Page 5 of Puck to the Heart
A sigh slipped past my lips. If my date thought watching me play a fast-paced, violent game was boring, hours together in the car and at dinner weren’t shaping up to go well.
It was going to be a long fucking night.
I made a mental note to keep an eye on the silverware. She might not be above committing an act of violence.
Opening the door, I nearly turned around and hid behind Nana’s skirts at the monstrosity awaiting me. A black armor-plated SUV would’ve been better. Or a town car with presidential flags. Anything other than the hulking white Hummer limo with blinding LED headlights and running lights that couldnotbe legal.
The driver put on an unctuous smile as he opened the door.
If the outside of the limo made me uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to the inside. Someone bought out a whole florist’s worth of pink and red roses, filling the interior with the flowers, both whole flowers and plucked petals littering every surface, various shades of pink streamers and hearts, and several buckets of chilled champagne.
It was like the Valentine party fairy got drunk and threw up in there…in October. It made me sneeze and if I hated it, I knew my ‘date-but-not’ would too, and again, I’m an asshole, so it gave me a hint of wicked satisfaction to imagine how mad she’d get. Again.
“Hey, you’re The Basher, right?” The driver spoke as I was about to climb into the monstrous vehicle.
“You got it.” I pulled on the easy grin hockey fans expected. I clenched my jaw so tight it popped.
“Awesome goal in the last game, man! And, dude, the fight with—” The driver kept talking, but I blanked out, leaving an equally blank smile on my face.
My reputation came from skating hard and fast, being the pretty face of the Knights, and all the mistakes made early in my career. I told myself it was better this way: few responsibilities and low expectations. All I needed to do was win games and get in a few fights here and there.
Sometimes, I wondered if I wanted more.
Even if I did, my mistakes stood in the way.
Before I got too caught up in the past, I let those thoughts go. I played in the NHL for fuck’s sake. I was living a dream.Mydream.
So what if some fans looked at me as a piece of meat rather than a professional athlete? So what if I got horrifying DMs, or worn underwear in my P.O. Box (I never realized people still sent actual fan mail, and the revelation was… wholly unwanted). The general consensus seemed to be that Ideservedwhatever I got. Asked for it even.
When the driver finished his recap of the last game, he shot a glance inside the limo. “You want me to clear this stuff out?” He jerked a thumb at all the pink stuff.
“Absolutely not. Mydatewill love it.” My money was on her hating it. Perfect.
The guy’s eyebrows shot up. “A date? With that model? What was her name? She wassohot.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Kasha. No, it’s… someone else.”
My friend Kasha was gorgeous. Six feet tall with deep brown skin and even darker eyes. We were two attractive people who looked even better together, and the media loved us. Both being chronically single meant we were each other’s default dates. And if we ended up in bed after, so what? We were adults. Kasha was the only person I spent more than one night with in… years.
“You get all the best pussy, man.” The driver laughed.
Repulsion nearly made me give a less than savory response, but I caught it, going for humor instead.Fucking media training. “I date women, not cats,” I said mildly as I slid into the awful rose-scented limo, slamming the door to end the conversation.
Some weird amalgam of anxiety and anticipation grew as we neared the address she gave the limo company, and I occupied myself on the short drive by plucking the largest roses from their arrangements to gather in a makeshift bouquet. I dropped it as one of the back tires bounced over a curb, and a grimace tensed my jaw as a heart-shaped balloon bopped me in the face. When I swatted it away, it floated lazily to the opposite side, trailing a curling pink ribbon.
As the car slowed to a stop, I peered out the window. The privacy tint on the car concealed me from view, so I took a beat to observe her while she was unaware of my attention. Her clothes weren’t the type you’d expect to see on a date; I assumed she’d come straight from work in her black fitted top and black pants rather than changing into a cocktail dress, which was what I would’ve expected. Although, given what little I knew of her, it fit her personality. Besides, I hadn’t bothered to dress up either.
Instead of opening the door, the driver stayed in his seat, so I got out to greet her, roses in hand.
The night we sort of met, I watched the clips of her reading while I waited outside the box office, not expecting her to be the one to show up with a winning ticket. So many expressions flickered across her face in such a short time, I wondered what she’d been reading. Maybe I’d ask her, see if I could bring back those flushed pink cheeks from the videos.
The woman’s gaze found me, a divot forming between her brows as her pale blue eyes zeroed in on the roses in my hand. I debated pulling on my signature cocky grin but opted for a realer, half-smile instead.
“You live here?” I glanced toward the nail salon and shoe store.Really nice, Ash, piss her off right out the door.
“Yeah, the scent of acrylates and lavender foot oil really gets me going.”
Damn, the sarcasm on this one.“It’s the old fried chicken oil for me.”
