Page 19 of He Has Pluck

Jason catches his wrist and rips the hat from his hand with those crazy fast reflexes of his, but the hat’s off his head either way. I’ll say one thing about pro athletes, if he’s any example, they do have impressive reflexes. Before my mind can wander to what that might imply in the bedroom, beer-spill-guy splits a grin as he stares at Jason.

“You’re him. Damn. You scored a goal tonight—what’s his name?” He elbows the guy next to him, who turns and looks at the now hatless Jason, who finger combs his hair and tries to smile back at the pair.

“Jason Tansem,” the guy says at the same time Jason says his name, and the two men laugh like little boys.

Jason leans into me. “Maybe it’s time to finish your drink so we can go.”

I pick up my untouched Glenlivet and take a swallow, but I’m too fascinated to witness the fan-meets-hockey-star scenario to move.

“That was some goal, man.” He puts his hand up for a high five, and Jason obliges, mumbling thanks. “Sorry about the beer incident. I should be the one buying you a beer.” The man pivots to the bartender with a frantic wave.

“That’s okay. Maybe another time,” Jason says. “We were just about to leave.”

I’m about to argue the point, but the guy’s buddies join in the fun, and then other patrons turn in our direction, and I can see this thing getting tedious fast. I meet Jason’s eyes, and looking past the glint of lust clearly visible there, I see the shadow of exhaustion. I may not respect his choice of career, but he’s a decent guy, and in an unprecedented move, I take mercy.

“Time for us to get out of here,” I say as I stand and take him by the arm as if we’re together. It doesn’t stop people from slapping him on the back and congratulating him on the great game as we make it to the door, but we get outside without him having to give out an autograph, thank god, because my tolerance for that behavior is zero.

The chill air is welcome as it hits us, and his arm goes around me automatically. My first instinct is to pull away, but it’s superseded by a stronger, more elemental instinct, the kind embedded far too deep in my ancient brain, the part formed and passed down, still surviving after eons because it’s so basic and necessary. What my base instinct commands me to do is lean in until my body hums like a cat with the pleasure of his warmth, with his masculine scent otherwise undefinable except as him. Whatever he has, call it chemistry, hormones, pheromones or whatever label you want, it swirls and permeates and overwhelms me, layering my consciousness with pleasure and comfort and raw need.

I may be aware of the effect he’s having on me physically, but it doesn’t minimize the impact. Awareness doesn’t make it easier or even possible at this moment to overcome the power he has over my body. In fact, he has me questioning why I would want to.

“Where are we going?” he asks as we walk back toward the Garden.

“My place.” I push him to the left at the corner. “I’m in an Airbnb in Beacon Hill. Not far. I walked here.”

He stops at the corner and swings me around to face him, one arm still around me, forming an intimate little circle. I gaze up at him, and his eyes aren’t fooling around.

“Why?” he asks.

“I’m not finished with you,” I say, trying to maintain my distance, pushing back at that deep needy part of me.

We walk in silence, and I can’t guess what he’s thinking. Or maybe I can. He’s hoping to get laid; maybe he’s certain he will. Me? What am I thinking? Maybe he’s right. Or maybe I can find another way to scratch that itch because I can’t afford to blow up the professional distance completely. I need to hold back something.

We get to the townhouse where I’m staying, and he blows a whistle.

“Relax. I can’t take credit for the digs. Can I get you a beer? A real one?”

He follows me to the kitchen, and I break into the stash of beer I stocked for my friend Carlos Hermetta. He threatened to crash here any day and promised to be second camera on the project if I needed it.

Jason takes the bottle and twists off the cap, heating me up with the sheer hungry focus of those eyes watching me.

“You going to join me?” he says instead of thanks. I grab the bottle off the counter, a staple from my luggage, a traveling companion I never truly question or examine because I don’t want to know how or why. Moving to the cabinet for a shot glass, he follows me, leans into me against the counter and puts his bottle down after a quick swig.

“You like your whiskey. Any reason I should know about?”

“You don’t need to know anything about me.”

“I need to know why you hate me and want me anyway. I need to know what you expect from me in this damn documentary, and I need—”

“Too bad I don’t need to give you any of those things.” Bypassing the glass, I bring the bottle to my lips and take a short gulp, half expecting him to stop me.

He doesn’t. He watches, and damn if he judges me with his eyes.

I put the bottle down and push him back. “Fuck you.”

A smile, subtle, like he has a secret, except I know what it is, transforms his face, making the jerk more confident than ever.

“I’m not judging. How can I? I’m no angel, or I wouldn’t be here letting myself get distracted.”