Page 56 of Rematch
He shrugged, then took a sip of his beer. “The travel isn’t all that great. Lots of time in transit and no time for sightseeing. Most of what I know about the cities we play in involves the arenas and the airports.”
“I never considered that.”
One of the women with the bachelorette party broke away from the group, clearly en route to the bathroom. She stopped by their table, flashing Preston a smile and breathy “hello” that was such a glaringly obvious come-on, it took all of Chelsea’s willpower not to roll her eyes, especially when the woman leaned over, ensuring Preston got a good look at her tits.
“I’m a huge fan.”
Preston, to his credit, nodded briefly and offered a quick “thanks,” before turning his attention back to Chelsea.
Annoyed at being dismissed, the woman huffed and walked away.
Chelsea rested her chin on her hand. “Let me guess…you have women throwing themselves at you like that all the time, right?”
Preston glanced behind him in the direction the woman walked, as if he hadn’t even really noticed her. Then, the shameless devil’s eyes sparkled with pure mischief. “I will admit that’s one of the perks of the job.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hummed. “Are you sure? Because she was giving you a bird’s-eye view of her tatas and you barely noticed.”
“Dime a dozen,” he muttered. “She doesn’t hold a candle to you.”
“Still smooth with the lines, I see,” she said, trying to fan the flames on her libido because, woo boy, Preston always knew the right things to say to fire up the old girl parts. And that was saying something, considering she’d basically just shoved a watermelon through her hoohah three months earlier.
While they waited for the food, he regaled her with stories of the road and the extremes some of the “puck bunnies,” as he called them, went to in order to get his attention. Some of the stories were horrifying enough that she was ashamed to call herself a woman.
Soon, the conversation switched from puck bunnies to the hijinks he and his teammates got up to; then he shared some of his favorite moments during big games.
He was passionate about what he did, and it shone through. While she might have expected him to be cocky, there was a humility to him as he praised his teammates rather than bragged about his own achievements.
“Okay. I think you’ve convinced me to watch a hockey game,” she said.
“Excellent,” Preston replied as he pulled out his phone. “I’ll be sure to request a ticket for you as well. And Allyson?”
She hesitantly nodded. “If that’s not a problem. She’d hate to miss the fun.” Then Chelsea recalled herself. “What am I saying? I can’t go to a hockey game. I have Lennon.”
“You’re here tonight,” Preston pointed out.
“Yeah, but that’s…out of necessity. To be honest, this is the first night I’ve gone out since he was born. I know the day is coming when I need to, but…”
“You’re a good mom.”
Chelsea flushed under his praise. Then her nerves kicked in again, and before they could travel too far down that path, she changed the subject again. “Do you miss Seattle?”
One side of his mouth tipped up in an almost grin that let her know he knew what she was doing, but mercifully, he went along with it. “I go home a few times a year to visit my parents, but after so many years here, I’ve come to think of Baltimore as home. And you? Baltimore born and raised, you said?”
Chelsea nodded. “I was born at Hopkins.”
“Didn’t go off to college?” he asked.
“Nope. Went to culinary school here, while working at a donut shop. So, apart from those months spent in Paris, I’ve lived here my whole life. Allyson, Ethan, and I have been best friends since second grade, and my parents still live in the house I grew up in. How’s that for boring?”
“You couldn’t be boring if you tried.”
Chelsea didn’t know what to make of Preston’s compliments. They rolled off his tongue so easily—and so sincerely. She hated herself for choosing that moment to recall Mom’s comment about professional athletes being indiscriminate playboys. Was he just saying what he thought she wanted to hear? “Thanks, but you might want to withhold judgment on my boringness until you know me better.”
Padraig returned with their food. “There’s ketchup, salt, and malt vinegar there.” He pointed to the condiment holder on their table. “Need another round?”
“Yes, please,” Preston said.
Padraig nodded, leaving them alone once again. They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, Chelsea following Preston’s lead, sprinkling her fish and fries with malt vinegar and salt. One bite of the fish, and she decided Preston had undersold just how good it was.
