Page 5
Arden
Do I support athletes giving back to the community?
A lot more than what my tits are getting in this long, lacy, off-white cocktail dress, that’s for damn sure.
“ Ohmygod, I love when BE works with catering,” squeals my twin as she accepts a honey-mint lamb skewer. “You can just taste the oculence.”
“ Opulence. ”
“What does meat have to do with jewelry?”
Not twitching a glare is impossible.
How?
How did this happen?
How did I get all the brains, and she got all the boobs?
Oh…that’s right.
I actually put work into mine while she simply bought hers.
That actually sums us up as individuals pretty fucking well.
I work for what I have.
She’s handed everything.
Which despite the brand building lie my parents are hellbent on telling themselves is the case with this whole social media brand testing spectacle they’ve concocted.
Somehow – to no real surprise – I’m still doing the majority of the work.
The boys wanna bang her, not talk to her.
They wanna look at her, not listen.
They wanna picture her naked, not get in a photo op.
It’s basically now my second side job to my main job since following Tanner around like a fangirl is my first.
Er.
Frosky.
Um.
Snowman.
Having to interact with him one on one in the barn is bad enough.
Being forced to dress up to do it outside of the rink is a Ridley Scott movie level of vengeance in the making.
I really should just find another job.
I’m sure Finland is a great place to go.
I’ve heard their hockey league is amazing, plus Bear would appreciate that weather much more than the constant heatstroke we currently live in.
I just…I’m not sure I can learn to speak Finnish that easy or how well playing Shakira will roll over.
Those are pretty much my only problems.
The whole lack of blonde hair, blue eyes, and paler skin thing I’m quite accustomed to already.
I’m used to sticking out and getting blatantly ignored like a frumpty dumpty anytime hockey hoes are in the vicinity.
I’m sure it might suck less in the same place they filmed Robert the Bruce .
Or was that Scotland?
Hm.
Maybe I should move to Scotland.
They’ve probably got hockey there.
Oh!
What if I just travel south and over until I hit Germany?
Set up shop there?
Learn more about that heritage.
My parents cover our Black and Mexican ones pretty well, but our German ancestry lessons are much rarer.
They primarily linger in the beverages department since those are the roots that led to our billion-dollar company.
Gotta admit.
Wouldn’t mind backpacking around the region and drinking my weight in brewskies.
“ Remember ,” Audrey loudly interjects, pulling my thoughts back to The Last Duel style conversation I’m being forced to engage in, “we’re both here for the same reason, Dumbo .” A mousy nibble of the appetizer is taken. “Seriously. Did you have to wear that thing here? You look like you could fly away with it.”
The cruel reference to my hearing aid has me shyly adjusting it in unspoken shame.
It’s not as if the thing is a fucking choice.
Unlike her designer perfume that is choking the air out of the room.
Arrogance over what she’s deemed a verbal victory is clearly heard in her tone, “This is a work event . ”
“No, Last of the Hohicans ,” effortlessly slips past my glossed lips. “ I’m here for work. You’re here to find a husband, so that you never have to work .” I let my gaze glide to the left to steal a glimpse of the crowd at the poolside bar, anxious to find Snowman, grab a bit of footage, and get home to watch Denzel being Macbeth per my mom’s request. “Big difference.”
“ Except ,” she carelessly disregards the mostly untouched snack on a server’s unsuspecting champagne tray during his pass by, “flirting and dating and fucking are all work, which is something you’d know if you ever did them.”
The harsh – and unfortunately truthful – line is also her exit one.
Sneering at her champagne colored, sequins splattered, sleeveless mini dress covered back should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
Being able to tell her to her face that not flirting is a choice , that not having time to date is different than not being able to date, and that not spreading my legs for every man that makes at least a quarter of a million is what would actually make me happy.
Or…at least less irked.
I swallow my irritated grumbles, tighten my tiny clutch, and begin the hunt for the man I’m here to see.
The annual charity P.A.L. event – Players Across Leagues – is not so secretly my favorite to witness every year. There’s just something so awe-inspiring about seeing athletes from different sports from all around the world get together, drink, play, and help raise money for children who dream of doing what they do, but live in areas where it’s difficult to afford basic equipment and camps.
Typically, I just enjoy the shit from a distance.
A very far distance.
