Page 48 of Pucking Strong (Jacksonville Rays #4)

I don’t like being late for things. In the hockey world, it gets drilled into us that being early is being on time.

Planes don’t wait for us. Neither do busses.

Reservations typically don’t wait either.

And I didn’t make these reservations. I don’t even know the restaurant.

My GPS says it will take us almost thirty minutes to get there. And Teddy still hasn’t come out.

What the hell is he doing in there? Probably still laughing and joking with Novy. The man is such a showboat. He’s my teammate, and he’s a friend, but …

Fuck, I don’t know what I’m even thinking. He’s a teammate and a friend. Full stop. I’m sure nothing untoward is happening. Teddy is just dedicated to his job.

I think perhaps I’m just hungry.

And oddly nervous.

I’m going on a date with my husband. But it’s a fake date, orchestrated by our PR director.

There will be a cameraperson ready to photograph us entering and leaving the restaurant.

And Poppy expressly asked that we “crank up the spice” to quell the nasty rumors that this is all just some kind of publicity stunt.

Well, I suppose this is a publicity stunt. The date, I mean. All part of Poppy’s grand Operation Mighty Oak. But our marriage doesn’t feel like a stunt. It may have been spontaneous, born out of necessity, but my affection for Teddy is very real, and growing stronger every day.

Poppy assures us that in a couple weeks, this will all die down.

For now, the gossip machine is firing on all cylinders.

My American agent, Laura, has been harassed by the press all week.

They want an official statement about my press conference.

But the conference was my official statement.

I’ll not be making another one. Poppy said it went viral, so why would I bother?

She was so touched by my including Novy and Morrow in my remarks that she baked me enough cookies to feed my entire apartment building. She brought them by last week, tears in her eyes, and stayed for two hours, letting her daughter play with Karro.

I fight the urge to check my watch for a third time just as the front doors of the practice arena open.

Teddy comes striding out, and my eyes go wide.

He’s wearing a sleek forest-green suit, a black belt and shoes, and a white shirt, no tie.

The shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His hair is pulled back, bundled at his nape.

Behind him, a few of the guys, including Novy, pool out of the open doorway, wolf-whistling and calling his name.

“Yeah, Teddy!”

“Get it, superstar!”

“That’s my physical therapist!”

Teddy just laughs, his smile lighting up his entire face, as he waves them off and strides over to the car.

He’s almost reached it before I remember myself.

I fling my door open and step out, circling the back of the Porsche to try to beat him to the other side.

Like Teddy, I’m dressed in a suit with no tie, only mine is stone blue.

“Hey, Karlsson, have him back by ten,” Novy shouts.

The others all laugh.

“Looking good, Karlsson!”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, boys!”

I brush my hand down the front of my crisp white dress shirt and open Teddy’s door for him.

“Hey,” he says, breathless. “You look great.”

“As do you,” I reply. “Is that my suit? I don’t recognize it.”

He just grins, slipping into the front seat. “Nah, it’s mine.”

W e make it to the restaurant with less than a minute to spare.

I give my keys to a valet. Offering Teddy my hand, I help him unfold his long legs and stand.

This little sports car may not be practical for two men as tall and broad shouldered as we are, but that’s not really the reason one buys a Porsche.

He presses into me as the valet rushes behind him to shut his door. “How we didn’t just get a dozen speeding tickets, I will literally never know.”

I just chuckle. I’m about to lead the way inside when Teddy stiffens, his hand wrapping around my arm. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“He’s right over there—no— don’t look ,” he hisses as I’m about to turn. “He’s literally standing in the fucking bushes. Oh god, this is like something out of a bad movie.”

“What do I do?”

“Don’t turn around! Just act natural.”

I sigh, feeling foolish. “We can’t stand here, Teddy. Let’s just walk in.”

“Okay. But do we, like, walk in together? Like, hand in hand? Or do you sort of walk ahead? What will look more believable for pictures—”

“Not choreographing this will look most believable.” I tug him along next to me, putting myself between him and the camera.

“Don’t look so mad,” he says through his fake smile. “You’re supposed to be in love with me, remember?”

“I’m Swedish. This is just my face. I look this way when I’m happy too.”

Teddy snorts a nervous laugh.

I do try to relax my shoulders a little.

