Page 32

S itting with Claire and Quinn at tonight’s game has been enlightening. I don’t have a clue about what I just witnessed, but I heard a whole lot of new cuss words fly from Claire’s mouth, and after watching Noah slam home three goals while leading his term to victory, the whole puck bunny thing is starting to make sense.

“The skating. The sweat. I’m almost ashamed to say it, but the aggression. Wow.”

“Right,” Quinn, who’s still a little green around the gills from her partying, sighs, “You see my dilemma with the hot idiots now?”

“I do, Quinny. I really do. It’s hot and I am hot for it.”

I’m also freaking delighted Captain Petterson and I agreed to a ‘friends with secret benefits’ deal. In all honesty, I want more than his tight, rippled, skilled body with the golden touch, Noah does too. But our lives are heading in opposite directions, and I refuse to, as Claire said, tie him down . Seeing him out there weaving his magic rams that point home more than an over protective big sister ever could.

No. Noah is a free man. One I will soak up every sweet and sexy second while I can.

That definitely includes devouring him after tearing the hot suit he’ll undoubtedly be wearing, from his body. Once his sister has gone home, of course. Her eyes, the ones that almost popped from her head when she saw me in Noah’s jersey, were on me as much as the ice. I need to address her concerns; tell her she has nothing to worry about. That I want Noah to succeed as much as she does.

That she can trust me.

Sort of.

Deftly squishing between the knees of people in our row and the seats of the one before us, Claire’s heading our way now, a smile as warm and loving as her brother’s intensifying her ice-side rosy apple cheeks.

“I swear to God, public bathrooms on this campus are the best I’ve ever seen. They’re so clean you could eat off of them … not that I would cause, eww.” Linking our arms, she snuggles in beside me and a fissure of guilt forms in my consciousness. “Speaking of eating, Lotte Lotte, you haven’t been over for dinner this week. Kelly’s cooking a pot roast with all the trimmings tonight. Can you come after the game? You too, Quinn.”

Half of Quinn’s mouth tilts up into a weird-ass Joker-esque smile and I know why.

Despite my previously mentioned need to disrobe a certain hockey God as soon as I can, Quinn and I just agreed to meet Noah and team at O’Reilly’s for their postgame celebration. Our invitation lit up my phone while Claire was marveling at the pristine bathroom. Noah was almost successful coercing me to ride along with him in his Jeep, but that was sure to attract the kind of attention I hate. Not to mention feeling a little to … coupley.

Arriving on the arm of Quinn was a more prudent, less conspicuous option. The thing is, there’s nothing inconspicuous about me going to a sports bar after swearing I would never be around parties again. I’d need to be a really big fan of someone to set foot inside one and Claire is well aware of that fact.

So the question is this, do I lie my ass off to the woman who has helped change my life, or speak the truth and risk upsetting her? The list of things I’m keeping from her is growing. Obviously the thing with Noah, but I didn’t tell her about my appointment, or about Professor Carole.

I don’t know what to do.

“I can’t come tonight.” Okay, so maybe I do. “Quinn has invited me to her parents for dim sum.”

“You’ve made peace with your dad?” Claire beams, shifting in her seat to face Quinn who doesn’t look like a DC villain now, just someone who may vomit. “That’s amazing. Are you moving back home?”

“DIM SUM,” is Quinn’s response. “We’re eating dim sum.”

With an arched brown Claire looks to me, then back to Quinn. “So I heard. Yay for dim sum.” In her typical fashion, she doesn’t leave it there. Poor Quinn is peppered with questions ranging from, store bought or homemade dumplings to how she smoothed things over with her protective father. All the while I sit there, that fissure now big enough to stick my head through.

I couldn’t feel worse.

Or so I thought.

“Everyone is looking at me through the window, Quinn. I can’t do it.”

“No one is looking … but if they are looking it’s because you look hot … and maybe a bit because you’ve wrapped yourself around a streetlight. Ever thought about pole dancing? It’s a good look on you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t dance.”

“You’ve got massive jugs, though. I don’t think anyone would notice the dancing.”

The giggle that rips through me weakens my grip, allowing Quinn to peel me from my safety pole, and drag me inside. Then it was legitimate. The stale stench of beer, cheap cologne and sweat overwhelms me as a hundred sets of eyes turn in our direction and follow our awkward weaving through the tipsy masses. At least the anxiety I was so blessed to be riddled made it seem that way. “See. Everyone is watching us.” I whine while tugging at the V-neck of my jersey. “Why is everyone watching us?”

