Page 10 of Gravity
I escape to the showers and shrink inside my world. Breathe, and focus on the soap in my hands, the shampoo in my hair. The water pouring on my face as I close my eyes and turn into the spray. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I see Hunter looking down at me like he looked at me on the ice. I want to stretch, rise on my skates, onto my toes, lean in—
I slam the water off and grab a towel.
Most of the guys have left by the time I’m done. Not Hunter. He’s hanging around, threading new laces through his skates, even though the trainers usually do that for us. Our eyes meet as I cross the dressing room, and again, the world seems to fade around the edges.
Non.Mon Dieu, control yourself.I face the wall. My hands are shaking as I slide my briefs on under my towel.
I want to run. I want to turn around. I want to fall into these questions and see if maybe there are answers here, in the space between Hunter and me.
“That was awesome.” Hunter’s voice is quiet. There’s almost no one left, no one we need to talk over. “I’ve never played like that. I’ve never playedwithanyone like that.”
I chance a look over my shoulder. He’s staring at me from his seat on a bench, eyes wide in his broad face. He’s a huge man, all brawn and bulk, with a wide, strong jaw. His large hands are playing with a puck, his elbows resting on his knees.”You’re amazing,” he says.
“Non. That was not me.” I tug my shirt on over my head, like it can hide how fast my heart is beating.Calisse, it’s beating so hard he can probably see it through my skin. “That was us.”
His cheeks go red, and the puck spins faster between his hands. His eyes drop, burning a hole in the floor.
Don’t let this end.“What are you doing now?”
He blinks when he looks up, like my question has stunned him. I swallow. He probably has plans. Maybe he brought his girlfriend with him. Lots of players do. Why would Hunter want to hang with me?
“Nothing,” he says. His lips threaten to kick up as he ducks his head. “But I think I’m going to skip the tequila tonight.”
The question I wanted to ask him yesterday, when it was just us in this dressing room, rises inside me again. Last night, I was too hesitant, too insecure. Too caught up in questions and fears and what-ifs.Why do I want this so badly?
Now, the question comes easier than I expected. “Can I buy you dinner?”
His flush is back. His Adam’s apple rises and falls. The puck in his hands stills. “Yeah.” He coughs, and his eyes drop to his skates, the floor, then my duffel, before climbing back to me. “Yeah, that would be awesome.”
ChapterFive
Hunter
What do you wear to dinner with your hero?
I tear through my bag and try on everything I brought, then rip it all off and put it all on again. Too casual? Too formal? He gave me the name of an off-the-Strip Mexican cantina, someplace he said was out of the way. Very local, very good, and where we wouldn’t be bothered. NHL players aren’t mobbed like footballers or baseball players, but you can still be recognized, especially in a big team city where twenty thousand fans have swooped in for the weekend.
I decide on casual, going with slim-fit chinos and a nicer t-shirt, one that shows off my shoulders while hiding the protective cushion over my abs. Then it’s down to the taxi stand, where I climb into a cab and read off the address.
“Great place,” my driver says. “You know where to eat in this town.”
“My friend picked it.”My friend?
“Your friend knows what’s up.”
It’s a hole in the wall, one door among many in a mall several blocks off the bustle of the Strip. It’s a late-night spot and the crowd, even though it’s almost ten p.m., is minimal. I spot Bryce in the back corner at a table for four, sipping a Corona.
He waves, and I wave back, then almost trip over my feet as I cross the restaurant. I tug out a chair and Bryce rises, perfectly French, and waits until I settle before sitting back down. “Merci d'être venu. Thank you for joining me.”
I mumble something like “of course” and “this is great” and “holy shit” all in one mashed-up syllable. My toes start tapping, the leather of my shoessqueak-squeakingagainst the tile floor. I dig my fingers into my quad, squeezing my thigh like I can pop my muscle like a melon.Stop.
Bryce’s blue eyes are shining. “Alors, I keep replaying tonight's game in my mind. I’ve played it a dozen times already.”
“Same.” The waitress appears and I order a Bud Light. “I didn’t know I could move like that. Or play like that. I still think it was all you.”
“Je savais que tu pouvais.” He winks. “I watch your games. I know what you can do.” He tips his beer to me in a salute. “You’re good,très bien. Your team is shit, but you are good.” I laugh, and we clink our beers together when mine arrives. “It is so exciting to watch someone like you play, Hunter.”
“Someone like me?”
