Page 4 of Enticing the Enforcer
Because what the hell am I even doing?
Meeting a fan?
Definitely.
Meeting a hot, six-foot-five hockey player who wants to carve a notch in his bedpost? Who wants to tell his friends and teammates he hooked up with Ingrid Flockton?
Probably.
I looked him up. There’s no way he doesn’t know everything about me, so I should know something about him, right? From the sports blog I found, Jefferson Parks’ is an ‘enforcer,’ whatever that means, and stats include:
Height:6'5"
Weight:230 lbs
Shoots:Right
Year:Senior
Team:Wittmore University Badgers
Position:Right Wing / Enforcer
Post College Commitment: The Surge: Jacksonville, Florida
The photo gallery gave more insight. His hair is sandy blond, the lines of his face chiseled, except for the crooked slant in his nose. His lips are way too soft looking for a man. Solid fuck-boy features. A man who knows what he wants.
Which would track. He did leave the note on his locker. Not through a friendly security guard, or an attempt to get to Madison. Not with an ask for a selfie or a shoutout, or a ticket upgrade. Just a scrawled line on folded paper, like we were in high school. It was cocky. Sweet. Weirdly sincere.
It was a huge swing and, yeah, I’m the kind of girl that likes a man who takes initiative. I spend every moment of every day making decisions and being the boss. Beyond that, it made me feel seen.
Which is ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous.
I’mIngrid Flockton. I’ve sold out stadiums. I’ve lost my voice from singing under purple spotlights. I’ve bared my soul publicly, one line at a time. I’ve dated a guy whose face is on the cover ofRolling Stoneand still somehow managed to feel lonelier next to him than I do tonight, anonymous and hidden in my best friend’s hoodie.
Jake always said I needed someone to “tone me down.” As if I was too much. Too loud. Too pink. Too passionate. I wroteThirteen Steps to Disappearafter we broke up. He thinks it’s about addiction. My therapist thinks it’s about grief.
It’s actually about me and how easy it is to lose yourself one step at a time. Allowing others to erase you. Control you, which is probably why I just want one night thatisn’ta headline.
I stop at the edge of the alley that curves toward the bar. There’s a cluster of students out front, someone laughing too loud. My stomach flips. Maybe I should go back. Maybe I’vealready pushed this too far. I could just say I got lost. Say I needed a walk. Say–
“Hey.”
I spin, heart in my throat, but it’s him.
Jefferson Parks.
He’s even taller in person, taller than me, and let me tell you, that’s as rare as it is a fucking turn on. He’s all shoulders and messy hair and a dimple that ruins me on sight. His hoodie is half unzipped. In one hand, he’s holding a brown paper bag that smells like salt and grease and something deeply unfair.
“I figured you might chicken out,” he says, shrugging as if not a big deal. As if I’m not a sideshow freak in a traveling circus.
I blink. “I was about to.”
He shrugs. “Good thing I intercepted.”
Then he lifts the bag.
“Jefferson Parks Special. Double cheeseburger. Bacon, avocado with crunchy fried onions on top. Fries. No paparazzi. You want to hang out somewhere not swarming with people?”