I scroll the paparazzi photos.
Check the soc’ tags.
See a photo from one of the Slayer’s – hockey wives or long-term girlfriends – when they’re waiting for their player to wrap up pracky.
I’ve never actually been.
And I never actually wanted to go.
I hate dressing up.
Fuck, I hate dresses.
In fact, my whole plan was to wear this bellbottom pants suit thing with a fancy sports bra, when the twin walked in and conned our mother into taking us shopping for this shit.
I swear, I’m only wearing this wannabe lingerie shit so that I don’t “embarrass” the family brand.
I may loathe my sibling – and all the silicone she is made of – but I love my parents and everything they’ve worked for as well as continue to work for.
Ugh.
Stupid loyalty trait.
That’s gotta be the reason why I don’t just pack up my shit and move to Switzerland.
I bet they’ve got some amazing beers too.
The first leg of my search leads me to making slow laps around the luxurious pool of the rented property where the event is being held. Despite no one being in it at the moment, I overhear a Green River Croc running back promising two scantily dressed women that they can all get in together soon enough and a Highland Hellcats’ point guard insisting to another that her bra and thong are more than sufficient for a quick dip.
My next branch of the hunt sends me past the outside bar to the nearest one inside, anxiously scoping the scene for some sign of our team’s most beloved player.
And he really is.
Our one behind the scenes video with him falling onto the ice and confessing his favorite things has racked up four times more views than the others of the entire team.
And those aren’t doing bad!
They’re actually higher than they were at this time last year – thanks to our playoff run this past season – further proving Snowman really is everyone’s favorite dreamsicle.
Except mine, of course.
I prefer any of the other flavors that haven’t pimped themselves like they’re afraid Baskin-Robbins is gonna go out of business by the end of the year.
Dude made more headlines over the summer than games he started in.
How can the world be so obsessed with one person?
And why him ?
What makes him so fucking special?
Having no luck at the indoor bar either pushes me to expand my seek radius out of the kitchen region and into the livelier parts of the event where guests would rather be active as well as drink versus only drinking.
Beer pong being played in one of the transformed living room areas momentarily holds my attention. Afterall, it’s not every day you see a pair of retired Olympic divers cheering on a linen suit wearing MLL tendy that’s going toe to toe with a plaid jacket having Wimbledon winner.
Other open spaces are home to additional bars and food stations while the downstairs bedrooms have been converted into areas where guests can engage in darts, air hockey, and several poker tournaments.
Unfortunately for me, Snowman doesn’t seem to be anywhere on the first floor.
Because…why would he be?
Why would he be anywhere that could be remotely helpful to me ?
Taking one set of the grand stairs to the second level has me grumbling again, although this time it’s about the shoes on my feet.
Forfuckssake, why do women have to wear these things?!
Why do they wanna wear these things?!
What’s wrong with a clean pair of kicks?!
Why can’t we make wearing those with evening gowns cocktail hour acceptable?!
Nearly tripping over the top step pulls a loud huff out of me that spurs the cute male who was heading towards me to retreat back to whoever or whatever had his attention pre my unhappy arrival.
Okay.
Maybe not flirting isn’t exactly a choice.
Maybe…just…maybe…men tend to avoid me.
But like, why’s that a me problem that they scare easily?
Fucking grow a pair.
Passing by those gathered in the upstairs loft, drinking or dropping giant pieces into an oversized Connect Four is wordlessly done as is peeking into the cracked doors I come across, continuously disappointed to find people casually fucking or on their way.
Defeat grows more and more rampant with each passing step only to abruptly stop when I pop my head into the rec room at the end of the hall. Folded over the blue felt covered pool table is the left wing who I hate for having the balls to not only come after me but to not stop coming after me.
Off the scoresheet?
Where no one will ever see these notes?
He’s a total Gordie Howe fucking hat-trick.
A deliciously rare feat in spite of his man whore choices.
He’s undeniably attractive.
Dirty blond hair, bright blue eyes, script tattoos, cut muscles, and an accent that I’ll never openly admit actually is irresistible.
He speaks my lingo.
Jock talk is its own foreign language that he speaks, appreciates, and adores me for doing the same.
And lastly – along with most painfully – he can give as good as he can take.
Most dudes I’ve crossed paths with don’t want a woman with a mouth on her that isn’t just for sucking their cock, yet Frosky does.
