Page 11 of Square to the Puck

We lose the first two games of the season, and it’s particularly frustrating because we played well in both. Actually, we played great, which somehow makes the losses worse. I sigh, trying to keep my expression benign for the camera in front of me. I was pulled for post-game interviews, so I’m seated half-undressed in front of my stall, wishing for a hot meal and a hotter shower.

“What do you think you’ll have to do to pull off a win next game?”

Score more goals. “We’ve got a lot of fresh talent this season, so we’re going to keep working hard at practice and figuring out how to apply that to games.”

The reporter nods as though this wasn’t a non-answer. I wade through a few more inane questions, rolling out a few of my stock replies; when coach signals to me that I’m done. I stand, gratefully. The scrum moves off to talk to Lawson, a favorite among the media and the fans, and I turn my back to the room and keep stripping off my gear.

I feel, more than see, a presence to my side, and I glance over to see Nigel standing with a towel clutched around his waist.Oh boy, I jerk my head up, making sure I’m staring at his face and not his chest. But when I duck my head and bend over to untie my laces, my eyes track over to him unbidden. There is a line of dark hair leading down his abdomen, and the sight of it makes my mouth water. I bite my lip and turn away; the locker room is full of people, some of whom have cameras, and now is not the time to be ogling him.

“You going out tonight?” He asks, and adjusts the towel, drawing my attention back to where it’s slung low across his hips.

Five…four…three…two…one.

Straightening, I look him in the eye, probably a little aggressively, but really—what gives him the right to stand there and look like that? “No, I think I’m just going to go home.”

Some of the guys like to commiserate together after a loss, try to shake it off before heading home to their families. I don’t usually join unless it’s been a while since I’ve gone out with the team, and I just don’t have the spirit for it tonight. Even Troy, with his bottomless well of energy, is looking exhausted; I watch him over Nigel’s shoulder and he nods at me as he walks to the showers, understandably in a hurry to head home to Sam.

“Are you going to go?”

Nigel shakes his head, dark eyes steady on mine. He inhales like he’s gearing up to speak, and moves a small step forward. I stiffen, worried he’s going to touch me. He wouldn’t, right? Not in front of all these people. He pitches his voice low, talking low into the space between us. “I was wondering if, maybe…would you like some company? I could pick something up.”

“Oh.” I stare at him, wondering what he means. I’m pretty surewould you like some companyis a euphemism for sex, but it’s hardly something I can ask for clarification on in the middle of the locker room. Nerves tingle in my stomach. I just told him I was going home, so I can’t change my story now. “Uhm, yeah, we could…”

We could what?And since when is it this fucking hot in here?

“Just dinner.” Nigel murmurs, accent dancing over the vowels and making the words sound sexier than they have any right to be.

“Oh.” I say again, embarrassed by how relieved this makes me. “Yeah, that’s fine. You don’t have to bring food though, I have some leftovers I can heat up. Like I said, I always make extra.”

He smiles. “Okay. See you in about an hour?”

I nod, glancing around the room as he walks away. Nobody is paying us any attention, and even if they were, Lawson and Troy spend a great deal of time at my place. There’s no reason for anyone to get suspicious about Nigel doing the same.Calm down, I tell myself, firmly, and finish stripping. When I step into the showers there is a steady five second timer ticking down in my mind, and I choose the stall furthest away from Nigel’s familiar form.

???

I’m still nervous an hour later when there’s a soft knock at my door. I’m also embarrassed about being nervous, which leaves me feeling vaguely sick, stomach churning with anxiety.You’re twenty-four years old, fucking pull yourself together.

I hold the door open for Nigel, watching as he steps inside and leaves his shoes by the door. There’s a hole in the toe of his dress socks. He’s still in his gameday suit, or at least half of it, shirt buttons undone to reveal a line of clavicle and cuffs rolled up his forearms. By comparison, I look like a slob, having thrown on a pair of grey sweatpants and a shirt so faded with washing you can no longer see the logo on it. He smiles when he looks at me, though, eyes traveling a long line from my toes to the top of my head. It’s not even that sexually blatant of a once-over, but my body still floods with heat, burning away some of the nerves.

“I brought a change of clothes. Would you mind if I used your bathroom? I’m not much of a suit guy.” He plucks at the front of the dress shirt.

I beg to differ. “There’s a guest bedroom upstairs, you can use that.”

I show him the way and head back downstairs, giving him some privacy even though what I really want to do is sit on the edge of the bed and watch him change. Heading over to the refrigerator, I grab a low-sugar Ginger Ale, hoping it will settle my stomach. The timer on the oven is counting down, and there isn’t anything left to do to keep my hands occupied.Nigel St. James is naked in your house.

I jump when I hear the door close upstairs, wound tight with nervous energy. When Nigel walks into the kitchen his hair is slightly mussed from pulling the collar of his shirt over his head, and there is a bare strip of ankle showing above his sock where he didn’t pull the leg of his joggers all the way down. He clears his throat and I tear my eyes away, ashamed that he caught me staring.At his ankle, no less, like some Victorian era creep.

He slides onto one of the barstools, elbows leaned on the island and smiles at me softly. “Thanks for letting me come for dinner. I hate being alone after a game like that.”

“Me, too.” Truthfully, I’m not a fan of being alone any time, but I probably don’t need to give him any more reasons to pity me. “Do you like chicken parmesan?”

“Do you always ask stupid questions?”

I nearly smile at that, the response reminding me of Lawson’s gentle ribbing. I take a sip of Ginger Ale, remembering that I still haven’t offered him anything. “You can help yourself to whatever. I don’t drink, so there isn’t any alcohol, but I could keep some here if…”

I let the tail end of that hang awkwardly between us, stomach rolling with another bout of nausea. I’ve never tripped over my words so much as I do when I’m around Nigel, my tongue eager to say things that my brain would never condone.

“I’ll just have whatever you’re having.” He tells me, getting up to grab it himself before I can do it for him. He doesn’t go back to his seat, though, but remains standing next to me, leaned against the counter. “And just to put it out there, I’d like to spend more time with you outside of work. So, I’ll be here as much or as little as you want me to be.”

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