Page 75 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
He reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “I get it. I do, I swear.”
We sit and stare at the park, looking for answers and finding none.
“Do you want to go?” I ask after a few minutes.
He shakes his head. “No. I want to stay.”
I know what he’s saying, and I want it too.
But that’s not in the cards. Still, I sit on the bench with him for a little longer before we leave with nothing decided, because this is one of those problems that doesn’t have a solution.
33
Fitz
Emma calls this the golden hour.
It’s not sunset. It’s a little before, when the light is perfect, and every photo has that perfect hazy glow.
Natch, I take plenty.
Dean’s stopped giving me a hard time, and I’ve stopped pretending they’re for Amelia.
They’re all for me.
As we drink our five o’clock beers, I hold up my phone. “Smile for the camera.”
“You mean for your wank bank, Fitz.”
“I call it the spank bank. You call it a wank bank. Whatever. Just get over here.”
My sexy Brit takes off his shades and gives me the best fuck me smolder ever. I snap that pic so fast.
“Damn,” I say, looking at his dark-brown eyes on the screen. “That’s my new favorite shot of you and me. I am going to be looking at this a lot.”
“Just not in the locker room, please.”
My brow knits. “Dude, this is my bedtime viewing. I’m not looking at this in the locker room, because then I’d have a boner in front of my teammates. That is not going to happen.”
Dean laughs. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
As I take another swallow of my beer, a tall guy runs by, earbuds in, exercise shorts on, Nikes pounding the pavement.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t work out today. Or yesterday,” I say, slumping in the chair. “Fuck.”
“And your training camp starts in a few days.”
“I can’t skip a workout.”
“It makes a difference? Every day?”
“This close to the season, yeah, it does. Cardio, at least.”
Dean reaches into his wallet, grabs some bills, tosses them on the table for the beers, then says, “Let’s go for a run.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. I try to work out every day too.”
“And it shows. But seriously, you want to run with me?”
“Are you worried I can’t keep up? Because I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. Also, I weigh about twenty-five pounds less than you, so I might have the advantage there,” he says, taunting me with a quick survey of my bulkier frame.
“Oh no, you didn’t just unleash your secret competitive side on me.”
He lifts a single brow. “Was it a secret?”
I laugh, clapping my guy on the back. “No, but the thing is, I don’t have my running shorts or sneakers, and I don’t want to go back to my hotel and get them.”
“Well, you won’t fit into my shorts,” Dean says.
I snap my fingers, aw-shucks-style. “Damn, I was hoping we could start borrowing clothes.”
“I have an idea though. What size shoes do you wear?”
I smirk. “Big ones.”
He laughs. “Yes. I can tell. Because you have big feet. Seriously though. What’s your shoe size?”
“Twelve. US size.”
“Same. I have a couple of pairs of running shoes. You can borrow some.” He nods toward the end of the block. “Athletic store. Let’s get you some shorts, and we’ll run.”
“You really want to spend our last afternoon together going for a run?”
“It’s what you’d do at home, right? That’s kind of what we’ve been doing today.”
“That is true.” Maybe that’s why I’ve loved it so much, because it feels like a normal day in our normal life where we do all the things we want to do—eat, fuck, walk, run, play, talk.
Everything I want.
The man did not lie. Dean keeps pace with me at a fast clip as we run through the park. Only difference is he wears a T-shirt. I do not.
“Do you always run shirtless?” he asks. “Or just when you leave your clothes behind at the hotel?”
“Does it bother you?” I ask. “Or just distract you?”
“Yes, it bothers me terribly to see you half-naked.” He roams his eyes up and down my frame as we cruise along the path. “Correction: mostly naked.”
“And still all the way distracting,” I toss out.
“Yes, exactly. I can’t focus at all, which is why I’m keeping up with your NHL arse.”
“Cocky,” I say. “And I like it.”
“Thought you would. Anyway, tell me more about how that ice-defender thing works,” he says as we round the next bend.
“You want to know?”
“I want to understand hockey better. I truly do.”
And I swoon.
Then I tell him all about my favorite thing.
Except he might be my favorite thing now.
The golden hour is over. Twilight falls, and we’re in his flat again. I’ve got a towel wrapped around my waist, and my hair is wet, slicked back from the post-run shower. Dean’s the same, towel across his hips, and I stare at his reflection next to mine in the bathroom mirror. He slicks on deodorant, and then I wiggle my fingers in an unsubtle request.
