Page 8 of Cherry Picking
I’ve got our sandwiches ordered and am standing off to the side trying to ignore the urge to stomp over to the whispering hags and give them a full piece of my mind when someone far too close clears their throat.
My hands are clenched in the pockets of my unzipped jacket, but I look up with as little animosity as I can muster—though that includes a smile that looks more like a snarl.
Riley is standing there with his copper hair tousled from the wind, a pair of round, metal frames sitting on his button nose, with his bare, muscled arms crossed over his chest. There’s the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips, so I mimic his pose and shoot him a glare.
“Problem, Easton?”
His smile blooms fully now, and he shakes his head. “You always think that.”
“You’re always looking at me like I’m some thought provoking mystery.”
He shrugs his shoulders and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Maybe you are. You’re my new goalie. I’ve got a lot to learn about you.”
Since getting the boot off, his ice time has been limited. He claims that he spent the last couple of weeks watching how Iplay, but it’s yet to be seen whether all that intense focus did him any good.
Besides, my dirty mind likes to think there are other reasons he was so insistent to keep his eyes on me.
Hey, a gay man can dream.
A finger presses between my scrunched brows, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I knock it away with a deeper frown.
“Why are you here, anyway?” I grumble.
“Honestly? I saw you looking like you wanted to throw down with someone and figured if you were going to throw a punch it’d be better if it were at me.”
That’s not the kind of throwing down I’d like to do with this man.
“I’m not going to hit anyone,” I say, lifting up my red and yellow hornets cap and dragging a hand through my messy, chestnut hair. “Some people are just assholes.”
That smile makes my stomach do a somersault, and it isn’t fair that he gets to be this attractive and not be even remotely interested in me.
“Kill ‘em with kindness?”
I scoff. “Easy for you to say. Have you seen you?” I sweep a hand in his direction. “You’re intimidating.” I repeat the motion at myself. “I look like a college frat boy.”
Listen, I’m not lacking in the muscle department, but I’m not bulky. You can’t see the veins flex in my arms when I work out, not like Riley, and it is annoyingly, ridiculously hot.
His eyes break from mine to scan down my body, and I swear to whatever god exists that when they travel back up there’s a spark of heat in them—a cavern of it even.
“You’re the hot head of the PHL. I’m just one of hundreds who couldn’t cut it in the NAPH. I promise, no one goes into a game with the Hornets and worries about me.”
“That’s because they’re dumbasses,” I bark, and his brows shoot up. “You’re a fucking powerhouse, and everyone on this team knows it.”
This man has the audacity to look surprised. As if Hawks didn’t advocate for him on the starting line up even when he was out of commission.
“And you’re practically a brick wall in front of that net. Don’t sell yourself short.”
I roll my eyes, because otherwise I’m going to do something stupid like grab the front of his damp-looking tank top and smash our mouths together.
Not a kiss but an‘Oh my god, stop making me want to jump your bones’.
Someone behind the counter calls my name, and I grab mine and Locke’s sandwiches without a word, getting an aggressive side eye from the ladies still occupying the booth by the counter.
I expect that to be the end of mine and Riley’s interaction, but as I step out to the sidewalk, he follows along.
“Nothing better to do than to stalk your teammate?”
He shrugs and lets out a deep chuckle. “Not really. My family is in Colorado. So my days off are usually pretty chill.”
