Page 73 of The Legend Next Door
“Okay.” Luca nods with grim resolve. He looks at Ben and then he looks at me. “But don’t hit him hard, Dad. He can’t handle it.”
“Excuse you!” I exclaim.
Ben’s laughter is a soft, warm thing that sinks to the ice, liquefying, before entering my body through the blades on my skates.
I drop my gaze to the center dot. I’m ridiculously nervous. There are people watching us, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Add to that, I can feel Ben looking at me. He’s not looking at me the way he looks at opposing players on TV. He’s laughing softly, and there’s no menace in him. No hint of anything threatening.
I can’t tell if I’m about to faint or combust.
Luca drops the puck gingerly, all but placing it on the hook of my stick and giving it a little nudge in my direction for good measure.
My reactions are fire. I swing my stick like a cat. Like lightning.
It’s neither here nor there. Ben slams into me, snatching the puck and sending it careening toward goal—and by “slams into me,” I mean he barely touches me but knocks me over all the same. My skates fly out from under me. I see a slab of pure white, a flash of boards, and a vast field of spotlights and cables above me.
I slam my eyes shut and brace for impact.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, I’m weightless. Spinning through the air. Tumbled and turned. Roughed up and rolled over.
My fall is broken by a big, beautiful brute of a man. He’s flat on his back on the ice, body stretched out under mine. I’ve been snatched out of the air and saved in a single fluid movement.
His arms surround me, and he’s still laughing when I land.
“Th-thanks,” I splutter.
“Did you think I’d let you fall?” he whispers, face inches from mine.
My entire body erupts in heat.
“Itoldyou to take it easy on him, Dad,” Luca scolds as Ben helps me up.
We play for ten or fifteen minutes, and by that, I mean Luca and Ben tear the ice up, and I try my best to keep up with them. They’re so sweet to me though. Both of them severely limit their pace, power, and skill to make me feel better. They include me the whole time, tapping the puck to me ever so softly and praising me to the hilt when I return it without falling over.
To my surprise, I enjoy it, playing hockey that is, and that’s something else I never thought I’d hear myself think. It’s a lot more fun than I thought it would be, and not just because of how Ben looks on the ice. Not because of the way he’s breathing, or the way his hair is peeking out and curling up under his helmet when he moves. Not even because he smells like the grit, the pulp, of masculinity if it was somehow extracted and pressed through a sieve.
It’s fun because I’m with Ben and Luca.
When my legs turn to jelly, I head to the bench. Ben follows closely, no doubt to keep me from accidentally falling to my death at the last minute. Once I’m settled, he skates over to the gathered crowd and asks if any of the kids want to play with him. There are screams of delight and a tiny stampede as he’s taken up on the offer.
I expect it to be chaos. There are overexcited kids all around him, but it isn’t. He calms them with quiet words I can’t hear from here. In a matter of minutes, he has them set up at different stations, each working on a different drill or skill. He moves from group to group, praising where praise is earned and offering advice where needed. Parents watch, rapt, eyes damp and hands clenched to their chests. One mother sobs quietly and whispers, “Sammie’s playing with Ben Stirling,” as she dabs a balled-up tissue to the corners of her eyes.
I wish I had it in me to judge her. I really do. But I don’t. Ben is amazing with kids. He’s amazing with people in general. He has so much leadership in him it literally oozes out of his pores.
When he’s worked his way around the group and spent time with each child, he skates over to me, unfastening his helmet and taking it off with the same effortless grace he used to put it on.
All I can think is how grateful I am that I accidentally left my phone at Ben’s house. Otherwise, I know there’s nothing on Earth that would stop me from texting Ness and telling her I was right and she was wrong. Ben Stirling is, in fact, a perfect human being.
“D’you have fun?” he asks, plopping down next to me.
“Mm, fun,” I say.
Jesus, he smells good.
Clean, sporty sweat? Bottle that shit up, and you’ve got yourself a next-level aphrodisiac. That’s all I’m saying.
“What about you? Did you have fun?” I ask.
