Hey,” I pop the last fries into my mouth and wipe my greasy fingers on the edge of my bike shorts. “You asked for my help and we’re going to do this right. I’m a high achiever like that.”

---