Page 17 of The Import Slot
“Nothing,” she blurts, fumbling for her bag and skates.
“Jen.” I reach my hand out and rest it on her knee before snatching it away, as if she’s too hot to touch. “Have I upset you? I know my comment about my type was a little forward, but—”
“No, not at all,” she interrupts, but at least she’s looking at me now.
“What’s going on then?”
“I’m just embarrassed, okay?”
“About what?” I probe.
“Running! In front, or most probably behind you,” she blushes, a beautiful red glow on her cheeks.
“What? Why?”
“Oh my god, well, I don’t doubt you probably run 5km in about twenty minutes, probably better, and I’ll likely embarrass myself! I can’t run that fast, and I’ll be the colour of a beetroot. I’m quite self-conscious.” She looks down at her hands. I didn’t realise she had such reservations.
“First, don’t worry about my pace. I’ll be runningwithyou,“ I stress, “and second, I don’t care what colour you are. I think you’re cute, and I don’t doubt you’ll be even cuter when you’re hot and sweaty.” I flash her a grin, but I feel like I’ve probably overstepped the mark.
“I, uh—”
“Tell me more about your job, Jen.” She looks startled, but I sit silently, waiting until she breaks and starts talking. She begins with an overview, then goes further into detail when I ask questions.
“See, you work hard so you can do your job. Keeping fit is my job. I have no choice but to keep it up if I want to excel and play at the level I want to play at.”
“Of course, I understand, and I’m not saying it’s a bad thing at all, but I’m still embarrassed about my fitness in comparison.”
“Hey, I’m embarrassed about my tech knowledge, but you know what, if I wanted help or if I wanted to improve, I’d ask a professional, so let me help you.”
“I see what you mean,” she says, taking another deep breath. “Then I appreciate your help. Let’s say six-thirty on Monday morning. Thanks, Ry.” She reaches out and touches my forearm, making me shiver, before snatching it away. “Thanks again for the lift.”
“Let me get the door for you,” I say, bounding out of the driver’s side and around before she can stop me.
“I don’t think anyone has ever opened a car door for me before.” She grabs her bags and steps out.
“I don’t think I’ve ever opened a car door for anyone so cute before.” Christ. When did I get so damn flirty? I just can’t stop myself. Our eyes lock for a moment, and we stand there, looking at each other, until my phone vibrates in my pocket. I let it ring out, but when it starts again, I pull it out and check the screen. Dad.
“My father,” I say, frowning.
“I’ll let you get that. Thanks again, see you.”
And she’s gone, leaving her delicious smell behind.
My dad’s name flashes again, but I hit ignore and climb back into the car. I don’t drive off immediately, not entirely familiar with the route; instead, I pull up maps and have a scout around, trying to get my bearings. I check my notifications and see that email Vicky mentioned and take a look. She’s sent the photo of me next to the car along with a slurry of text telling me what I should caption, and there are about six other images she’s included.
‘Here are a few other shots I took that I wanted to share. Feel free to use these on your socials if you wish. You really cheered up toward the end of practice. I can only assume it was the excitement of returning to your new car ;-)’
I scroll through the photos and I see what she means. There are a few photos of my puck handling, concentration on my face, and a couple of pictures of me with the rest of the guys, but the last image really hits me. It’s a wide shot of the ice, Johnny standing next to me talking, but I’m not focused on him, I’m looking toward the bench at Danny, and he’s talking to someone off camera, but I know who it is and I know why my face is that of someone high on life, pure joy shining from my smile.
I’m screwed. I send my brother the shot of me next to the car to show him what he’s missing. Then I do the social media post I promised Vicky, tagging the club. I’ve got a load of new followers, probably local fans, and the photo I posted before travelling out has garnered much more attention than I thought it would.
Now that I have Jen’s number saved, I can see her profile as a suggestion, so I tap it. Damn, she’s locked it down. I can only see her profile picture, a shot of her and a blonde dressed up as if they’re on a night out. Jen looks hot. I throw her a follow request and then toss my phone on the passenger seat before returning to the apartment.
Chapter 6
Jenna
Ihadn’thadthechance to get rid of the moving boxes since I moved in. I just folded them down and shoved them behind the sofa. But I’m feeling appreciative now, pulling them out and looking for the brown packing tape. As my place was let to me furnished, I just have to pack my personal belongings. Do I really have that much?