He goads me.
He challenges me.
He invites me to talk shit and speak my mind and be the most intelligent person in the room without issue.
I hate him for that.
For all of that.
Almost as much as I hate him for committing the biggest sin I can never forgive.
Fucking my sister.
“There’s the pylon I’ve been looking for,” I juvenilely coo upon entering the room.
There’s no hesitation for him to stop mid shot and quirk an eyebrow in question. “ Am I dreaming? ” He doesn’t wait for a response. “Wait. No.” The stick is effortlessly sent forward into the nearby billiard ball. “You have on clothes.”
Gagging occurs at the same time I shut the door behind me.
“You looking for me means you must need something quite badly.” Frosky props the item straight up and slides one hand into his light – almost white – suit pants. “Work or personal?”
“What would I ever need you for personally?”
“An alibi?” His crystal stare sparkles with mirth. “Perhaps hiding a body?”
My sauntering doesn’t stop until I arrive at the opposite end of the table from him. “And you know where to do that?”
“I know people who know where to do that.” The waggling of his eyebrows – a weird signature trait – successfully gets me giggling. “ Quite the difference, Arden. ”
Ugh.
Add another stat to the hate department.
The way he says my name.
Particularly my first.
Agreeing to let him use it whenever we’re alone, alone was definitely a rookie mistake.
Kind of like getting turned on from watching his mouth lower to make the A sound in his native tongue.
Placing my purse on the edge of the table occurs in tandem with my announcing, “I’m here against my will.”
“What else is new?”
His snarky retort receives a sneer as well as a flash of my middle finger.
“ Here? ” He fakes a gasp while clutching onto his chest. “ On the table?! ” His fake appalment needlessly deepens. “What sort of man do you think I am?”
“A horny one.”
“Often.”
Laughter over his rebuttal is barely swallowed.
“However, our first time together will not be on an uneven pool table.”
“Correct.” Removing my phone from my handbag precedes me adding. “It’ll be in your dreams because that shit is never happening.”
“I disagree.”
“I see I need to start covering my beverages around you.”
“ Dark. ”
“Hot Rocket wants me filming you out in the wild, so here I am.” A small shaking of my work phone is executed. “Here to capture you doing whatever it is you do – with your clothes on – at this thing.”
“Contrary to media belief I do not shag a broadskie at every social activity I attend.”
“So that wasn’t you at the club foundation’s masquerade ball earlier this year getting a hummer in your car from a bunny in a Venetian mask?”
Guilt instantly spreads through his complexion. “That…did…happen…yes.”
“And did you or did you not motorboat that trailer park princess skate chaser at the St. Patty’s Day parade?”
“She put her tits in my face.” He innocently shrugs. “Her tits assaulted me. ”
“Uh-huh, and the flight attendant who gave you a reach around at one of the charity Christmas parties?”
“That was Becks!”
“That gave you the reach around?” I playfully poke.
A small shake of his head is attached to him asking, “You are loving this, aren’t you?”
“I’m not, not loving the fact that I can disprove your previous claim.”
“I am not always pads deep in pussy. More often than not – especially at this particular gathering – this. ” Frosky tips his chin at the table. “ This is what I do.”
“Lose to yourself?”
“Play pool.”
“Alone?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Why am I alone or why do I play pool?”
“You’re probably alone because of whatever bunny smell you forgot to bathe off you before coming here,” I easily jab, grateful to see another small snicker shake his French blue jacket bearing shoulders. “But I meant why do you play pool? There are a shit ton of other – much more social – activities you could get into.”
“I do not mind not always having to turn my charm on.”
“That implies you can turn it off.”
“Are you saying you believe me to be naturally charismatic?”
“I’m saying I cannot answer questions like that without legal counsel present.”
Much louder and livelier laughs flood the room making it practically impossible to divert my gaze elsewhere.
Not that I really want to.
It’s such a toe-curling sight.
Before he can comment on my open mouth ogling – and I totally am – I resume control of the conversation and hit the camera button. “How about you give those that stopped doom scrolling to watch this the reason why you like to play pool at the P.A.L. event.”
“I will give them that and footage of me finishing this match, if you give me your word that we can play the next round together.”
“Blackmail.”
“Bribery.”
