Page 43 of Playing Dirty
"Alright, enough about me." He leans across the table, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my pulse skip. "Now I get to find out all the things about you that I've been dying to know."
A flush of heat crawls up my neck, and the rest of the restaurant simply ceases to exist.
11
Cillian
The rink is a blur of movement, and usually the second the puck hits the ice, the rest of the world vanishes into the noise. But it's game one of the playoffs, the Vegas team again, and tonight I can't quite shake the awareness that Margot is sitting somewhere in the stands.
She's back with the rest of the Solstice crew and looking like she's actually starting to enjoy the chaos. To top it off, I'm finally finding my rhythm again. Maybe the tide is turning, or maybe I'm just desperate enough to impress her that I've stopped second-guessing every move.
Our "work date" was four nights ago, and it felt entirely too real. I'd walked her to her front step and nearly lost the fight with my own self-control to keep from kissing her right then and there.
I'd half-considered throwing caution to the wind and making a proper go of it, but she retreats behind those walls of hers so fast that just when I'm convinced we're finally on thesame page, I realize I haven't the slightest clue where her boundaries sit anymore.
I push off the boards, cold air hitting my face as I scan the ice. Anderson is out here tonight, and the sight of his smug face is already grating on my last nerve. I tighten my grip on my stick.
Jonesy wins the next face-off and sends the puck back to me. I carry it up the ice, head up, the game opening in front of me the way it hasn't in weeks. Betts breaks toward the net and I slide him a pass across the middle. He fires, the goalie blocks it, and the rebound bounces free, landing right on my stick like a gift. I fire it into the top corner of the net before their defense can even react.
The crowd erupts. Jonesy crashes into me from behind with the force of a small truck, and I clap his helmet on my way past the bench.
"There he fucking is," he yells into my ear. "Welcome back."
We swing past the bench for a line of glove taps, and then Coach sends the next line over the boards and I drop onto the bench. The high of the goal is still buzzing under my skin and I can't help it, I glance up toward the section where Margot is sitting.
The Solstice group is mostly gone. Half their seats are empty, drinks abandoned in the cup holders. The intermission isn't for another few minutes, but it looks like the whole group emptied out at once for the bathroom or the bar.
Margot is the only one still in her seat.
And the four men in the row behind her have moved in.
They're rowdy, all in Vegas colors, and clearly drunk. One of them is practically pressed up against her shoulder, leaning over the seatback to yell something at the ice. She's pulled in on herself, hands tucked in her lap, knees angled away from him.
Anger flares up in my chest.
"O'Rourke!" Jonesy snaps, smacking my shin with the butt of his stick. "Eyes up. You're back on in thirty seconds."
I drag my focus back to the game. Anderson is stirring up trouble behind his own net, shoving and hacking at anyone within reach, and the ref's arm is already up. He's earned himself a penalty, which means we'll be up a man.
I glance back at the stands. The guy behind Margot has now leaned all the way down to talk into her ear. She's leaning away from him as far as the seat will let her, mouth moving in what looks like a politeplease stop.
A woman two rows up has half-turned, frowning at them, and a man across the aisle is shouting something at them now too. The drunks just laugh and tell him to fuck off. The ushers I can spot are stationed at the tunnel mouths, a full section away, and one of them is on his radio.
Fucking hell. Leave her alone.
The whistle blows. The penalty is called, and I'm back over the boards with the advantage on our side. The puck drops and we go to work, quick crisp passes, the kind of clean movement we've been drilling for two months and never finding in games.
Jonesy slides the puck to me, I send it back to Betts, and when Betts fires his shot toward the net, I get my stick on it and redirect it past the goalie.
The arena explodes. Two goals before the first intermission. Coach is yelling something I can't hear over the roar. Jonesy is climbing me like a small dog and I shake him off, laughing, and look up.
My laugh dies in my throat.
The four of them are on their feet jeering the goal, and one of the men lurches forward, his beer sloshing over the rim and splashing down Margot's shoulder.
Margot is on her feet now, hands lifted between herself and the four of them. She's speaking. The one nearest her sketches a theatrical bow of apology that has his friends doubling over,and then his hand connects with her ass in a slap I'd swear I can hear from the ice.
She flinches away, the color draining from her face as she tries to push past them to the aisle.
