Page 9 of Wake Me Up (New England Bay Sharks #5)
“You didn’t have to do this,” Tripp says, still standing beside us. “But thank you. You made the team’s day.”
Suddenly, I’m a thirty-three-year-old woman who is shy, feeling like I’m a freshman in high school and a senior is giving me a flirtatious grin.
Maybe it’s because I’ve ignored the stare of every man for so long, or perhaps it’s just because of the circumstances—that I’m surrounded by professional athletes.
Whichever it is, my cheeks are on fire. And when I feel Tripp’s eyes still on me, I think I may actually melt into a puddle.
“It was the least we could do,” I say, pushing through my bashfulness and turning to my kids because … security blankets. “Right, guys?”
“Yep!” Aviana says before the boys can answer. “Even though … you’re not really getting anything out of it. I don’t think there will be much left after your whole team is finished.” She frowns. “Want me to go grab you something before it’s all taken? They seem really hungry.”
I can’t even tell you the expression Tripp is wearing when she asks him that because I don’t know his different expressions. But what I do know is, the broody exterior he seems to wear so well cracks the slightest bit, and he smiles at her.
“Sure. How about a glazed doughnut? You got any of those?”
Her head bobs eagerly, eyes widening. “My mom makes the best doughnuts, and the glazed ones are her specialty.”
“I don’t know about that,” I murmur, tucking my hair behind my ear.
My daughter means well, but my cheeks only heat more because I hate being the center of attention.
Actually, that is an understatement. I hate it so much that it gives me hives.
I’ve always been this way, but now it’s even worse because for so long, I’ve buried myself in my kids’ activities and taking care of them, and in doing so, it means I never have to be the center of attention—ever.
Now, here I am, standing in front of what Sports Illustrated has called the most eligible bachelor, with his eyes on me while my daughter brags about my doughnut-making skills.
Geesh.
Tripp’s grin only seems to grow when he takes in my discomfort. I’ve seen him in plenty of pictures on the internet and on TV, but he usually wears a scowl or an emotionless look. This smile though … it’s something else.
Logan returns and starts chatting to Cane off to the side when Ave runs off. I look away from Tripp, uncomfortable with how his stare makes my skin prickle or how I feel it literally everywhere. Luckily, he turns his attention to Cash.
“How’s hockey been going?”
Cash’s eyes light up, and I’m not even sure if it’s because Tripp is talking to him or if it’s from the mention of hockey. “It’s going well. We haven’t had any games yet though.”
“First one is in a few days though,” I remind him, knowing how excited and nervous he is about it. “And you guys are going to do great.”
I can’t tell if I’ve just embarrassed him or if he’s happy for the support. Either way, Cash is too polite to tell me.
“Thanks, Mom,” he answers softly before turning his attention back to Tripp. “Yeah, I think it’s going to go okay. I hope.”
“What position are you playing?” Tripp asks just as Aviana returns with his glazed doughnut, passing it to him, along with a napkin .
“Thank you,” Tripp says sweetly. “Looks real good.”
She skips away. One look at Cash’s face, and I know he’s nervous to answer.
He glances over at where his brother is now talking to Logan and a few other Bay Sharks, including the infamous Kolt Kolburne, and keeps his voice low.
Until this moment, I guess I didn’t know why he didn’t want to try this goalie thing.
But seeing him make sure his brother isn’t close by before answering, I know it’s because he doesn’t want to hurt Cane’s feelings.
Because, in the short time Cane played, goalie was his jam.
“My new coach is having me try goalie for now,” he utters. “Normally, I’m a center. Or a wing.”
Right away, I’m sure that Tripp picked up on Cash’s hesitance because it was clear as day, and he tilts his head to the side subtly.
“I mean … I may be a little partial, but goalie is a pretty good position if you ask me.” He stops. “You don’t seem that thrilled about it though?”
His shoulders sag a little, and he shrugs. “It’s just not where I usually play, but I don’t want to tell Coach that.”