“Extortion.”
“ Incentive ,” Frosky haughtily chortles. “I have had the great pleasure of meeting you, Arden Hoss. When it involves me ,” his tongue steals a deliciously slow lick of his lips, “you will only participate if you’re on the PK.”
Who’s still tracking my hate stats?
Yeah.
You.
Put this shit on there too.
Fuck him for knowing my fucking plays when it comes to my greatest pain in the league.
“I um…” lowering the phone casually occurs, “didn’t plan to stay once I got what I came for.”
“Perhaps it is I who needs to be covering their beverage.”
There’s no stopping my mouth from cracking wide in surprise.
“And why not?” he proceeds to ask around his own snickers. “Why wouldn’t you want to stay?”
“I don’t belong here,” escapes before I can stop it.
“A charity event where athletes from all leagues are raising money for children simply by drinking alcohol, talking stats, and competing at shite most haven’t indulged in since Uni?” The sarcastic expression that crosses his face is attached to a sardonic head tilt. “Pretty sure you fit in better than most of the people contractually obligated to be here.”
Not smiling is impossible.
Damn it.
“You should stay and let me earn the bragging rights that come with kicking your arse at something.”
Once more, my mouth moves without my consent. “ Why do you do that? ”
“Poke the bear?” He innocently shrugs. “It’s your love language.”
“Bear is my dog, and I don’t recommend you ever poke him.”
“So…” the accidental information drop causes him to beam obnoxiously bright, “you have a dog.”
“I meant ,” reclaiming the conversation is accompanied by a harsh glare, “go between words and phrases like ass and arse and shit and shite and contractions and separations. Why is there no fucking consistency to your speech pattern?”
“Why are you studying my speech so critically?”
“Why don’t you ever stop talking?”
Another round of open mouth chuckles makes itself known prior to him answering, “I have one parent that is from Doctenn, which is where I spent many of my childhood summers, and one parent that is from here in the states, which is where I was technically born as well as brought up. Being actively raised by both and raised in both places naturally created this eloquent frat douche dialect you take so much pride in chirping me for.”
Great.
Now, I belong in the penalty box for unsportsmanlike conduct.
“One round.” Frosky flashes his irresistible smile yet again. “One round, and I’ll give you a detailed answer on camera as to why I like to play pool.”
“Fine,” begrudgingly leaves me. “But if it you give me some half-cocked, obviously thought out between lacing up your skates answer, I will shove that stick you’re holding so far up your own ass, you’ll look like a bobble head that belongs on the dash of my jeep rather than an actual human being that’s won the Art Ross Trophy.”
His object free hand shoots me a curious point. “You drive a jeep?”
An eye roll is all he’s given before I’m lifting the device back up for recording.
He politely waits until he receives a kick of the chin that indicates I’ve begun filming to cockily question, “ Miss me? ”
Noiselessly gagging behind the camera gets him chuckling again.
“Hoss caught me here at the P.A.L. event playing a bit of pool.” Resuming the bent over to shoot position occurs without directing. “One thing that – I believe – sets me apart from others is how I work at keeping my mitts so silky.”
The waggling of his eyebrows prompts me to shake my head.
“See most athletes – across the board – primarily focus only on their own sport; however, I ,” he glides the cue between his spread fingers, “dabble in various forms to ensure my mitts receive a diverse range of movements and motions.” Frosky knocks his stick into the white ball, sending it towards the lonely solid green one. “Each sport offers and requires something different providing me with the opportunity to tone and strengthen my muscles as well as muscle memories in ways that quite a number of people would never consider.” Post the round object successfully falling into its appointed hole, he adds, “Plus, I like the challenge of learning other sports. It reminds me of when I was just starting out in hockey. It did not come easily or naturally, and that little tidbit simply made me love it more.” His crystal stare cuts upward to find my brown. “Because I had to work for it. I had to earn the right to be on that ice.” He burrows it deeper into mine. “And what you’re willing to work for is always much more satisfying than what is simply handed to you, aye?”
Air struggles to find its way into my lungs, forcing me to drop my stare downward in an attempt to figure out how to make that happen.
It isn’t exactly metalsmith work or gladiator training.
You let oxygen in.
You let carbon dioxide out.
It’s pretty cut and dry, so why the fuck can’t I do it right now?!