Then I nod to an older couple as they make their way out of the restaurant.

The lady takes in our joined hands and Teddy’s smile and frowns.

Her lip curls up as if she just smelled something rotten.

It stops me in my tracks. I know Teddy sees it too, because his hand tightens in mine.

He shocks the hell out of me by rounding on her. “What? You’ve never seen two men holding hands before? Take a picture. It’ll last longer!”

Knowing there’s a photographer in the bushes, Teddy and I both start laughing.

The older woman gasps, her hand flying up to clutch her literal pearls, as her husband, an old white man in a navy sport coat, wraps his hand around her arm. “Come on, Denise.”

“Yeah, keep walking, Denise,” Teddy calls after her. “Nothing to see here.”

“Will you stop?” I say in his ear.

“Hey, later tonight, we’re gonna go home and do gay stuff together,” he adds, giving her a dramatic wave. “It’s gonna be great, Denise! We’ll Snapchat you photos!”

“Come on.” I pull him away.

“Fuck, I feel better.” He pulls the door open for me. “Shall we? I’ve heard the branzino is divine.”

W e make it through drinks and the appetizer course before the subject of the photographer comes up again.

Teddy is mid-sentence, recounting a progress update from Karro’s tutor, when he stops, his shoulders stiffening.

He sets his amaretto sour aside, eyes locked on the empty plate of mussels between us.

“What’s wrong?”

“The photographer is in the corner by the bar.”

Before I can say anything, my phone buzzes in my inside pocket. I reach for it and see a message from Poppy glowing on the screen:

POPPY: Squeeeee, you two look so cute together! I wanna melt you in a pan and serve you over ice cream!

I flash Teddy the phone and let him read the message. “Is this a good thing?”

He shrugs. “I guess. I mean, we do look good.” He brushes his hand down his chest. “I lied in the car though.”

“What?”

“This suit. It isn’t mine. It’s Novy’s.”

“You’re wearing Novy’s suit?” I note the way it fits a little too large in the shoulders.

He glances sharply across the table, eyes narrowed. “You better not be about to ask me if I traded sexual favors for it. The answer is no, asshole.”

I raise both hands, leaning back in my chair. “I said nothing.”

“I forgot my suit at home, and he had one. End of story.”

I smile, sipping my beer. “You should keep it. It looks better on you.”

He huffs, poking at the mussels with a fork, looking for one with the meat still inside. “Oh believe me, for five hundred bucks, I’m keeping the suit and the shoes.”

I just hum, contentedly sipping my beer.

Since our conversation in the car last week, I’ve felt a new kind of curiosity towards Teddy.

And I’ve researched the term. Demisexuality.

It’s a rather broad term, covering everything from those who seek no sexual touch ever to people who engage in casual sex but may not express romantic feelings until a deeper relationship is established first.

The more I read, the more the label seems to fit me.

The article last night talked of primary versus secondary sexual attraction.

Apparently, primary attraction happens at first sight.

You can look at a person, even a stranger on the street, and feel attracted to them.

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that before.

Aesthetically, I may look at someone and admire their beauty.

But I admire them with the same feeling of joy or excitement as seeing a sunset or a stag standing in the snow.

I glance across the table at Teddy again. Aesthetically, he’s very pleasing. I’ve always thought that. He’s a composition of sharp angles—broad shoulders, long legs, pronounced cheekbones. I particularly like his neck. I like watching how it twists and elongates as he looks around, as he laughs.

But I want to photograph his neck, not lick it.

The article had a lot to say about scent as a primary attractor too.

As a Swedish person, I found it all very amusing.

We Swedes enjoy having our own space, even with friends and family.

It made me mindful. How often do I ever let myself get close enough to smell another person?

Well, aside from the sweaty hockey players I encounter on the ice.

But not one of them has ever sparked my sexual interest with their stench.

No, scent has only aroused me with one person. Only with Teddy.

I blame it on the fact that I’m still sleeping in his bed.

I don’t know why I haven’t put a stop to it.

Now that I’m admitting to myself that I’m curious about him, it feels like a line is being crossed.

But I don’t want to stop. I’m getting the best sleep I’ve had in ages.

And I like it. I like lying in the bed and having him roll to me, hands seeking in the dark.

Even in sleep, he’ll curl around me, his head on my chest, our legs tangled.