Page 14 of Hockey Halloween

Delia

I’ve lost count of how many times Xavier has grabbed me by the wrist tonight to take me somewhere other than our current location.

I’ve also lost count of how often I’ve swooned when he does it.

How his callused fingers feel against my skin.

How I haven’t once put up a fight.

“Coming through. Coming through,” he shouts as he guides me back to the kitchen.

The other partygoers move out of his way, like a parting of the Red Sea.

I don’t miss the envious looks of a few of the other girls.

The ones who are only here hoping to get laid by a hockey player.

They probably don’t even care which one.

If they even know the difference between them.

On one side of the kitchen, a variety of drinks lines a table. It’s mostly cans of alcohol, but much to the delight of Xavier, there’s a pitcher of lemonade and a container of iced tea.

Dropping my hand, he grabs two red cups and faces me. “Ice or no ice?”

“Ice. Who knows how long these have been sitting out?”

He points his finger to his nose. “Valid.” He scoops ice into one cup and shows it to me. At my nod, he mimics the action in the second cup. “Half of each? ”

“One-third iced tea, two-thirds lemonade. Tea first,” I explain. Even though he’s consulting me, I don’t expect him to get the ratio correct, but he pours iced tea into one cup, assesses the amount, and again shows it to me. “Great.”

Like a child being rewarded for doing something good, a grin breaks out on Xavier’s face, showcasing his one dimple. It rarely pops out because he has a way of smiling without letting it show. I consider myself lucky every time it makes an appearance. My belly flips in anticipation.

Or maybe it’s because of the dimple.

He finishes the drinks and wonders, “Does it need a stir?”

“One or two swirls usually does the trick.” He shoves the cups into my hand and disappears around the corner, returning shortly with a spoon in his hand.

“Can I do the honors?” Eagerness comprises his question. I can’t deny him this.

“Sure.”

“What’s going on in here?” Shelton Fruin wonders, his gaze darting between the two of us. A small crowd gathers behind him.

“Making drinks,” Xavier says simply. Like this is an everyday occurrence for the two of us and not this remarkable act on his part.

“What’s in it?”

“Iced tea and lemonade.”

“Okay, but what alcohol?”

Xavier pauses his stirring of the second cup, glancing at Shelton with a curious stare. “None.”

“Oh, an Arnold Palmer,” Cody spouts.

“Heavier on the lemonade, but yeah,” I confirm.

Xavier finishes and holds out a cup for me. “Moment of truth.” I’m not even nervous. If he doesn’t like it, I won’t sweat it. More for me. He looks around. “Uh, this is between me and Weidman.”

“And the rest of us,” Isaac Baron says. “We’re invested now.”

“Wow, like no pressure, guys.” I’m surprised it’s me who voices the comment.

I’m not usually so bold with people I don’t know well.

Heck, even with people I’m well acquainted with.

But a part of me feels bad for Xavier. He’s already in the hot seat tonight with the whole costume bet thing. If he hates it, how will they react?

A collective hush falls over the group as he brings the cup to his mouth. Why they’re so invested in him trying a nonalcoholic drink is beyond me, but if there’s one thing I’ve gleaned about hockey players the last few years is they’re weird.

And unpredictable.

Sexy, too.

Don’t forget cocky.

Xavier takes a sip and swallows, his expression unreadable. Then he takes another. And repeats it a third time, all while we watch with bated breath.

“Well?” Diego says, exasperated when Xavier doesn’t give his opinions.

“Gotta hand it to Weidman. It’s good.”

I shouldn’t preen at his praise, but hell if I don’t want to.

Especially when he throws his arm around my shoulder, tucking me against his side.

A burst of invigorating citrus tickles my nose.

Coupled with the “sporty” aroma Xavier exudes, it overwhelms me, and the urge to flutter my eyes closed is high.

I refrain. I’m not trying to make a fool out of myself.

Even if it’s not messy this time, I’d love to leave this party as composed as when I arrived.

“Glad you like it,” I say with confidence.

He clinks our cups together and leans closer, his mouth an inch away from my ear. Shivers erupt at the proximity. “Ready to hang out yet?”

His question processes slowly, one word at a time. I’m not sure how to answer him. I flash back to our earlier, unfinished conversation in his bedroom. I never got his definition of what “hanging out” means.

And yet, the word “Yep,” immediately falls from my mouth.

This time, instead of his fingers on my wrist, he entwines our hands together. His hand dwarfs mine, but he doesn’t seem to care. He stops when we’re in the dining room, a table full of Halloween-themed foods laid out on display .

“Okay, seriously. Who did all this? First, the decorations. Now, the holiday-themed food.”

He waggles his brows. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Well, yeah. Kinda why I asked.”

He’s not expecting my comeback, but he recovers quickly, hiding away his surprise. “Uh, yeah, but I’m not allowed to say. It’s a secret.”

