Page 6 of Pucked Mountain Man
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a ‘maybe you’ll find out if you’re very, very special.’”
Another punch of heat hits me square in the core. “My coaches tell me I’m special.”
“Don’t get too excited,” she laughs. “Very special is a high bar in my book.”
“I’m tall,” I deadpan. “Bet I can clear it.”
She laughs and something heavy in my chest loosens. She sets the towel aside and grabs a smaller band.
“Let’s work on your ankles. Side steps.”
“I hate side steps.”
“You hate everything.”
“Fair enough.”
“Good. Use it.”
She demonstrates: feet shoulder-width, band above ankles, hips shifting. Sweater lifts, a slip of skin at her waist. My mouth goes dry. I try not to stare.
And fail.
We work the circuit. She matches me, correcting here and there—steady, stubborn competence. Two sets in, the humming starts—barely there, then a line of melody stitching the silence.
“Are you always singing?” I ask.
“Are you always this cheerful?” she bats her eyes
I grunt and listen. It takes a moment, but I recognize the tune. “Dream” by Fleetwood Mac.
“Good song,” I say.
“One of the best.”
“Helps when the person humming it has a nice voice,” I say. “You’re good.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m… fine.”
“Bullshit.” She startles, and I rein it in. “Sorry. You’re just… better than fine.”
She looks at me like she wants to believe me. “I like music.”
“Do you play anything?”
“Piano. Guitar,” she says. “I write a little. Small stuff.”
“You play any gigs?”
“Open mics. Coffee shops. My kitchen, if the coffee is hot enough.”
“You’re a regular rockstar,” I say. “Rockstar,” I repeat under my breath.
Her eyes flare. “What was that?”
“I said you’re a rockstar,” I say. “There’s no point arguing.”