I watch a teensy smile tug on Tripp’s lips.
“That makes you a great player. You’re going where your coach puts you without throwing a fit. Sometimes, that’s what it takes to have a good team.”
Cash is quiet for a few seconds, but nods his head once. “Yeah, I guess,” he says, his eyes looking at his brother. “It was Cane’s favorite position, but it’s not mine.”
At the same time I figure it all out, realization flashes in Tripp’s eyes, and he tenses. “Yeah, that’s gotta be tough.”
That’s all he says, but I’m sure it’s because it’s what he can muster up. I might not know Tripp that well, but it’s pretty obvious he’s not a man who is going to have long-drawn-out conversations. He’s quiet, and he keeps to himself.
As some of the players start to exit, all calling out a thank-you to us, some even doing it while they take a bite of whatever pastry they chose, Cane makes his way back over toward us.
“Well, we’d better get going,” I say, keeping my eyes focused on my kids because, frankly, I’m afraid to look directly at Tripp, worried my stomach will do more flips that it has no business doing.
He brings the doughnut to his mouth and takes a bite. Once he chews and swallows, he holds it up and looks at me. This time, I can’t avoid his stare. Though I wish I could because my skin tingles and I hate it.
“Thanks again for bringing all the baked goods.” He takes another bite. “Best doughnut I’ve ever tasted,” he drawls smoothly.
Something about the way the word tasted rolls from his lips makes my heart skip a beat and between my legs prickle. And the way his eyes smolder while he looks at me has me swallowing—hard.
He’s a famous hockey player, so obviously, he has charisma.
Hell, whether he’s grumpy or not, I have no doubt that women throw themselves at him.
This crazy pull I feel toward him, I know he isn’t feeling it back.
I’m a widowed mother of three. I don’t take the time to do my hair, and I hardly ever apply makeup because I’m always running my kids around.
And my leg hair? Well, it’s fall in Maine.
Let’s just say, it’s keeping me warm right now.
He isn’t looking at me like that on purpose. It’s probably a game to him—to toy with women with his sexy eyes and slight grin.
Yet even though I know all this, his presence still makes my palms sweaty.
Cane holds his hand out, wanting a handshake, and quickly, Tripp holds his out too.
“Nice to see you again, man. Good luck in basketball and baseball this year.”
“Thanks,” Cane gushes, releasing his hand, and Tripp moves to Cash.
“If you love the game the way I can see you do … you’ll find a home anywhere on the ice.” He says the words like a secret message because that’s exactly what they are. “Good luck, man.”
“Thanks,” Cash says hesitantly.
“And thank you for that amazing doughnut,” Tripp says, smiling at Aviana. “You were right. They are your mom’s specialty.” He takes a step back, sweeping his gaze to all of us. “Y’all have a good day. Careful not to run any nails over.”
“No promises there,” I utter, breathing out a small laugh. “Come on, guys. Let’s go.”
As I head toward the bench to clean up the boxes we got—which are all, in fact, empty—Tripp walks beside me. “I got this.”
It’s three drawled-out words. Yet … my heart beats faster as his deep voice utters them .
“Are you sure?” I look at all of the empty, almost-torn-apart boxes. “This made a bit of a mess.”
“You were nice enough to bring them, darlin’. I’ll pick them up.” The word darling comes out slow and low.
I know my kids didn’t hear him, but my face heats, and my scalp prickles.
Forcing out something—anything I can—I nod quickly before heading toward my kids, needing to get away from this man. “All right, if you insist. Have a great rest of your day.”
I take Aviana’s hand and start toward my car as fast as I can without making it too obvious that I want to get the hell away from him.
I haven’t felt my heart race like this in five years. I’m not going to allow it to start happening now. Especially not for a professional athlete who plays girls like a fiddle, I’m sure.
I’m not naive, and his charming smile and brooding good looks won’t work on me. I won’t let them.
I have too many responsibilities for that.