Page 17 of Cherry Picking
“You said it, not me.”
He glances over at me, and there goes my stomach rolling over on itself because of the soft look he fixes me with.
“It started when I went on my first date with…” His breath catches, and he clears it, bringing his gaze back to the mirror. “I don’t know why I did it. But things went so well, we were so fucking happy that I… I kept up with it. Re-dyed it before any important game or event. It became my good luck charm. After Matty’s accident, I thought it’d make me feel better, more confident that he’d be okay, but…”
He shakes his head and turns to me. “I can’t shake it. Everyone has their superstitions, right?”
I nod, and even though I want to ask him a million questions, I keep my mouth shut. Anytime I’ve asked him about Matty, he clams up or gives me pleading stares like he wants to talk but can’t. So whenever he’s able to open up about the mystery roommate who came before me, I let him get it off his chest with no pressure to give me more.
“What’s yours?” he asks as we head out toward the elevators.
“Oh, nothing special,” I say. “Just go to the captain and give him a big ole’ sloppy good luck kiss.” I wink when I catch him staring, and though he shakes his head with laughter, I see the pink tinting his cheeks.
When the door closes behind us, we stand shoulder to shoulder with Riley a solid head taller than me. He nudges me, and that good-humored smile is so damn contagious.
“Warning. Cap might throw some tongue in there. Be prepared.”
I clasp a hand over my heart. “Oh no! A hot guy might tongue-fuck my mouth. What ever will I do?”
He snorts and drags a heavy hand through my hair. I think it’s supposed to be one of those quick, mess it up movements, but it feels more tender and lingers as he scratches his fingers over my scalp.
“You think he’s hot?”
“Hawks? Not my type, but yeah, he’s attractive as hell.”
“Hm.” He drops his hand away and stuffs them both in his pockets. “What’s your type then?”
I side-eye him, wondering if I’m being teased, but the curiosity in his eyes is unmistakable.
“Someone who can throw me around. Manhandle me a little.”
The intensity of his stare is almost too much, but we’re about to the lobby and I can escape the weight of my confession.
Until Riley leans over and presses the hold button, trapping us on the floor just above.
“Riles?”
I watch him take a deep breath and close his eyes. A few beats of silence, and then he’s right there, boxing me into the corner of the elevator.
“Damn you, Griff,” he whispers and cups my jaw in one of his large hands, pressing a ghost of a kiss to my parted lips. It’s there and gone before I can even take a breath, before the synapses in my brain register that Riley Easton just kissed me.
The elevator is moving and the doors are opening by the time I shake off the shock. I don’t know what to think about it. I’ve pictured kissing Riley any number of times over the last few months, but a secret peck on the lips before a game wasn’t exactly one of those scenarios.
Not that I’m complaining.
I don’t bring it up, but there are a few times on the bus and in the locker room that I catch him watching me with a satisfied, smug grin.
So, I make sure he gets a good eye-full of me placing a wet one on Hawks’ mouth just before we take the ice.
The heated look I get in return only oils my gears for the match.
Game on, Spitfires.
We kicked motherfucking ass. 4-0 because not a single player on that team could get one past me.
Hawks decides once everything is wrapped up and we’re free men that we’re going to taxi our way to Boston to some glow in the dark style club he heard about.
One day these guys will pick something normal for a celebration, but there’s booze and half naked men, so I’m down for some fun.
