Page 12 of Date with a Devil
“Thank you. That’s all I wanted to hear.”
Without wasting any time, she spun around and bolted for the door, beaming. She moved swiftly through the locker room, her body suddenly as light as air.
And shealmostmade it to the door before the athlete yelled, “Wait wait wait!”
This time, though, she wasn’t going to stop. She hurried for the exit, but the hockey player leapt from his stall and pursued her, closing the gap between them in the blink of an eye. Yep, the guy was a professional athlete, alright.
Still, Austen had no intention of stopping, even as DeHardt grabbed her by the arm and tried to stop her. But she stopped in her tracks when his hands went to her hips. Fighting against his impressive strength, she couldn’t move an inch.
She turned around, ready to scream at him—why did he think he was allowed to put his hands on her, exactly? But the scream never came. She found herself unable to speak. Something in DeHardt’s demeanor had changed—from patronizing a second ago to now genuinely curious.
“You reallydon’twant to do this, do you?” DeHardt said, the wheels in his head turning.
Oh no,she thought.
“Um—no—I really do,” she lied.
“No, you really don’t,” DeHardt said. “I can see it in your eyes. You don’t want to do this thing any more than I do.”
Oh God.
“You know what, Austy? I’m in.”
Noooooo!
“You are?” she asked meekly. “A-are you sure?”
“Hell no, I’m not sure. But neither are you. And I have to say, that kinda intrigues me.”
Great. Just great.
“We’re leaving for a road trip tomorrow,” he said, “but we’ll be back by Friday. How about Saturday? That work for you?”
“I … suppose … it would,” Austen grumbled.
DeHardt cocked his head. “Hey, you never introduced yourself, by the way.”
“Itried,you just cut me off and gave me a lecture about how I’m not entitled to your free time. Remember?”
“Yeah, well, sorry about that. Your colleagues always put me in a bad mood.” The hockey player stuck out his massive hand. “Dane.”
“I go by Austy on the show,” she said as she reluctantly gave him her hand. “But my real name is Austen.”
“Austen it is, then,” he said as he took her hand.
She half-expected him to do something ‘hilarious,’ like try to creepily kiss it. But he didn’t. He just squeezed her hand with those giant mitts of his until her hand disappeared completely in his strong grasp. He gave a small shake. The embrace was almost comforting—but Austen realized she was probably suffering from Stockholm Syndromemore than anything else.
“Okay then. Saturday,” DeHardt said. “It’s a date.”
“Nota real one,” she reminded him as she hurried away.
Austen left the locker room to a soundtrack of the Devils laughing.
In the hall, she slumped against the cinderblock wall and let out a defeated whimper.
What have I gotten myself into?
***
