Page 3 of What We Knew Then
Yeah right.
What am I doing? How is it that Freddy is here—in my brain, not at the bar—stealing more energy from me, when he’s taken enough?
“Any girlfriend missing you back home?” I ask, eager to get more information and yank my brain from this spiral—it’s the distraction I desperately need to stop thinking about my ex.
“No. Definitely not.” Lane offers me a one-sided smirk, the scarred side of his lip pulling up, and I could melt into the floor.
I didn’t expect him to be charming. Everything I’ve heard about Lane describes a guy who couldn’t care less about anything besides his own stat line, with questionable judgement and a hell of a slapshot. Or, that’s how it’s been after the incident that ended his time in Ohio.
His hair is floppy and a chestnut brown, the perfect comparison to the color of his eyes. He’s sun-kissed, like he spent the summer outside. I swear there are a few freckles smattering the bridge of his nose, which is slightly crooked in a way you’d expect from a hockey player.
Someone walks in front of the table, wearing a Great Lakes U Otter shirt, and Lane can do nothing but read it and shake his head.
“GLU hockey is otter this world? Are you fucking with me?” He puts both hands flat on the table.
I can’t help but laugh—this man will never get away from the puns. Every hockey season, there’s a new shirt with a fresh slogan. The other sports kind of let hockey have this one thing, as in they don’t try to recreate it for their sport. But, that’s the thing about GLU—hockey is the biggest thing.
“I’m not fucking with you. But come on, the otter is cute, right?”
“Sure.” He rolls his eyes and his voice falls flat. “The otteriscute, I'll give you that.” He drinks the rest of his beer.
I nod to the hallway. “Let me show you something.”
I stand, and when I'm confident he’s going to follow me, I walk us to the hallway. My hips swish side to side, and I can practically feel his eyes on me. I don’t say anything, but stop and turn toward him, wanting to see his reaction.
His mouth hangs as his hand rubs his chin. Lane takes in the wall, says absolutely nothing, then rubs his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh.
“What the hell am I looking at?”
I smile, taking in all six feet of him. “This,” I gesture to the wall, “is a campus staple. People bring in otter stickers from all over and stick them here.”
“But why?”
“Why not?” I retort, shrugging my shoulders before stepping closer to him. “School spirit? School pride? Sticker obsessions?”
The first time I saw this wall at the bar—thousands of otter stickers on a wall painted like a beach, really leaning into the shore theme—it made me smile. It felt like an inside joke.
“There was nothing like this back home in Ohio,” Lane shares, taking in the sight. I can’t tell if he’s about to smile or leave.
I'm quickly reminded it’s not just the two of us when someone bumps into me from behind and it catches me off guard. Even in my sneakers, I stumble forward until strong hands stop me. Lane holds me, his fingers clutching my elbows and upper arms.
Whoever bumped into me apologizes to both of us, and seems like they can’t get away from Lane fast enough, even though his eyes are focused on me.
My back lightly touches the wall as he turns us. The air is hard to hold on to—we’re close enough that my chest presses against his when I inhale. Being this close makes me feel like I can’t breathe.
I look from his eyes to that scar on his lip, and back again until I almost fall into him. His eyes, like melted chocolate, send shivers down my body. I bite my lip, pushing it through my teeth as I try to make sense of the man in front of me whose hands still grip me. It’s like an itch finally being scratched and I don’t want him to let go.
I can’t place the way he looks at me. It’s nothing I've ever felt before. It’s almost as if he’s taking in every detail, every piece of me. He looks at me like he’s in awe; it’s overwhelming in the sense that I want to lean in closer, even though we’re inches away.
Lane takes a breath, as if he’s going to say something. Instead, his mouth crashes into mine. Even though I felt it coming—or maybe I was just hoping it would—the ground shifts, as if the wall I'm leaning on is giving way, and the floor tilts. His lips, warm and firm, fit perfectly against mine and my stomach flips. My arms loop around his neck, pulling him down to me as he swipes his tongue across the seam of my lips.
His hands roam down my body, touching my ribs before sliding down further. There are practically sparks coming from the edge of his fingertips—but I want more. Need more. When he reaches where my tank top meets bare skin, he slows, but drags his fingers down to my hips and ass.
He puts one hand in my back pocket and the other across my lower back, his fingers digging into my hip on the other side. I feel like I could pass out—he’s everywhere. Lane kisses me like he has something to prove, and whatever it is, I’m buying it.
This is the type of first kiss I’ve dreamed of; it’s easy, effortless, and could set me on fire. I push my hips into his and he groans into my mouth. I almost crumble at the sound, the vibration of him pressing into me, and I feel my weight press into his arms as my knees start to give.
Our tongues touch and sweep, and I bite his lower lip. As we trade breaths, I can feel him smirking under our kiss. My hands are in his hair, scratching down the back of his neck.
