Page 6 of So This Is War
Either way, I’m here for it.
“Is this seat taken?” a deep voice asks, startling me away from staring at my friend.
I glance to my right and come face to face with a gorgeous set of greenish-gold eyes framed by dark bushy brows and nearly black lashes. I lean back ever so slightly as I take in the rest of his face.
Strong, carved jaw sprinkled with a coarse five o’clock shadow. Distinctive cheekbones that are not too pronounced but high enough to offer this man some heavenly bone structure. A thick head of soft brown hair with a singular curl that falls over his forehead. And a pair of lips just full enough to entice anyone to beg for a make out session.
He . . . is . . . hot.
And I know how hot because I’ve stared at this face many times while visiting my dad in his office at the Agitators arena. This face has been in my fantasies a time or two.
It’s none other than Levi Posey, the star defenseman for my dad’s hockey team.
And because I’ve had some pretty naughty thoughts about this man, there is no reason I should be denying him the seat next to me.
None at all.
I cross one leg over the other, wishing I hadn’t gone with pants tonight but rather a mini skirt that would show off the definition in my legs from all those nights I’ve spent on a Pilates reformer. “That seat is all yours,” I say before lifting my glass to my lips and taking a soft sip while keeping my eyes on him.
He glances down at my drink, then back up to my eyes. “Dirty martini?” he asks.
“Good guess,” I reply, keeping it casual.
He gains the bartender’s attention with a concise flick of his hand. “Your finest water.”
Of course he orders a water. He might be one of the toughest players on the ice with a terrifying right hook that has knocked out quite a few opponents, and he might also be known as the biggest player on the team, but he’s also a rule follower. Therefore, as it’s the night before a game . . . he’s not drinking.
“Water, huh?” I ask, not wanting to give away that I recognize him. “Really living on the edge.”
“I am,” he says. “Severely dehydrated. If the clock strikes twelve without me replenishing my body’s fluids, I very well might turn into dust.”
“Sounds like a Cinderella knockoff story to me,” I reply.
“But instead of a glass slipper falling off, it’s a jockstrap that no one can fit in besides me.” He says that with such pride beaming from ear to ear, I nearly crack a smile, but I hold strong. Can’t give away my excitement over sitting next to him just yet.
“Jockstrap?” I ask. “That’s an interesting item to choose over something like . . . I don’t know, a dress shoe.”
“That’s because I wear jockstraps,” he says.
“For fun?” I ask, feigning confusion.
His brow draws together.
Oh dear me, is the famous hockey player not used to people not recognizing him?
Hilarious.
“No, not for fun,” he says. “I play hockey.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I reply. “In like a middle-aged men’s league?”
“Middle-aged?” he nearly shouts as his water is set in front of him. He doesn’t even bother looking at it as he stares me down with vicious eyes. “Thirty-one is nowhere near middle-aged, thank you very much. And I play professionally.”
I’ve always heard about Levi Posey being the funniest, the most sensitive, almost like the golden retriever everyone wants in a man, but with a reputation for sleeping around and standing up for his teammates out on the ice. From the minute of conversation we’ve had, every aspect of that reputation is true.
“Oh, that’s cool. Professional hockey, is that usually your pickup line? That you play professional hockey? Bet you look for women to line up at your feet when you mention that.”
“No,” he says with a slight lift of his chin while he reaches for his water. “I have a different pickup line.”
