Page 28 of Goalie Secrets
In one tight corner of the basement, metal pipes snake up the wall. There are a few units side by side, stacked against each other like a decrepit cityscape. Jeremy kneels beside a rusted thing with peeling paint and a squeaky access door.
“When did it stop working?” he asks.
“I’m not sure exactly when. I was at the clinic all day and only came home to change before the game.”
“But it worked yesterday?”
“Do you know what you’re doing? I should wait for a repair man.”
It’s a moot point, because Jeremy’s phone flashlight makes clear that he knows his way around furnaces and whatnot. Is there anything hotter than a guy who knows how to repair stuff?
Yes, Vanya. A guy who can repair stuff while wearing Armani pants over bulky, hockey-player thighs is way hotter.
“It’s the pilot light,” Jeremy declares. “Can you find me alighter or matches?”
“Um, yeah, in the kitchen.” I hurry upstairs to grab the matches and another flashlight.
When I return, I find him rummaging through a toolbox. He pulls out a rag.
“The thermocouple is under a layer of soot. I’ll clean it with a degreaser tomorrow, but it won’t hurt to wipe it down.”
“How do you know all these things?”
“It’s simple maintenance. My mom and I couldn’t afford repair services, so I used YouTube to get the basics.” He crouches down with the matches. “Can you hold it right here?” he instructs, pointing at an angle so the flashlight I’m holding casts the least shadow.
With a practiced hand, he wipes some things down and then fiddles with valves and knobs. Jeremy strikes a match, the sulfuric scent briefly cutting through the basement’s musty odor. There’s a faint whoosh as a light flickers. He holds down a button for a few more seconds, both of us watching the steady blue flame, then releases it while turning the valve to an “on” position. The furnace roars to life. A reassuring hum fills the basement.
“You can turn the flashlight off now,” he instructs.
I hadn’t realized that I was still shining a light on his capable hands, clasped together while his elbows rest on his knees.
I turn it off. He stands. We hadn’t calculated our distance properly, so the movement puts us close. Too close.
Our breaths intermingle, warming my face. I want to lean closer for more warmth. Which is exactly why I do the opposite: step away till my back hits a wall.
Jeremy watches intently. My back is against a cold wall, but all I feel is the scorching current of barely restrained energy between us. My vocal cords clamor to express something, anything, that will snap the tension. But nothing comes outexcept heavy, labored breathing. I’m as enthralled as I am anxious, because one look at Jeremy reveals his desire to come closer. I want him to.
Without my brain’s permission, my hand reaches out to him. He doesn’t hesitate. Jeremy eliminates the distance between us. He doesn’t touch me, though. Simply stares and waits.
The dim lightbulb casts enough glow to reveal Jeremy’s lips at eye level. They’re lush and slightly parted. I get a hint of mint. Inhaling shakily, I relish his smell. Jeremy sways closer. I lean over slightly so I can get more of his delectable aroma: a contradictory combination of roughened leather and smooth honey.
“Fuck, Vanya. Don’t look at me like that unless you want me to kiss you.”
His Adam’s apple moves rapidly. I reach over to touch it, soothe it, feel it. The second I make contact, he presses against me. Jeremy’s arms weave around my waist.
“God, you feel incredible. And why do you smell so fucking good?” His voice is rough and severe, like he’s making an accusation instead of stating a compliment.
“You, um, you sh-shouldn’t have come here.” My stammering is caused by the shivers running up and down my spine. Shivers not from cold, but from need.
“I-it, it makes it hard to remember,” I ramble nonsense because it is a struggle to be coherent even to myself when his hands roam my back. Jeremy grips my hips and, in response to that possessive hold, my traitorous body yields.
“To remember what?”
“That you’re my…” The words come out strangled. I’ve never felt this intoxicated byair. The air between us is a potent mix of confusing desires and conflicting thoughts. And heat. So much heat within me and between us. “That…that you’re my patient.”
“I’m a guy helping out my neighbor,” he whispers into my ear and short-circuits my brain’s synapses. “And you’re the gorgeous woman across the street I can’t stop thinking about.”
A fraction of an inch. That’s all it takes for me to turn my head and our lips to meet. It’s a gentle press at first, a mere graze. I gasp at how delicious he tastes. He takes it as an invitation to tease my lower lip with his tongue. I’m too lost to stop him. Too lost to stop myself. Our tongues tangle in an earnest rhythm like neither can get enough.