Page 38 of At First Smile

After a few moments of unapologetic making out at my front door, we head out. An hour later, we park in an empty lot surrounding a large oval shaped building.

“Where are we?” I squint, trying to read the large letters scrawled along the cement structure.

“It’s the Bobcats’ practice arena.”

I take in the snatches of green bushes and trees speckled across the blacktop parking lot. Faded orange letters that I now realize read LA Bobcats dominate the building’s entrance. Floor to ceiling windows flanked by dark gray pillars make up the arena’s front.

“Where you go most mornings.” I smile.

Each morning, Rowan heads to the arena to work out. Their training camp doesn’t start until mid-August, but he sticks with an almost daily workout regimen, and outside our occasional pastries he adheres to a healthy diet to stay ready for the coming season.

“Are we allowed to be here?” I ask as he opens the passenger’s side.

“Scared I’ll get you in trouble?”

“I’m more worried I’ll get you kicked off the team.”

He threads our fingers together. “Worth it.”

Hands linked, Rowan escorts me through the building.

Games are played at the large arena in downtown L.A.

, but the players spend most of their time here.

This is where their almost daily practices are held.

Besides the rink itself, the complex features a large workout room for players, their locker room, and several training rooms for physical therapy.

Posters of current and past players line the hallway leading into the team’s locker room. Rowan explains who each player is. I take the opportunity to impress him with my newly-acquired-through-Google hockey knowledge.

Reaching the locker room, I run my fingers across the rows of gold and black lockers. Shiny brown benches line the path through the large room. Rowan leads me to a gold locker.

“This is mine,” he says, opening the middle locker.

Affection tugs in my chest at his boyish lilt. “Have you brought anyone else here before?”

“No.” He digs for something in his locker.

“Not your mam nor your…” A crease notches my brow. “…Finn.”

He shakes his head.

Stepping into him, I press my head to his chest. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

From everything he’s told me over the last few weeks, his hockey life is separate from most people in his orbit.

His mother and brothers go to the games in Toronto.

Finn goes to all of them, but his mom and Gillian only go to the big ones.

They’ve not flown to any of the cities he’s lived in over the last ten years.

“I have something for you.” He kisses my forehead.

“Is it your cock?” I tease, rocking my hips against his upper thigh.

“Christ!” Head tipped back, laughter rumbles in his chest.

Withdrawing something from his locker, he presents me with a large gift bag. That boyish energy returns to him as I take the heavy bag.

In it, I find a pair of leggings, socks, and ice skates.

With my right eyebrow ticked up, I tilt my head. “What’s this?”

“They go with this.” He pulls out a hockey jersey and holds it up.

Biting my lower lip, my fingertips trace over the Iverson on the jersey’s back.

“You’ll need to suit up before we hit the ice.”

“Wait, we’re skating?”

“Of course,” he replies and pats my bum lightly in a get moving kind of gesture.

Changed, we skate onto the ice. The cool air kisses my cheeks, reminding me of an early winter day in Buffalo. I can almost hear Trina’s laugh as we zigzag down the hill behind the house on innertubes.

Looping his muscular arms around my middle, Rowan tucks my head under his chin. “We’re at center rink. Besides the nets at north and south ends, both dead center of those ends, there’s no obstacles or drop-offs.”

“So, basically I have free rein until I hit the boards.” I gesture around us.

He kisses the top of my head. “God, I love it when you use hockey terms.”

“Icing. Hooking. Penalty kill. Powerplay. Gordie Howe.” Spinning in his arms, I list all the hockey-related terms I can think of.

Chuckling, he clutches my hands, and my knees are a little shaky as we move across the ice. It’s not just because this is my first time ice skating, but how adorably sweet this is. Taking his time to orientate me and inviting me into his world.

This is a big part of his life, something he doesn’t share with most people.

At Axel’s, he plays the boss. On the ice, he’s the hot-headed defenseman.

With Finn, he’s both the beleaguered and pestering little brother.

I know from overhearing the chats with his mom, that he’s the quiet, slightly guarded, but thoughtful son.

With Gillian, he’s the younger brother desperate for approval from a man whom I believe doesn’t deserve that power over him.

Rowan tends to compartmentalize things, but with me, he reveals all his parts. He’s simply Rowan and I like every bit of him. The strong. The silly. The sweet. The broken. I like it all.

With slow strides, he guides me across the rink. We circle several times, giving me time to get my bearings.