“ Arden? ” the breath stealer gingerly calls, commanding my gaze upward. “You alright?”
I nod.
Which is a lie.
A complete and total playoff on the line so the league better not catch you doing shit lie.
I’m not good.
I’m rarely good around him when we’re alone.
When he’s this…open.
And honest.
And real.
When he’s everything except what the media paints him to be.
“Is my answer acceptable?” He begins to shuck off his blue jacket, revealing how tight his dress shirt is on his chest. “ May we play now? ”
The faintest whimper treacherously escapes leaving me no choice but to hastily scramble words after it. “Yeah.” Clearing away the possibility for an encore noise is instantly done. “Sure.” I guide my now unsteady hand over to end the recording. “Whatever.”
Tanner inquisitively tilts his head ever so slightly to the side at the same time he asks, “And you’re certain you’re alright?”
“Right as rainskies.”
Aside from the fact my head is spinning and whirling and twirling and I know it’s not from the vertigo brought on by my condition.
Relocating my accessories to the nearby bar counter, ditching my heels, and retrieving my own cue are all executed in much appreciated silence.
Having to endure his smooth voice and sexy accent and clean scent cologne so steadily has my mind fucking malfunctioning.
We’re talking flash him my tits just to momentarily shut him up long enough for me to factory reset my brain.
Because it logically knows better than to buy into his well-scripted bullshit.
And his Ken doll sparkling eyes.
And his always up to the best trouble grin.
There is no man on this planet I openly hate more than Tanner Frosky.
And no man I hate myself for not really hating as much as I probably should.
“Stripes,” Tanner declares while positioning himself to take the breaking shot. “I like that it reminds me of strips. ”
“You really are a simple-minded fuck.”
Loud laughs barely precede the sound of the balls banging into each other. “There are worse things.”
“And there are better things.”
“Is there anything better than hockey to you?”
“Sports wise?”
He nods while making his way around the table towards me for a better angle.
“No.”
“What’s second?”
“Doesn’t exist.”
Hums of approval are attached to him hunching over to present me with an incredibly beautiful profile shot.
One that allows me to see the light hair littered along his jaw.
The faint scar on his neck.
The very top edge of his glacies bellator tattoo that’s inked right below his right collarbone.
“Alright then,” he begins after following through with his shot, “what is your favorite non-hockey activity?”
I lazily lean with the stick. “Wing hunting.”
Rather than immediately move to hit the ten ball, Tanner tosses me a pleasantly surprised expression. “ No shit. ”
“Love a good hot wing.”
“You watch Hot Ones ?”
“I like to eat hot ones. Watching other people do it just makes me hangry.”
“Same!” Snickers leave us both, yet it’s him who continues the conversation. “Just how far have you travelled for a good wing?”
There’s no stopping my face from cringing. “Dos Santos.”
“Which is where?”
“A very small border town where my dad’s cousin serves the most delicious Mexi-Texi chili-lime wings – out of a fucking food truck by the way – that you will ever find in your life.”
“And what exactly is on a Mexi-Texi wing?”
“Chili-lime wing sauce – made hotter by mixing in a little green pepper hot sauce – with a bit of cilantro and cotija cheese sprinkled on top.”
“ Fuuuuccck, ” Tanner moans while finally resuming an upright stance, “that sounds delectable.”
I use every fiber of my being to ignore the effect that sound has on my lady parts and confess, “I literally ate them until I puked. Hydrated. And resumed eating them.”
An impressed expression appears on his face rather than horror during his relocation. “Such a fucking beauty.”
The hockey style compliment prompts me to playfully curtesy, an action that gets him laughing again as he sets up his next shot.
“What about you?”
Tanner keeps his attention plastered on the ball he needs to hit.
“How far are you willing to go for a good wing?”
“However far is necessary,” is accompanied by the tip of his cue connecting to its target. Once the ball has sunk into the appropriate pocket, he meets my gaze again. “I will say that is one of the only benefits to constantly being on the road.”
“You get to be a wing slut?”
Moving to his next ball occurs in tandem with his chuckling. “I suppose I left myself open for that shot.”
“And you know what Gretzky said about taking shots.”
“What puckhead doesn’t,” mutters Tanner prior to positioning himself over the table.
“Probably those in pee wee.”
