Page 5 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

"Sometimes." I'm surprised by my own honesty. "But it's also... safe."

"Is safe what you want?"

The question hangs between us. No one's ever asked me that before.

"I don't know," I admit. "What about you? What do you want?"

"Right now? Pizza." He grins. "Long term? To be seen."

"You're a professional athlete. Millions of people see you."

"They see the jersey. The stats. The image." He shakes his head. "Not the same thing."

Again, that shift in the air. Like we're having two conversations at once.

"What's Fetuccine mean?" I ask. "Your nickname."

"Ah!" His face brightens. "It's because of my last name—Tucci. Someone said it sounded like fettuccine, and it stuck. Hockey players aren't known for their creativity."

"But for their modesty?"

"Exactly." He leans forward. "Can I ask you something personal?"

"You can ask."

"Why a sheriff? Why not... I don't know, FBI? State police? Something bigger?"

It's a question that hits close to home. One I've asked myself on long nights.

"Fairwick needed me," I say.

"And what do you need?"

Before I can answer, there's a knock at the station door. Saved by the pizza.

I retrieve it, paying despite Massimo's protests through the bars. When I return, I have the pizza, two paper plates, and a small silver flask.

His eyes widen. "Sheriff Ramsey! Is that contraband?"

"It's medicinal." I unlock the cell door. "Scoot over."

"You're coming in?"

"It's awkward to eat pizza through bars. And I'm not letting you out."

He moves to make room on the cot. I sit beside him, careful to leave space between us, and open the pizza box on my lap.

"No pineapple," he notes approvingly. "I knew you were trustworthy."

"Pineapple on pizza is a crime in seven states."

"Is Ohio one of them?"

"If I were governor, it would be."

He laughs, taking a slice. The sound is warm, genuine. "So the flask?"

I unscrew the cap. "Bourbon. My dad's. He thinks it cures everything from common colds to heartbreak."

"Does it?"

"It helps." I take a small sip and pass it to him. "Don't tell anyone I shared alcohol with a prisoner."

"Who would I tell?" He takes a sip, his lips where mine just were. "My extensive network of criminal contacts?"

"Your hockey friends."

"Ah, yes. Them." He hands the flask back. "They'd be jealous. Drinking with a beautiful sheriff in a jail cell? That's bucket list material."

"You have a very boring bucket list."

"Oh, there's more on it." His eyes meet mine, and the air between us feels charged. "Much more."

His mouth is still wet from the bourbon, and all I can think about—ridiculously—is how the heat of that sip would taste from his lips instead.

I take another drink, letting the bourbon burn away the tension. "Tell me about hockey."

"What do you want to know?"

"Why you love it."

He considers this, chewing thoughtfully. "The speed. The precision. The way time slows down sometimes, when you're making a perfect play." His eyes light up as he speaks. "It's like... for a few seconds, everything makes sense. Everything is exactly where it should be, including me."

"You don't feel that way off the ice?"

"Not often." He takes the flask when I offer it. "Do you? Feel like everything's where it should be?"

"Sometimes." I think about the moments—catching a sunrise from my father's fishing boat, solving a case that helps someone, walking Main Street on a quiet night. "Not enough."

"What would be enough?"

It's the bourbon that makes me answer honestly. "I don't know. Something more than this, maybe."

"Bigger city? Bigger job?"

"Maybe." I take another slice of pizza. "Or maybe just... more life in the life I have."

He nods like he understands exactly what I mean. "I think about that too. Whether I'm really living or just... performing."

"You? Mr. Life-of-the-Party?"

"Especially me." He shrugs. "It's easy to be the center of attention. Harder to be present in your own life."

I study him, seeing something I didn't expect. Depth. Thoughtfulness. A quiet sadness beneath the charm.

"We have more in common than I thought," I admit.

"I told you." He smiles, but it's softer than his usual grin. "High expectations. The weight of others watching. Always having to be what they need."

"Never what we need," I finish.

Our eyes meet, and something passes between us. Recognition. Understanding. We both look away quickly.

"So, hockey," I say, changing the subject. "You're good?"

"I'm excellent." No false modesty. "Scored the go-ahead goal in our last game of the season."

"But?"