After twenty minutes, my increasing comfort bolsters my bravery. I don’t cling but hold Rowan’s hand more for the connection rather than a need for his steadiness as we skate.

Stopping in front of the team bench, he pulls out two hockey sticks and a puck. “Now that you’re warmed up, time to train.”

Laughing, I take one of the sticks.

Chest pressed against my back, he guides me in the motion of shooting the puck at the goal. After several practice shots, he positions himself in front of the net.

“You’re going down, Iverson.” I taunt and mock glare at him as I line up my shot.

With a wicked smile, he taps the stick against the ice. “I plan on it.”

“Perv,” I sass.

He stops shot after shot after shot. Despite the slight annoyance, I’m grateful he’s not taking it easy on me.

“Rowan.”

“Pen.” His voice is low and teasing.

“Are there cameras in the locker room?”

“No.”

“Good. I thought you could bend me over the bench and fuck me while I wear your jersey.”

“Christ,” he groans, standing up.

And I take my shot. The puck whooshes down the ice.

“Did I do it?” I squint.

“Yes.”

“Yes!” Stick raised in the air, I jump high and promptly fall, my ass slamming hard against the cold ice. “Oof.”

“Pen!” Rowan skates over, leans down, and helps me to my feet. “You okay?” He swipes his warm palm over my butt like he’s brushing away ice. He pauses the motion and squeezes my ass cheek.

“I just scored on one of the NHL’s top players, I’m winning at life.” Winding my arms around his waist, I tip my smile up to him.

“Because you cheated.” He hoists me up, my legs dangle in the air.

“There’s nothing in the rule book that strictly forbids sexual psychological warfare.”

“How much hockey googling are you doing?”

My fingers skim the outline of his lips. “You’re just jealous that I’m a brilliant hockey strategist.”

“I’ll be sure to share with the coach my girlfriend’s playbook.”

“Girlfriend?” I bite my lower lip.

It’s the first time he’s called me that.

I’d told him that I was his girl, but we hadn’t discussed any deeper meaning of the role.

Examining our behavior over the last two weeks, it’s clear we’re in the boyfriend/girlfriend territory.

Friends are intermingling. His family knows about me.

My mother knows about him, sort of. I’m not seeing anyone else. Neither is he.

“I just assumed.” He set me back on my feet, holding on until I’m steady.

“It makes sense that you would. We just haven’t discussed it.” I brush my hair behind my ears.

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?” He rubs the back of his neck. “God, I sound like I’m sixteen.”

I beam. “I want to be your girlfriend.”

He takes my hands. “And I want to be your boyfriend. What else is there to discuss?”

“You’re a famous hockey player. We’ve flown under the radar, but I know us being a couple will mean public events. Like tomorrow, for starters. How do we approach it?”

His thumbs soothe against my cold hands. “Tomorrow is a family-friendly event, so the PDA would be minimal, but I’d like to tell people we’re together. I don’t want to hide us.”

“Tomorrow isn’t just any event. I won’t be there as your girlfriend but as a representative of Walters. With the foundation’s connection to you, I’m nervous about how it might make me look.”

“I get it.” His response is quiet and a little gruff. Letting go of my hand, he turns and scoops up the hockey sticks and puck.

“Rowan, no.” I skate after him, slamming into his back when he stops.

My arms fold tight around him, and I bury my face between his shoulder blades.

“It’s not that. I’m not scared to be associated with you.

Please know that. I don’t want to hide us either, but I’d like to keep this quiet.

If anyone asks, we won’t deny anything. We won’t act like we don’t know each other.

Nothing like that. But can we just keep this low-key, at least until after tomorrow? ”

The muscles in his back stiffen.

“Please understand this is solely about tomorrow’s focus being on Walters and MVP, not on us.

So often people think I get professional opportunities because of my disability.

I’ll get comments about how they’re ticking a box with me, or I have a special leg up, which is bullshit because I have to work twice as hard. ”

“And you’re scared they’ll think you’re getting the opportunity because of our relationship and not your hard work?” His voice is quiet.

“Technically, the MVP thing is because of our relationship.”

“I’m sorry,” he rasps.

“This isn’t your fault. You had no idea what Sasha and Greg were doing.

I know they meant well. I’m not angry, because at the end of the day the partnership will help a lot of kids.

” I squeeze tight. “Baby, I will be the first person to shout from the rooftop that you are my man. Just… after tomorrow.”

“After tomorrow?”

“Until the thirtieth.”