Page 27 of Punchline
“Mmhmm. It was just one of those things, and then one night I put them on while I was on my way to the sheet, and I broke my wrist that night. So… ” I half-shrugged. “What about you? Any superstitions?”
He studied me, and I thought he might tell me that was stupid. But then as he scraped some cheese off the side of the plate with a chip, he said, “No static stretches when I warm up, only dynamic. The movement sets me up for success.”
“Really?” I asked. “Does that… Does it work?”
“I’ve won almost every match I’ve ever had when I did dynamic stretching. I lost half of the ones where I just sat there and worked on one thing.”
“Huh. Okay, so we’re not the only ones with weird superstitions, then.”
“Nah.” He met my gaze and smiled, oblivious to how that short-circuited my brain. “I think it’s just an athlete thing.”
“Probably.”
We exchanged smiles, and then shifted our attention back down to the ice.
I was still a fluttery, twitchy, fidgety mess tonight, but… I liked it. Though I was still sure I was going to do or say something to make an ass of myself, I liked the way I felt whenever Jake and I locked eyes. I liked answering his questions about hockey and listening to him banter with Carson, Marek, and me.
I just… liked him. A lot.
And before the puck had even dropped, I was already hoping he’d want to do this again.
“I still don’t understand icing,” Jake said from the passenger seat of my car. “And I kind of get the feeling the refs don’t understand it either.”
I laughed. “I wonder about that sometimes too. Like there’s times when it’s so obviously icing, but there’s no whistle. And then the refs blow it dead for icing when it’s—ugh. It drives me nuts.”
“So it’s not just me. They really aren’t consistent about it.”
“No,” I grumbled. “And it’s fucking annoying.”
“I bet.” He paused. “I think I’m getting the rest of the game, though.”
I glanced at him and couldn’t help smiling. As I faced the line of taillights in front of us, I said, “You knew Ottawa wasn’t going to win that coach’s challenge.”
Another glance revealed him beaming a little, his eyes sparkling. Fuck me, he was such a tough guy on the mat—such a huge beast of a man who could break someone in half—but he also had this adorable dorky side that kept melting my stupid heart.
During one of the TV timeouts, when people were encouraged to dance in order to win ice cream for their row. Jake had dragged Carson to his feet, and those two haddanced. Marek and I had almost fallen out of our seats, laughing and egging them on. They’d even ended up on the Jumbotron, and they’d nearly won—the crowd had roared for them, but it had come down to Carson and Jake versus acouple of little girls in the nosebleed section. And I mean, little kids pretty much always won it, so nobody was surprised at the final outcome.
Marek and I had, of course, ordered ice cream to console them.
“Ooh, bougie ice cream!” Jake had exclaimed as a server handed him a giant, sprinkle-covered hot fudge sundae. “Fuck yeah!”
Like I said, adorable and dorky and?—
A car horn blared, and I swore as I realized I’d zoned out at the worst possible time. Nothing made people road rage like trying to leave a sporting event, and my dumb ass had left a gap on a left turn. I just managed to squeak through, as did the car behind me, and a middle finger flew. The people still sitting in the turn lane were probably putting hexes on me.
My face burned as I continued following traffic. “Uh. Whoops.”
Jake laughed softly. “Happens to the best of us.”
I flicked my gaze toward him, and I was met with a sweet smile that almost made me forget to drive again.
As I followed the road back toward his apartment, I asked, “So, did you enjoy the game?”
“Yeah. I did.” He paused. “I, um… I enjoyed the rest of it, too.”
“The rest of—what do you mean?”
“The, uh… ” He cleared his throat. “The part where we were there on… ”