"But we still lost in overtime. No playoffs this year."

"I'm sorry."

"It's hockey. There's always next season." He takes another sip from the flask. "What about you? Any big sheriff victories lately?"

"I broke up a fight at the Dew Drop Inn last week. Two guys arguing over whether aliens built the pyramids."

"And? Did they?"

"The evidence was inconclusive. Mostly because both witnesses were too drunk to form sentences."

He laughs again, and I find myself wanting to make him laugh more. It's a good sound—rich and genuine.

"You're funny," he says, sounding surprised.

"Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation."

"As the stern, serious sheriff?"

"Exactly."

We fall into comfortable silence, eating pizza and passing the flask. The pizza is half gone when he speaks again.

"Why didn't you call Clara and Ashton?"

I consider lying, but there's something about the late hour, the bourbon, and the strange intimacy of sharing a meal in a jail cell that pushes me toward honesty.

"I wanted to verify your story first."

"You didn't believe me?"

"I've learned to be careful about believing charming men."

Something flickers in his eyes. "That sounds like experience talking."

"Just observation."

"Of who?"

I hesitate. "My mother believed everything my father promised. Until she didn't. Then she left."

I don't know why I've told him this—something I rarely discuss with anyone. But in the dim light, with bourbon warming my veins and his green eyes focused entirely on me, it feels safe somehow.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

"It was a long time ago."

"Still hurts though, yes?"

I look down at my pizza. "Sometimes."

He doesn't push, and I appreciate that. Instead, he says, "My parents stayed together, but they may as well have been strangers. My father worked all the time. My mother raised us—me and my sisters. We never had much money, but she made sure we never felt poor."

"Is that why you play hockey? The money?"

"At first, maybe. Now..." He trails off. "Now I'm not sure why I do anything."

"That sounds like a crisis."

"Not a crisis. A question." He offers me the last slice of pizza. "What's it all for, you know?"

I do know. It's a question that keeps me up some nights, staring at my ceiling.

"Does Clara know you're having an existential crisis in Fairwick?"

"I'm not sure Clara knows who I am beyond 'Ashton's friend who talks too much.'" He smiles. "We aren't close."

"But you trust them enough to stay in their house."

"I trust Ashton. We've been teammates for three years." He puts the empty pizza box on the floor. "When your life is on the road, your team becomes your family."

"Is that enough?"

"No." The honesty in his voice surprises me. "But it's what I have."

I find myself wanting to say something comforting, but I'm not sure what. Before I can figure it out, he yawns—a big, unself-conscious stretch that makes the borrowed shirt pull tight across his stomach, giving me a hint of those abs again.

"Sorry," he says. "It's been a long day."

"You should sleep."

"Will you?"

"Eventually."

He studies me. "You're staying here all night, aren't you?"

"I don't leave prisoners alone overnight."

"Even harmless ones who talk to flower pots?"

"Especially those. They're clearly delusional."

He laughs, then grows serious. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For the company. The pizza. The bourbon." He gestures around the cell. "For making this less... lonely."

There's such sincerity in his voice that I don't know what to say. So I stand, gathering the empty box and flask.

"Try to get some sleep," I say. "I'll call Clara and Ashton in the morning."

"And then?"

"And then you go back to being Ashton's houseguest, and I go back to being the sheriff."

"And we pretend this never happened?"

I look at him—really look at him. The borrowed shirt. The messy hair. The eyes that see more than they should.

"No," I say softly. "We don't pretend."

He smiles, and it's different from his earlier grins—quieter, more genuine.

"Goodnight, Sheriff Ramsey."

"Goodnight, Mr. Tucci."

I lock the cell door behind me and return to my desk, where I can still see him settling onto the cot. He arranges the thin blanket over himself, punches the flat pillow into something resembling comfort, and lies down.

"Sheriff?" he calls.

"Yes?"

"My friends call me Massimo."

"I'm not your friend."

"Not yet," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "But you will be."

I should tell him he's wrong. Instead, I find myself smiling too, grateful he can't see it from his cell.

The low rumble of his voice rolls through the quiet, the kind of sound you don’t just hear—you feel.

"We'll see," I say, and turn off the main lights, leaving only the dim desk lamp illuminating the space between us.