Page 21 of Second-Rate Superstar

“Let’s skip the pleasantries, then,” I suggested. “You said you were sorry. I accept. Anything else?”

His shy grin turned into a full-blown, dazzling smile. His teeth were perfectly straight and white. Weren’t hockey players supposed to be missing teeth? Why couldn’t he be unattractive? That would make this so much easier.

“Like I said earlier, we got off on the wrong foot,” he began. “I’d really like it if we could have a do-over.”

“A do-over?” Skepticism seeped into my tone. “What would that entail?”

Shoving both hands into his pants pockets, Braxton rocked back onto his heels. “Can I take you out sometime?”

There it was.

I was probably the first girl he’d encountered who didn’t fall at his feet. He’d never had to work for it before and likely found that exciting, a novelty.

That’s all this was.

Meeting his eye, I explained, “I’m not into athletes. Sorry.”

“Ouch.” The smile never left his face as he placed a hand over his heart, pretending to be wounded.

“But . . .” I hedged.

A hopeful expression crossed his handsome face. “I like a ‘but’.” He winked.

Oh, Lord.

I gave him an exaggerated eye roll at the double entendre. “I would be open to a compromise.”

“I’m listening.” His gaze grew intense, and I fought the urge to squirm.

“As I mentioned, I write fiction. I’m currently working on a book that involves hockey.”

“Sounds interesting.” He smirked.

“I don’t know much about the sport.”

“Because of your allergy to athletes?” His teasing tone had me itching to abandon the whole idea.

“As Bristol so astutely pointed out before her departure, you might be the right person to help conduct some research on the subject. If you’re interested, that is.”

Those whiskey eyes sparkled. “If that means spending time with you, I’m in.”

I pointed a finger at him. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Dumb jock, remember?” Braxton used both thumbs to point at himself. “I’m not capable of coming up with ideas.”

“Cute,” I grumbled.

“Why, thank you.” Braxton flashed those pearly whites.

Pinning my arms over my chest, I asked, “So, where would you suggest we start?”

“You don’t know anything about hockey?”

I shook my head. “Not a single thing.”

He scanned me head to toe, and I wanted to shrink back into myself. How did he do that? Make me feel exposed with a single glance?

“Can you skate?”

---