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Whatever. Doesn’t matter. We take a cab to her place about five miles from the bar. I waste no time when I bring her lips to mine once we’re inside her apartment. I just want to get this over with.
When her lips touch mine, they’re hesitant and unsure. Maybe she’s scared or doesn’t know what to make of the fact that the Chicago Blackhawks center is kissing her. Or that I’m now taking her clothes off.
I unbuckle my belt and then my jeans, pushing them down just enough to free myself. Smiling at her, I glide my hand from base to tip twice. There’s part of me that’s teasing her to see what she’ll do. If she’s serious. And there’s also a part of me that wants her to beg for it a little. You can’t blame me on that one. Or maybe you can.
“You’re so sexy, Leo.”
I should tell her she is too, but I don’t. Because she’s not the one my mind is on. I’m still thinking of the one who holds my attention when no one else can.
My hands move to the girl’s ass while both her legs curl around my waist, her heels pressing against my bare ass.
I can’t tell you how the next few minutes play out. I do put on a condom, but I distinctly remember when I enter her, I hope to see someone different, feel something different—rid my mind of Callie.
I could have gone up to her at the bar and demanded she talk to me, begged her to talk to me, anything. But I didn’t. I ignored her because she brought another guy to the game. Childish of me. Stupid.
I kiss the chick underneath me deeply, trying to free my mind, sliding in and out of her, trying to forget what’s really bothering me. Only it does nothing but fuck me up even more.
Are you mad at me?
Sorry to disappoint you, but this probably won’t be the last time.
CHAPTER7
PUCK SHY
CALLIE
When a player or goalie shies away from the puck.
Well,I fucked this situation up, haven’t I?
It’s my fault. He left, and I only have myself to blame. I knew exactly what Leo would think when I showed up to the game with Scott.
First of all, it wasn’t a date. I’m not, and never will, be dating Scott. He’s a district manager for Nordstrom’s and wanted to see a hockey game. Only shitty timing on Scott’s part for choosing to go to a game after I’d been avoiding Leo for a week.
I knew exactly what Leo must have thought seeing me with Scott. So I understood when he went up to that chick and started talking to her.
What I don’t understand is why he left with her?
Why did you show up with Scott?
Mother fuck, this is a mess.
I’ve been up all night going over this same conversation, begging myself not to call him. Believe it or not, for the last three years, Leo’s been my best friend. One I occasionally sleep with. So why I’ve been avoiding him is even more bizarre. Sadly, I don’t entirely know why. Fear maybe?
Because I love him, and I fear he’s incapable of handling that kind of emotion. He had a rough upbringing, and whether he wants to admit it, love scares the shit out of him. Commitment, relationships, he doesn’t know how to handle them. Friendship he can do, and he thinks he wants more, but his brain doesn’t work like that. He just can’t see it yet.
I roll over in bed, reveling in the fact that I don’t have to work today. I love Saturdays for this very reason. The early morning light shines through the small window in my bedroom. Light purple walls reflect the sun, dimming it enough that I don’t have to squint, given my high intake of alcohol last night. After Leo left, I drank. A lot. Enough that I had to take an Uber home and leave my car with Remy.
Pulling my blanket up over my shoulders, I try to keep warm as I stare at my cell phone on my nightstand.
My gut twists as I contemplate looking at my messages, but then my heart starts to race, and I don’t. I’ve been avoiding those damn messages for the last week. I don’t have the courage to read them. And I know there are at least thirty or so. I want to look at them, but I don’t want the disappointment and the anger to consume me.
Why am I avoiding him? Well, there’s the part about me loving my best friend, and he’s still the same guy. The Chicago Blackhawks player who has a different girl every night. I imagine he had at least one in Florida too. Just the thought makes my stomach twist again.
And who am I to him besides a piece of ass with no strings attached? He asked me to date him once, but he wasn’t serious. Leo never is.
Like it or not, I’m Callie Pratt. The Chicago Blackhawks puck bunny. I usually don’t like that term, but I suppose in a lot of ways, it’s what I am, and I only have myself to blame.