Page 21 of Absolutely Not in Love
I spin to face her, hands on my hips, but I’m too wobbly to hold the pose before I collapse against the wall behind me. My brain is muddled and cloudy, totally consumed with how it felt when he leaned in close, his scent wrapping around me like some sort of pheromone-infused cozy blanket.
Or maybe it’s just the wine.Please just be the wine.
(I don’t want to admit it, but it’s not the wine.)
“This doesn’t change anything,” I say, pushing off the wall and heading toward the living room couch.
“You’re right,” Summer says, following behind me. “He was sexy before, and now he’s still sexy. Plus, it’s really cute that he went to the concert with his mom. I also love that he put the ball in your court. Or, in this case, maybe the puck on your ice? Is that how it works? I know nothing about hockey.”
“Close enough.” I drop onto the couch and tuck my feet under me. My water bottle is sitting on the table beside me, and I reach for it, making myself take several long sips.
Summer sits down beside me. “Did you see how soft his hair looked just then?” She flops back onto the cushions. “Seriously. I had no idea I was into long hair and beards, but he looks like a dark-haired Thor. And those shoulders. Geez, he filled your entire doorway. He’s got to be what, six-three? Six-four?”
“I told you, didn’t I?” I say, turning my head to look at her. “Goalies are usually pretty big guys. His hair isn’t long enough to be Thor though. It doesn’t even touch his shoulders.”
“Same vibe though. Those are definitely not the fine-boned hands of a musician.”
Nope. There’s nothing fine-boned or delicate about Felix. He’s more like a very solid, very sexy oak tree. Though, there’s a certain grace to the way he moves that belies his size. That’s probably the goalie in him. He seems very intentional—very connected to his body.
Summer pulls a blanket off the back of the couch and tugs it over her. “Tell me more,” she says. “What else does his goalie status tell us?” She frowns. “Wait, does it annoy you that I’m asking? Wanting you to talk about hockey?”
It’s an unfortunate conundrum that the sport I’ve sworn out of my life forever is actually the one I know the most about. After so many years watching my brother play, I can talk the talk as well as the most diehard fan.
“It’s okay,” I say. “But if my eyes start to roll back in my head, turn on one of Bach’s cello suites until I seem like myself again.”
Suddenly, music is playing through the living room wall I share with Felix, and Summer sits up a little taller. “You meanthosecello suites?” She stands and walks to the wall where she leans her ear close. “Umm, that’s totally Bach.”
Summer’s parents are both musicians, retired professors from the music department at UNC-Asheville, so she knows her classical music almost as well as I do. It’s one of the things we bonded over our freshman year of college.
I groan and pull a pillow over my face. “He’s doing this on purpose.”
She turns and props her hands on her hips. “I’d be pushing my luck if I said I wanted to go to a hockey game tomorrow, right?”
I drop the pillow and scowl.
“Okay, okay.” She holds up her hands in surrender. “Just checking.”
“Why would you want to go to a game anyway? If you keep this up, I might start to think you’re interested in him.”
“In Felix? Nah. That manonlyhas eyes for you.” She drops back onto the couch. “I’m mostly just curious. The Appies are all over social media right now, and the buzz is big. Might be fun to see what all the hype is about.”
“The hype is the product of a social media genius who knows how to capture an audience,” I say. “It isn’t even about the hockey. At least not entirely. They’ve turned the Appies into their own vibe.”
“And you know so much about this because?” Summer asks pointedly.
I roll my eyes. “I live in Harvest Hollow. Whenever I’m on TikTok, their stuff comes up. It’s only based on proximity, not actual interest.”
“Uh-huh, sure,” Summer says, her voice thick with sarcasm. “That’s exactly what the TikTok algorithm is based on. Location.” She pokes around on her phone for another minute or two. “Soooo, does your location-based, totally accidental and only occasional TikTok viewing mean you have or have not seen the montage of sexy Appies in suits arriving for game day?” She holds out her phone so I can see.
I’ve definitely seen it. And watched the three seconds of screen time dedicated to Felix at least a dozen times. “Can’t remember,” I say noncommittally.
“Right. Which means you probably aren’t even a little bit curious about all the female fans who will be throwing themselves against the plexiglass tomorrow, hoping to catch Felix’s eye.”
“Women do not throw themselves against the plexiglass,” I say with a feigned indifference I hope Summer buys. Better that than owning up to the surge of jealousy that exploded in my chest the second she mentioned other women. It’s bad enough she saw my jealousy at dinner.
All of it is ridiculous.
I willnotbe jealous of Summer, and I willnotbe jealous of hockey fans who are interested in a man who doesn’t mean anything to me.