More laughter freely fills the air mindlessly melting me further against my stick.
Ugh.
Why do I actually like that sound?
And more importantly…why does it feel like he only truly makes it for me?
The stick taps its latest mark with minimal effort. “Who taught you how to hunt?”
“My dad.” His eyes find me right as I bashfully confess, “Outings were hard for me when I was younger – and a teen – due to my medical condition. I was picked on. And stared at. And shunned. But hockey games…hockey games were one of the few places I could go, and nobody looked at me twice for having anything in my ears. Dad pretended we were going just to keep an eye on the sponsorship, but really? He knew it was one of the only places I felt comfortable. Like I weirdly fit in. Plus, it was one of the only things that was…just mine, aye? When you’re a twin – especially an identical one – you somehow end up sharing everything whether you like it or not. Both of my parents respectively made an effort to nurture our differences throughout our lives and for Dad, it was feeding me wings and watching hockey.”
“ Same. ”
This time he’s met by a skeptical stare. “Are you doing that ho’ hat trick where you pretend that we like the same sport, food, and family members to fucking wheel?”
“While I am quite familiar with that particular play – having blocked it numerous times,” he casually insists and moves onto the next ball I’m hoping he’ll miss so I can make a shot, “I’m just being honest.” Tanner pauses the game to fondly explain, “My dad would come to my games, watch me play, and then feed me wings somewhere near the facility while we talked shop. He’s always been a hotter the better type; however, I’m more of creativity is superior.”
Curiosity convinces my mouth to run away from me. “What’s the weirdest wing you’ve ever eaten?”
An overdramatic breath precedes an innocent shrug. “I’d have to have some sort of criteria in order to narrow down the prospects.”
“Fair.” I thoughtlessly inch towards him at the same time I interrogate, “Weirdest wing you had last season?”
“Buffalo pumpkin spice with maple syrup glaze and a cranberry mustard sauce for dipping.”
“ Blasphemy. ”
Tanner’s immediate chest shaking laughter continues to pull me closer.
Threatens to trap me.
Own me.
Now.
Forever.
Like he has illegal access to my playbook, he smoothly shifts his frame towards mine.
Steps closer.
Keeps his tone even in spite of the fact I can see his chest beginning to rise and fall faster.
So.
Much.
Faster.
“What’s your favorite place in town?” His free hand lands on the edge of the table. “I’m wondering if I’ve had it.”
“Wing Warriors in Greyson Village, which is like ten minutes from my house. It’s on the corner next to Harry’s Hardware.”
“They have that giant gargoyle display hanging over the bar!”
“That’s them!”
“God, I love that place.” The dramatic wilting movement has his thumb accidentally brushing against one of the balls. “And they have the most top cheddar draft choices including Runt’s, which is insanely more difficult to get on tap than it should be.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t do bars because of my ear, but what I do know is…” my head playfully tips towards the furniture, “you moved a piece on the table with your finger; therefore, you forfeit your turn.” Juvenilely waving my hand in the air precedes a taunting, “ Moooveeeee. ”
Small snickers accompany him during his step backwards. “That’s alright. Bullshit technicalities are truthfully the only way you were ever going to get a turn.”
There’s no stopping my bottom lip from dropping to the ground. “ Fuck you. You’re not that good.”
“Perhaps not; however,” he arrogantly leans forwards, licks his lips, and cockily smirks, “my mitts are that silky.”
“Thank you,” sarcastically springs free alongside exaggerated movements to guarantee I hit him with the edge of my cue. “I was starting to worry my gag reflex was broken.”
Tanner waits until I’ve hunched over to tap the number one ball to smugly state, “Your playing position most certainly is.”
I don’t hesitate to toss him an incredulous look over my shoulder. “ Excuse. You. ”
“You aren’t going to make shite with that.” A tiny chin kick is given. “Just bank and bomb.”
“What do you fucking know?”
“ A lot. ” Glaring at his growing grin can’t be stopped. “Perhaps you’d like to rewatch the footage you took of me where I informed you that this is one way, I keep my hockey skills so sharp.”
“Nah,” I good-naturedly brush off, “listening to you ramble once is enough.”
“ Talk. ”
“Babble.”
He warmly laughs, shakes his head, and offers, “I can show you a better stance if you like.”
