Page 28 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, but he didn’t pull away.
“Most fun things are.” I tugged him toward the center of the living room. “Come on, Stone. Live a little.”
“Austin,” he said, surprising me.
“What?”
“My name is Austin. Stone is just a hockey nickname.”
Something about the correction felt significant, like he was offering a small piece of himself.
“Austin,” I repeated, testing it out. “Dance with me, Austin.”
A flash of heat darkened his eyes at the sound of his name on my lips. He let me pull him closer, his resistance visibly melting.
“I’m not very good at this,” he warned.
“Good thing I’m not either.” I laughed, starting to move to the music.
At first, he just stood there watching me, his body tense with self-consciousness. But as Mick Jagger sang about satisfaction, Austin began to loosen up, his shoulders relaxing, his feet shifting in rhythm.
“There you go!” I encouraged. “Let the music into those stiff hockey muscles!”
He rolled his eyes but moved a little more, and then—miracle of miracles—he spun me under his arm.
“Austin Callahan,” I gasped in mock shock. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“My mother made me take ballroom dancing lessons when I was fourteen,” he admitted. “Said it would help with agility on the ice.”
“Did it?”
“No idea. But it prevented me from looking like a complete idiot at team formal events.”
I laughed, delighted by this new information. “So you’re telling me Minnesota’s star defenseman can waltz? This feels like blackmail material.”
“Tell anyone and I’ll deny it,” he threatened, but his eyes were bright with amusement. “And then I’ll tell everyone about your victory dance.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, taking his hand and forcing him into an elaborate twirl that he executed with surprising grace. “Thank you for being my audience.”
“Wasn’t much of a choice,” he pointed out, pulling me slightly closer as the song changed to something slower. “You were pretty loud.”
“I’m always loud when I’m excited,” I said, then immediately blushed at the unintended innuendo.
Austin’s eyes darkened, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly on my waist. “I remember.”
I swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the thin t-shirt I was wearing and the heat of his palm against my side.
“Right,” I managed. “From our texts.”
“Unless there’s other evidence I’m unaware of,” he said, his voice dropping to that lower register that made my toes curl.
“Not yet,” I replied before I could stop myself.
His breath caught audibly, and for a moment I thought he might close the distance between us. But then the song ended, and he stepped back, clearing his throat.
“I should shower,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. “I’ve got a team meeting later.”
“Oh, right. Of course.” I nodded too enthusiastically, trying to ignore the disappointment coursing through me. “And I should call Angel to celebrate.”
