Page 6 of Icing the Cougar (Hockey USA Collection #7)

Trinity

It’s rainy with gray-on-gray clouds, and it’s a perfect reflection of my mood.

I sit, soggy, in front of my laptop in my downtown apartment.

If I have to delete the words, “Coming soon! Get wet and wild with this HOT new workout!” from the Urban Zen e-mail blast one more time, I might lose my shit.

Nova won't let me anyway. She’s the one who normally sends these emails out each week, and I’m thankful for her for doing it.

I hate it. I wonder how she’s doing, if she’s getting any better, but I know I’ll have to come clean about what happened between me and Jasper the other day.

The rain isn't helping my focus, drumming on the balcony and on my thoughts.

I stare at the subject line, then out the window.

Across the street, someone's dog sits stubbornly in the doorway of an apartment building, refusing to be dragged out into the downpour.

Maybe it has the right idea. I flick back to my phone, to Nova phone number.

There are ten reasons not to call Nova. Each one about twenty-six years old and playing hockey.

Maybe more.

I check my Fitbit, hoping for an excuse, something I have to leave for, something I have to rush to. It’s early, but there’s nowhere to be except drenched, jogging laps around downtown.

Okay, Trinity. Just rip off the Band-Aid.

I press call and flick back to the draft.

I type, "We PROMISE not to leave you soaked and wanting MORE!"

Delete.

This is hopeless.

The phone is still ringing, and I can picture Nova rolling her eyes every time it rings. On the fifth, she picks up. "Trin." Cough, cough, cough.

"Please tell me you aren’t in the hospital?" I say, worried. "You sound like death."

“Not death,” she reassures me, and I sink into my favorite spot on the couch.

"How are you surviving the flu?"

Nova hoarsely laughs. "I am, barely."

“Good, I miss you at the studio,” I admit.

"So why the check-in?" Nova doesn't wait for my answer. She hardly takes a breath before deciding what it should be. "Not your style to worry so much. Don't tell me this is about the e-mail again."

"It's not," I say, wishing it were. The marketing campaign does need work, but Nova can sense a distraction from twenty miles away and always zeroes in. "Well, it is, but it's—"

"It's something else," Nova finishes for me. "Juicy!" I can hear her sitting up in her bed and a few more coughs. "You sounded flustered. Are you sick or just swoony?"

"Neither," I say, too quick, like a kid caught sneaking a candy bar and asked to hand it over. "I just thought you'd want an update."

"Oh, I want updates, all right. Especially about the new client—"

"All is going well," I cut her off. "Kind of."

Nova's quiet for a second, but I know better than to hope she’s given up. "You saw him, the hockey player," she says. Not a question. A trap.

"I did. I mean, he said he’d go ahead and let me do his yoga session rather than rescheduling with you."

I sink further into the couch and brace for her full attention.

"Go on," Nova says. It's amazing how two words can be so smug, so effective with pulling info out of me.

"It was nothing," I say. "Really." It feels like deja vu, but we both know she'll wear me down. "I just thought you'd want to know we crossed paths."

"Spill it, Trin. Don't leave anything out."

This is the problem with best friends. If you breathe too loudly on a phone call, they know about your deep, dark secrets. They make you admit to them, even if you’ve only half-admitted them to yourself.

"Okay. We may have gone a little too far during his session."

"Too far—" Nova crows like she just won the lottery.

“And…” I pause to swallow hard. “He was the one from the hotel that night.”

"What the actual fuck?" She coughs again with the voice strain.

I squeeze my eyes shut and hope she hears it as exasperation. "I'm still foggy on the details."

"But you do remember his body?"

"Only vaguely." Except the fact that it’s for sure his mark on my body. "The point is, we ran into each other again after that night at the hotel. What are the odds?"

“Trin,” Nova says. “Trin-trin-trin.” She clucks her tongue. She loves this. She loves knowing she’s got me cornered. “Sounds like you ran all the way into his bed.”

She’s wrong. Technically, it was a mat or dance studio mirror.

“You’re right,” I say, avoiding the bed thing and everything around it. “You’re right, it was just like that. One thing led to another.”

“And another,” Nova says. She adds a snicker.

I tip my head back and let out a long breath.

"And?"

"And it turns out there's not much going on after that."

Nova scoffs and is probably shaking her head. "Don't play coy with me, Trin. Not your style. Give me details."

I hesitate, but Nova is impossible to resist, like a good Pinot. A friend, not a frenemy.

"During the yoga session, well, things got, you know. Intense. I thought, hey. Why not see where this goes?" I confess.

“And?”

“And let’s just say I had to clean the mirror with glass cleaner afterwards." I don’t add specifics.

"And then?"

I smile. "Then nothing. He’ll show up for his next yoga session next week, and you can take him back as a client."

"Bullshit," Nova interrupts. "Trin. Listen. I'm gonna break it to you gently. There's only one reason things heated up like they did."

“Because he just needs to get laid?”

"No! You need to go for it, Trin!" Nova practically yells at me, but her cough stops her. "Get a hold of him. Ask him out. Seriously."

"I don't know."

"Why not?"

I fumble around for excuses. "He's just so..." Young. Broad-shouldered. Successful.

"Don't finish that sentence, Trin. It'll make me cry. We don't want another Ben-the-dick, do we?"

"We?"

"Yes, we. The community. Your public."

"I don't think the public is concerned," I say.

"That's because they haven't seen this hockey hunk shirtless."

“Nova!”

“Well?”

"He's too young for me." It sounds weak. Even to me.

"No way," Nova says, certain. She doesn't bother with details. "Doesn't work like that, Trin. Listen. You know my mom and dad?"

“Yeah. Why?”

“Trin. Get this. Guess their age difference."

I hear the dramatic pause, like an announcement of what kind of studio Nova wants to open next, like she expects my mind to be blown all the way to L.A.

“I’d guess only a couple of years?”

“Nope,” Nova says, triumphant. She lets it sink in. "A whole decade! It's the new two years. No big deal."

"So, your dad is... ten years older?" I already did the math but hearing her say it makes me doubt.

"Yep."

"You think I should text him," I say. Not a question, just a repetition of what she’s already told me.

"Yup."

"Just like that."

"Just like that," Nova says. “I’ll say it slower, Trin: Go. For. It."

It’s hopeless. I don’t know why I fight it.

Okay, maybe I do.

“You’re not going to let this drop,” I say.

“Not in a million. Bye, Trin.”

I try to beat her to the hang-up, but she's too quick. Like always.

After the call, the rain slows to a drizzle, barely more than a mist, and there’s a thunderous silence.

I open the computer and type, "Yogis Wanted: Try Our New Sessions!"

Delete.

The dog across the street is not winning its standoff. An umbrella appears in the doorway, and it gets yanked into the rain. It knows when it’s beat. It knows when there’s nothing to do but follow where you’re led.

Fine.

I pick up my phone. I type, then delete, then start over.

Me: Hi.

Then wait. Then wait some more. Then type some more.

Me: Want to try another yoga session?