Page 43 of Tricky Puck
I slam down my cup of coffee and pull every muscle in my face into the most intense wince I’ve ever experienced because that coffee only gets worse as it gets cold.
Standing, I can’t take it anymore and even though I should be grateful for him loaning me this cabin because he didn’t have to, I’m going to call him out on the fake generosity of his gesture. It was meant more as a punishment than a gift. That dirt bag.
Glaring at the fireplace with an ugly metal contraption marring what should be its hearth, I pull my phone from my jeans pocket and stab the devil icon—though I should have deleted the incorrigible idiot altogether after he had the audacity to ask me out after firing me, claiming it was for the best that I didn’t work for him because now we can date. Not. Even. Tempted.
I’d never given him the least indication that I was interested. We had the normal friendly workplace banter relationship, the kind you have when you work in a bar. His phone rings several times and then goes to voicemail. I take the opportunity to leave a message letting him know what I think of his unwinterized cabin in the woods that he offered to me for the winter.
That night, bundled up in bed with three blankets, I watch the Whalers play their away game against Montreal. Or rather I listen and catch the highlights while I read my Daniel Silva thriller. After the game ends, I smile as I give into my impulse to call Link to leave him a congratulations message because he scored a goal and I know that’s a good thing even if I know nothing else.
I’m surprised when he answers the phone after two rings.
“How do you like living in the middle of nowhere in a rustic cabin?” He doesn’t sound surprised to hear from me and the congratulations I meant to say flies out of my head.
“What do you know about rustic cabins, city boy?”
“Enough to bet you missed my heat producing qualities last night.”
I laugh. “It so happens that I like it here,” I half lie, sucked back into our never-ending sparring competition. Then scramble my brain to come up with something that I like about this place. “The quiet is refreshing and there’s a deck out back overlooking a dark moody lake that speaks to my Irish soul and all those pine trees smell heavenly. I can even see the stars between all the trees. At the right angle, I can actually see the fucking milky way and all this time I thought it was a stupid name for a candy bar.”
“Shit, Delaney. I bet you could write a song about it. Either a love song or a limerick. Not sure which way you’re leaning.”
I laugh because I can’t help myself and I wish he bored me, wish I could keep my distance and not want so desperately to play his game without caring if I win or lose.
“So are you coming to my game Saturday night?”
“Is that an official date you’re asking me on?”
“It could be. It should be a date. We need to make it seem that way to the world at large and most importantly, to our grandmothers. My grandma watches my games faithfully on the hockey network. We’ll have to make a point to show her a PDA on camera.”
“Or we could take a selfie and send it to her.”
He laughs. “You overestimate my grandmother’s adoption of new technology. She still answers the rotary phone on the wall in her kitchen and cameras are still big boxes with giant flash bulbs attached.”
“Right. I suppose all grannies can’t be as cool as mine.”
“Those are fighting words.”
The low rumble of his voice generates a zip of energy that shoots through my veins like super caffeine and quicker than any cup of coffee I ever drank. “I’m game.” I inwardly groan at the extra excitement in my voice. Shit. Why can’t I stop sounding so eager?
Because you are so eager that you’re out of control, my betrayed brain answers me with disgust.
“Then you’ll be at the game wearing my jersey.” His voice sounds just short of smug. I’m getting used to his brand of confidence, close enough to smug to inspire me to play hard-to-get because I don’t want to be so familiar with him, shouldn’t be.
“I’m not sure, Milano. My car isn’t in the best of shape and I don’t want to push the mileage with too many trips back and forth—”
“I’ll come and pick you up.”
“Right.”
“Seriously.”
He sounds serious and my butterfly colony comes to life in my chest. “That’s insane. That’s a six hour round trip. Don’t you have—”
“I can make it and get back in time to be early for my game. We have that morning off.”
I don’t know what to say because sheer giddiness chokes me up. His over-the-top willingness to come after me, to go so far out of his way, literally, to have me there for his game, whips up a swirl of warm pleasure inside me, shutting everything down except those butterflies, forcing me to appreciate the moment. Until my not-dead-yet brain reminds me this is all for show.
His knight-in-shining-armor act is for his grandma, not for me.