“Duh, like I said you’re hot, but also because you’re wearing Captain Marvel’s Jersey, and because that same sexy captain’s tongue hung from his mouth every time he spotted you in the stands wearing said Jersey.”

I try to fight the smile that twitches the edges of my lips. “That didn’t happen. Noah and I are just friends.”

“Pfft. Yeah, you two are just friends, like I am sticking to my promise of no hockey boys.”

It’s the perfect Segway. “You seem troubled by this. Let’s go home and talk it through.”

A skeptical brow is raised but before Quinn can reply, a 6‘3 giant is literally pushing people out of his way to get to me, his arms waving like he’s guiding a plane in for landing. “Lotte! Lotte! Over here!”

Helpless to fight the jubilant butterflies taking flight within me, I return the wave with equal enthusiasm while suppressing the first of what’s likely to be many tics to come.

“Good lord he’s obsessed with you! Look at him.” Points Quinn who’s giggling so hard she can hardly walk, “He’s bounding, Lotte. Bounding. He’s a literal golden retriever boyfriend.” I slap down her hand and scowl.

“He’s not my—”

“Save it, sister. He’s yours.”

I should argue more, but I can’t. Not only because I don’t want to, but because Noah shunts the last living, breathing obstacle between us away, and swoops me off my feet and into his arms. Apparently, he’s not as concerned about looking coupley as me.

“Little D.” His voice is soft as he presses his nose into the crook of my neck and inhales. “You came.” Large hands cup and need my ass, and with the feel of his warm, hard body beneath me, I could easily come in a far less innocent manner to which he meant.

“I did. You played so well Noah. I’m really impressed by how you got the puck into the net three times, and how you needlessly squished your opponent’s face into the ice when you fell on his back. I think it really assisted the team.” Laughter jiggles through Noah, and me because he still has me hoisted in the air. Again, it feels like all eyes are on me. On us. But I can’t seem to be mad about it.

“And I’m really impressed by the sight of you and the girls in my jersey. And by your appearance here. I think it really assisted my dick into chubbing up in public.”

I puff out my chest. “By the girls, do you mean—”

“Yes, Lotte.” Quinn forcefully inserts her face between my chest and Noah’s, “he means your boobs. Told you they were massive.” Like I didn’t know. “Now if you two idiots want to keep whatever is not going on between you on the down low, I suggest you drop the blonde, Noah.”

Her on-point suggestion sees Noah inhale deeply, a low, gravely groan further ignites the want inside me, before dropping me like a hot potato. It shouldn’t feel as romantic as it does, but our eyes remain locked, Noah’s being the first to wander as they dart to my lips. I want to kiss him so bad I may ignite.

Having performed her bestie duties, Quinn clears her throat, and nods affirmatively, “I’ll go get us some drinks.” And disappears into the scantily clad masses.

“You enjoyed the game?” Not waiting for a response, Noah places his hand in the small of my back and guides me to a dimly lit nook in the farthest corner of the bar, laden with empty beer glasses and surrounded by puck bunnies and jocks. “We didn’t have the best start, but once we got going, we couldn’t be stopped.” The same could be said for Noah’s hand, that has slid down my spine and again, come to rest on my ass. “Hey, Big D, look who’s here.”

Brady and several other oversize men look up from the table where an ad-hoc game of mini beer pong is taking place. At least I think it’s beer pong. I’ve only seen it in movies. “Lotte,” he splutters, tossing the tiny plastic ball over his shoulder, “Is Quinn here?”

“Nice to see you too, Brady.” He blushes but still offers no greeting as his eyes scan the bar.

“Quinn?”

“Yes, she is here. She just went to get some drinks.” The words have hardly left my lips and Brady has shoved the table and his friends out of the way. The movement upending and ending the game, earning him a torrent of overzealous abuse he plays little attention to as he storms away.

This dynamic is fascinating. So, I stand on my tip toes and say just that into Noah’s ear. “This dynamic is fascinating. Why are they all so angry? And mean? These are your teammates, yes?”

“Yes. But just like you enjoy giving me sass, we enjoy giving it to each other. Ours just involves more cuss words and emasculation. We call it chirping.”

“Huh. Interesting.”

The ‘chirping’ continues, and Noah pushes a hapless brunette with amisfortunatebowl-cut from his seat. He dusts the stool off, then picks me up and plops me down, which shifts the focus from Brady’s scandalous game abandonment to my presence.

“So, Noah,” smirks haircut boy, spilling his drink down his arm as he motions toward me, “Blondie here is the reason your cup gave way and exploded mid game?”

“Perhaps Blondie is.” I reply, deciding to give this ‘chirping’ phenomenon a go, “And is your mama’s jell-o mold the inspiration behind that haircut?”

