Page 1 of Absolutely Not in Love
Chapter One
Gracie
Hockeyhasaverydistinct smell. Or at least, hockey gear.
I would recognize the stench anywhere, butwhyam I smelling it in my apartment building?
I drop my bag onto the landing at the top of the stairs and survey the short hallway that leads to my front door.
There isn’t a square inch of available walking space. Theentirehallway is covered with hockey gear.
Skates, pads, hockey sticks. Helmets. Bags overflowing with jerseys.
Whatisall this stuff? Andwhydoes it smell so terrible?
My neighbor plays for the Appies, Harvest Hollow’s minor league hockey team, but the last time I checked, he didn’t bring his gear home. I’ve definitely never seen it in the hallway. Besides, there’s enough gear here to outfit an entire team.
The more pressing concern: there’s no way I can get to my apartment—at least not carrying my cello.
With averyannoyed sigh, I reach for the closest hockey stick and use it to bang on Felix’s wall. His apartment is the first of two on the same side of the hallway, mine being the second, but there’s so much stuff piled up, I can’t even get tohisdoor so I can knock like a civilized human. But there’s nothing about this particular situation that feels civilized, so I’m okay with the compromise.
“Felix!” I yell, hopefully loud enough for him to hear me. I bang a few more times for good measure.
Is there trulynogetting away from hockey in my life? It’s not enough that my brother played through ourentirechildhood, sucking up all our parents’ time and attention with his games and practices and never-ending weekend tournaments? Now I have to wade through a landfill of used hockey gear just to get to my front door?
Does the universe have no compassion?
Felix’s door slides open and he appears, one hand braced against the door jamb, concern filling his expression. “Gracie? What’s wrong? Are you okay? I heard you yell.”
A bead of water drips off of Felix’s hair and lands on his chest—hisvery barechest—then continues its journey south.
My eyes track the movement, sliding down Felix’s toned, athletic body until I realize—oh good grief.The man isn’t wearing more than a pair of black boxer briefs.
I swallow, taking in the dips and curves of his muscular frame. My eye snags on the shadow of what Ithinkis a tattoo on the inside of Felix’s left bicep. I swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat. It’s not that I haven’t noticed that Felix is handsome. He’s a six-foot-four professional athlete. There’s nomissinganything about him, no matter how quiet he is. But I’ve known he was a hockey player from day one. That’s all the motivation I’ve needed to avoid truly looking.
Me and hockey? It’s never been a good combination. See: aforementioned hockey-filled childhood.
But my eyeballs seem to have an agenda all their own, hijacking my brain for a solid fifteen seconds while I stare.
But no.No! No staring, brain!
I give my head a little shake and finally lift my eyes to the ceiling.
“Geez, Felix, you could have put on some pants,” I finally say.
He looks down and winces, then jumps behind his door. “Sorry. I’m sorry!” he says from just inside his apartment. “I was getting dressed when you banged, and then I just…ran.I thought you were hurt.”
My heart stretches the tiniest bit. Something about his concern feels sweet. And the fact that he didn’tintentionallyanswer his door half-clothed makes him seem much less…I don’t know, arrogant? Though Felix has never really struck me as arrogant. Not like his one teammate—Eli, I think?—who has turned knocking on my door to ask me out into a frequently repeated joke. Well, a joke to him. To me, it’s just annoying.
I breathe out a sigh. “Not hurt. Just stranded. Whatisall this stuff?”
“Give me a second,” he calls, his voice distant as he moves farther into his apartment.
A minute later, he’s back, wearing a pair of joggers and a plain white T-shirt, already dotted with water from his still-damp hair. “It’s old gear the team brought over,” he says. “I’m taking it over to the youth hockey league tomorrow.” He picks up two enormous bags and hauls them into his apartment, making them look entirely too light. He lifts a bundle of hockey sticks, holding them under one arm, then grabs a helmet that rolled over to my door. “I’m sorry. I thought I had enough time to shower and get all this inside before you got home.”
I inch my cello case forward as he clears the gear away. “It’s fine,” I say, though my tone sounds prickly and sharp.
His gaze narrows. “You sure?”