An audible dry heaving sound is followed by my own headshake. “Tell me that line doesn’t actually work on broadskies.”
“It does,” Tanner retorts without reluctance, “ however, I genuinely wouldn’t mind showing you a better position simply for the sake of saving you some embarrassment.”
Okay.
Fine.
Pool isn’t exactly my thing.
But that isn’t exactly my fault!
Pool halls tend to be obnoxious and crowded and loud, and while I don’t mind loud at times – see hockey – for the sake of my good ear I do try to limit what I expose it to just like we did when I was a kid.
And wearing earplugs to the games is pretty normal for those with sensitive ears.
Unlike sporting one to a bar.
Or…wherever it is people play this damn game.
“You can show me…” I cautiously cave, “but I swear to The Great One , if I even think you’re trying to score, there will be a high-sticking incident that I won’t be paying the standard league fine for.”
“Understood,” he chuckles during the abandoning of his own cue near a barstool. “I’ll even announce my movements play by play as to not alarm you as to what is coming.”
“Acceptable.”
Tanner sweetly beams and open palm motions to the table. “Please bend over.”
“Please get bent.”
Post letting more laughs reverberate around the room, he gingerly proclaims, “I am going to stand behind you and adjust your hips.” Snark slips to the end of my tongue yet is savagely swallowed the second his warm palms firmly grasp the territory. “We are going to pull you slightly back.” And he does. “We want to create a bit of space between you and the table for mobility.”
I think I need air for that.
Air that I don’t have according to the slight burning beginning in my lungs.
“You fortunately have room to properly brace your left hand on the table.”
Said hand lands on the furniture only to have him lightly skate his fingers across it as his lips brush against my right ear unintentionally proving he’s not turned off by the attached hearing aid.
Not that I need him to be turned on.
Pretty sure I’m wound up enough for the both of us.
“ Spread ‘em just a little wider for me, Arden, ” airily commands the man I just know I’m going to regret letting get this close.
Completing the action barely precedes me glancing over my shoulder to locate his slightly hooded glare. “ Next? ”
It’s impossible to ignore the way his breath hitches.
And his mouth creeps a smidge closer.
And how my own mimics the movement.
The very tips of his fingers anchor down between mine. “ Weight. ”
“ For? ”
“ You uh… ” his eyes helplessly fall to my parted lips where they hungrily linger, “ you need weight to keep it firmly in place while you stroke. ”
Stroke me nearly leaps off my tongue.
And given the small desperate bite to his lip I can’t help but believe he’s thinking the same.
Which is bad.
So.
So.
Bad.
We shouldn’t be this fucking close.
I hate him.
I mean…I should hate him.
I need to hate him.
Not want him.
Damn sure not wanna kiss him.
Or keep kissing him.
Or keep kissing him while he puts his weight on me for stroking.
His eyes closing convinces mine to do the same.
Unfortunately for us both, the sound of someone bursting into the room commands them to immediately pop back open and cut over to the intruder. “ Snoowwwwmnannnnnn! ” The male it takes no time to recognize as Ernest Lis – a Camelot Cheetah’s center – uses both his open palms to slap the asses of the topless blonds literally in his possession. “ These snipes wanna melt the snow! ”
“And this one’s gonna go,” I mumble in tandem with removing myself from his weird, ridiculous pull that was most likely caused by the cologne he clearly bathes in.
It probably destroys all the oxygen an innocent person – such as myself – needs to think like a rational human being.
The shit’s most likely called Prey or something equally idiotic, but telling.
I bet a bit of fresh air and an ice-cold brewskie will clear the sense right up.
Maybe I’ll stop and get a German brand to drink while searching for jobs in that country.
Snowman hurriedly reaches for my elbow in an attempt to stop me, “ Arden- ”
“ Hoss ,” leaves me on a reclaiming snatch of my arm. “And this is why I don’t date hockey players.” His mouth twitches, clearly ready to make another plea, prompting me to announce, “I got what I came for, Snowman.” Retreating to my shoes and clutch continues. “Time to let the bunnies do the same, aye?”
His shoulders instantly slump downward alongside another pleading gesture. “ But- ”
“See you on Monday.”
There’s a third and a fourth and even fifth effort executed to keep me in the room, yet they all fail.
Just like his initial pursuit should have.