“Wooooaaaahhhhhhh.” A fresh wave of taunts and chants ignites. Paul, who I learn is the beholder of the hair, takes the slander in his stride while firing plenty back. None is aimed at me, though. Or maybe it is and I just don’t care, because their leader is sitting beside me, has slung a protective arm around my waist, and is pulling me closer while his fingers tickle up and down my arm like a million tiny kisses. All I can feel and smell and think of is him.

The now familiar warmth spreads throughout me whenever Noah’s knee touches mine. Luckily, it does so often because his long, thick legs are crammed beneath a table not made for men his size. Indiscreet touches not only drive me crazy, they keep me sane. Leading me from impostor to party girl. Well, that may be a bridge too far, but I’m feeling less like a cat-less cat lady hermit than I ever have, which is really saying something.

We’ve been at O’Reilly’s for two hours and my social battery should be flatter than a pancake by now, but the oddest thing has happened. I’m around all these new people and there’s been no panic tic attack, and I’m kind of having fun … it’s weird.

Worried about me worrying about Professor Carole, Noah has asked me if I’m okay roughly twenty-seven thousand times, which should be annoying but is sweet. Very little of the music or movies or influencer’s Noah’s friends and hangers on speak of are familiar to me. We’ve already established I know little when it comes to hockey, and unlike seemingly everyone crammed in here, I have no dating life or bang-book to boast about. But again, I’m not hating this. I feel comfortable. Love the chirping. Even with Noah off playing air hockey with Shane and Brady.

Maybe it’s this tea Quinn has me drinking.

“Quinny, where was this tea from again? I really like it. Very refreshing. Where is it from again? Nantucket?”

A giggling Quinn, who’s avoiding alcohol tonight, clears her throat to answer but Paul Osam, another one of Noah’s friends, has wandered from his herd and slides in between us, draping his arm over each of our shoulders. He smells like fungus.

“That’s where I’m from, and you know what they say about men from Nantucket, don’t you, Lotte?”

“No, I don’t. Don’t think I want to.”

Paul waves a hand dismissively and plucks my drink from my fingers. “We like to rhyme, you see, and Quinny, I’ve heard you were a big-time bunny at BU, and Lotte, my friend Ryan tells me you’re down for a little Nantucket suck it and fuck it. And since I just saw you coming out of the bathroom with Noah, I guess it’s true.”

I’ve never been drunk before but the woozy, head spin I get as slip out from his hold and I push him squarely in the chest, makes me think that tea isn’t purely herbal. “I wasn’t in the bathroom with anyone, thank you. I’m not sure if you think speaking like that is attractive, but Ryan is a liar and a creep and if you’re his friend I guess that’s why you are too.”

When he shrugs and turns to Quinn, she’s far less delicate.

“Fuck off, Osam. No one here is interested.”

“Interested in what?” Noah and Brady appear before us and they rate at which Paul spits out, “Nothing,” then slithers off into the background is comical. Possibly not funny enough to warrant my hyena-like laugh, but again, I think that’s the tea. I also think Quinn was right. If that Paul douche couldn’t pick up on my eww vibes towards him, but runs after one sentence from Noah, the non-thing thing between Noah and me must be obvious to all.

Not wanting to ruin my first buzz, or create more tension in the team, I move on quickly. Standing on my tip toes, I do my best not to fall flat on my face and tickle my hands through Noah’s hair like you would a toddler … and to maybe use him as a pole so I don’t fall on my face. “Heyyy, Buddy.”

“Why hey yourself.” Leaning into my touch with a smirk that makes me want to rip his clothes off. DAMN IT MY MAN IS HOT. “Someone looks like they’re having fun.”

“I am. I have discovered this Nantucket tea stuff and I like it, Noah. I like it a lot. How did your little game go?”

Any amusement on his gorgeous, lickable face evaporates like my sobriety. “Air hockey is not a game, Little D. It’s an invaluable hand eye coordination tool.”

“Right, of course. It’s right up there with rubbing your belly and patting your head.” This of course prompts the boys to try it. As Noah does so, his BC Henley rises, and a flash of toned abs has my mouth watering. Forgot the face. I’ll lick that little trail of hair that runs right down to … “Why is it called a snail trail? Snails are slimy and gross and baby that ain’t gross.”

Shit. Did I say that out loud? Judging by the quirk of Noah’s lips, and the heat in his eyes as they retrace the path of silvery drool mine left behind, I would say yes. Yes, I did.

“You ready to get out of here, little one?” The new name sends a shot of lust down my spine.

“I’ve been ready all night.”