The way he emphasizes secrets makes me want to know even more. But I won’t push for that. I’m here to enjoy myself, not make an enemy of Xavier. There’s still plenty of the semester left for us to work together, and he’ll probably end up in at least one class next semester.

Plus, I want to get to know him better.

“Okay.”

Again, he questions me with a look. His eyes are searing, seeing into my soul. “Really? Just like that? You’re dropping it?”

“If you wanted me to know, you’d tell me. Besides, I’m sure you’ve got deeper secrets. Maybe I want to know those.”

“Deeper secrets?” He stumbles over the words. I’ve hit on a sore spot. Like this Halloween thing, I won’t push now. We’ll see what happens next time.

As if there’ll be a next time.

Instead of continuing this conversation, I grab a plate and load it up with several options. The mummy wrapped hot dogs are adorable, and I can’t pass them up.

“Food and drinks secured. Let’s go hang out.”

“Weidman, you are full of surprises tonight.”

“And secrets too,” I blurt, chastising myself for being so transparent. Because I avoided the conversation about the last time I was here, but no doubt he’ll circle back to it. I’ll only have myself to blame for being in this position.

“Right,” he agrees. “Secrets.” He lets the subject drop for now.

“Too cold to sit outside? We’ve got a firepit and if you’re into it, the other Aspenridge hockey house has a haunted hallway.

” His eyes cast down on my outfit. “You’ll probably need something to keep you warm for the walk. I’ve got just the thing.”

After we gorge ourselves on the yummy foods, he ushers me up to his room again. I go willingly. Again. At this rate, at least there shouldn’t be a repeat of last time.

I didn’t expect Xavier’s hoodie—his last name splashed across the back in huge letters—to be “just the thing.” When he holds it out for me, I’m hesitant to take it.

“Is this some kind of code or something? Some hockey tradition I don’t know about but am going to regret accepting?

Like you giving me your hoodie is claiming me?

” I’m uncertain where the ideas and words come from, why I’m even questioning him.

But a part of me is unsure where this “hanging out” is leading.

His brows furrow. “Uh, nope. Unless you want it to be a thing.” His feet bring him closer. “Do you want it to be a thing, Weidman?”

“No one’s ever given me their hoodie before, but I kinda feel like there’s a precedent set.

What if it’s so comfortable, I don’t want to give it back?

” I have zero intentions of keeping the sweatshirt—I always thought the notion was strange—but it’s fun to watch him think through my proposal.

He plays stupid, but underneath the layer of bad boy and dumb jock is a smartie.

He wouldn’t be here at Aspenridge. And he’s a junior at that.

He contemplates my question for a moment before answering, “I hear what you’re saying. I’ll take the risk.” He practically shoves it against my chest. “Put it on. It’s cold out there.”

Okay, but his demand does things to me I’m not expecting, a shrill of arousal shooting through me. It’s the only reason I can explain why I suggest, “Why don’t you do it for me?” I hold in my gasp. I voiced the words, but I didn’t mean for it to sound so seductive. So commanding.

Except Xavier takes my words to heart.

Instead of shoving it over my head, he takes his time.

He positions himself so we’re merely inches apart.

With nimble fingers, he bunches up the material, making sure the opening fits easily over my head.

I suck in a breath when the material covers my face, hoping to hide my shock.

When it clears my face, he smirks. The dimple doesn’t show, but the smirk lowers my inhibitions.

Next, he raises my left hand, fitting it into the sleeve, repeating with my right arm.

When I think he’s done, he steps so our toes are touching.

Even though there’s extra material because it’s meant to fit him and not me, his hands contact the sides of my torso as he slides it down, fingering the hem that reaches to my thighs.

“I think I’m safe. It’s huge on you.”

“I like ‘em big. Huge, even.” Bold Delia has entered the room. Or an unfamiliar person has taken over my body. I am not this girl. I don’t “hang out” with college guys in their room.

Hockey players or otherwise. Yet, here I am.

Telling this brute and robust man I like things huge.

Do I correct my slip of the tongue? Nope.

“Do you now? So I have reason to worry?” His words have a playful lilt, but his expression remains curious and stoic.

I shrug. “Guess you’ll find out at the end of the night. Shall we go now that I’m warm enough for the walk?”

“I suppose if I keep you in my bedroom any longer, people will wonder.”

I’m about to ask what they’ll wonder about when reality crashes in. Oh. Have we been up here that long?

“Do that a lot? Bring girls to your room?” The query trips out of my mouth like water from a geyser.

Do I even want the answer? No, probably not.

It’s not any of my business what Xavier does with his spare time, who he hangs out with, what he does with members of the opposite sex. Whether or not in his room.

“Is the answer to that question worth your secret?” he goads.

“Nope. Forget I asked. Can we go now?”

A tiny part of me is embarrassed. The part who usually runs the show, the girl who sits in the front of the class. The girl who doesn’t hang out with hockey players in their bedrooms. The girl who definitely isn’t at all interested in learning what Xavier’s body looks like under his clothes.

Good thing she’s not running the show tonight.