Page 26 of Famous Last Words
The man,Dallas, snickers, and like a walking, talking cliché proceeds to place a worn Stetson on his head. And I can’t stop staring at him. Who knew I had cowboy kink? When his green eyes land on me, I actually feel my knees weaken.
“And who do we have here?” Without waiting for an introduction, Dallas steps forward, holding his hand out. “Dallas Shaw, voted hottest goalie in the league, two years in a row.”
Hannah shakes her head, muttering something under her breath. And I can’t help but smile. I really like her. It was by sheer chance I ran into her outside the bathroom during the second period. We immediately hit it off, and thank God, too, because she helped make tonight a little more tolerable.
Pointing his finger between us, Robbie finally speaks. “Dallas Shaw, Fran Keller.” His eyes meet mine as he continues, “My girlfriend.”
With a nervous smile, I accept Dallas’s hand, but instead of shaking it like a normal person, he bows his head and presses a kiss to the back of my fingers, lips lingering far longer than socially acceptable.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Robbie’s told me absolutelynothingabout you, and I can see why.” His gaze is almost lewd as it sweeps over me from head to toe, but in a weird way it’s not creepy like it probably should be. I can tell this guy is nothing more than a harmless flirt, and it’s kind of endearing.
“How’d you enjoy the game, Fran?” Dallas asks.
“It was good…” I trail off, glancing at Robbie. “Is it normal for you to be pinned against the boards that much, though?”
Robbie’s face becomes serious.
Hannah hides a smile behind her hand.
Dallas laughs so loud he attracts the attention of everyone around us. Smacking Robbie’s shoulder, his laughter subsides long enough to say, “Shots fired, son.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Robbie mutters, rolling his eyes, although there’s a smile hinting at his lips, and I have no idea what’s so funny, but whatever.
“Robbie, man, you sure you don’t wanna come for a drink with the guys? I’m sure Hannah can convince dear ol’ daddy to let you off the hook for one night.” Dallas nudges Hannah who, in return, glares up at him in disgust.
“Girlfriends are welcome too, Franny,” Dallas adds, winking at me, and I swear I almost giggle.
Robbie snakes his arm around me again, pulling me impossibly close. “Nah, man. Like I said—” he glances down at me, lifting one of his eyebrows conspiratorially, “—romantic night in with my girl.”
I swear to God, I almost laugh. In fact, I have to turn away because, between the look in his eyes and the pathetic smile on his lips, it’s too much. Who’s even buying this?
“Aw, you two are so adorable together,” Hannah whispers, nudging me with her elbow.
All I can do is smile despite my gritted teeth, inwardly groaning at the feel of Robbie’s hand resting far too low on my hip and squeezing me, as if he knows just how much it’s pissing me off.
The second we get into Andy’s Porsche SUV, I slap Robbie around the back of his head. Not hard, just hard enough.
“What the hell was that for?” He rubs the back of his head, glaring at me over his shoulder.
I spear him with a dagger glare. “For touching my ass, you perv!”
“Robbie!” Andy chides.
“I was just trying to make it look believable.” Robbie shrugs, laughing under his breath as Andy clears the parking garage boom gate, pulling out into the Midtown traffic. Thankfully, the windows are tinted enough so that the Thunder fans lining the sidewalk outside the Garden probably can’t see in, but I still shield my face as best as I can, just in case.
The plan was to leave together, and Andy will drop Robbie off at the hotel he’s staying at until escrow closes on his apartment, then drop me at my apartment before continuing to his home in Park Slope. And as Andy and Robbie are busy discussing the game, all I can do is doom scroll social media, finding countless pictures of me from tonight, wearing Robbie Mason’s jersey. I’ve gone viral and for all the wrong reasons. I feel sick to my stomach.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Startled by Robbie’s outburst, I look up just as Andy is slowing down to a stop at the curb outside the hotel on West 44th, where a throng of people appear to be crowding the entrance.
“What’s going on?” I ask, watching as the people in the crowd turn to take in the car, many of whom are men holding cameras with huge lenses. Suddenly, I’m blinded by a barrage of flashes, and all I can do is cover my face with my hand.
“It must be the no press clause,” Andy mutters cryptically, tapping something into his phone.
I look at Robbie for answers.
“I’m not allowed to talk to the press,” he explains with a sigh, staring out the window as the flashes continue. “Which is ridiculous. Of course, they wanna talk to me… I won the fucking game,” he scoffs.
