King, p.11
King, page 11
I hit the cold surface first, a dull thud reverberating through me. Willa lands on top of me, her weight cushioned by my body. The impact forces the air out of my lungs, but the sensation of her warmth against me quickly overrides any discomfort as we slide to a stop.
For a moment, everything is still. Her face is inches away, her breath mingling with mine in the cold air. Her eyes, wide with surprise, lock onto mine. Time seems to slow down, and all I can think about is how close she is, how perfect this moment feels despite our clumsy fall.
Without thinking, I lift my hand and gently place it behind her head, my fingers tangling in her hair. I feel the silkiness of it, and my heart races at the intimacy of the touch. Her eyes soften, and I can see the same emotions reflected in them—the surprise and undeniable attraction.
Slowly, I bring her face down to mine. Her lips are supple and warm, a gentle pressure that sends a jolt of electricity through my entire body. It’s a tender kiss, exploratory and sweet, yet it ignites something deep within. I feel her respond, her lips moving gently and following my lead, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I can’t help but think how wonderful this is, how right it feels to be here with her like this. Her hands rest on my chest and I know she can feel my heartbeat thrumming. The kiss deepens slightly, our lips moving in perfect harmony, but I keep it tender with just the promise of something more.
When we finally pull back, her eyes are closed, her lips slightly parted. I take a moment to memorize the way she looks, the way she feels in my arms. When her eyes flutter open, they meet mine with a mixture of wonder.
“That was…,” she begins, her voice barely a whisper, but it trails off as if she can’t put into words the wonder of it.
I can only agree with the sentiment. “Yeah… it was.”
She smiles, a rosy blush spreading across her cheeks. “You’re not too bad at this,” she says playfully, her eyes twinkling.
I chuckle, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I could say the same about you.”
Despite the cold ice seeping through my clothes, Willa’s body on top of mine warms me through and through. She’s all soft curves that feel heavenly against me and I know if we kiss again, my body will react in a way that could be embarrassing.
So I make the move to break the connection, helping Willa up from the ice. I don’t let her hand go, instead entwining my fingers with hers as I lead her over to the bench.
“You hungry?” I ask, opening the wooden gate so she can step through.
“Starved,” she admits, plopping down with the picnic basket between us.
I set out the food: a variety of cheeses, fresh baguettes, an assortment of cured meats, a colorful fruit salad, and a couple of decadent-looking chocolate tarts for dessert. I uncork the wine and pour us each a glass, handing one to Willa with a smile.
I raise my glass and look into her eyes. “To our first date. I think it’s going so well that I already know I want a second.”
Her smile widens, and she clinks her glass against mine. “If you asked, I don’t think I’d say no.”
We eat on the bench, the ice rink glowing warmly around us. The food is delicious, and the wine adds a pleasant warmth to the cool atmosphere.
Willa looks at me thoughtfully. “So, tell me about your first relationship. You said you only had the one?”
I nod, sipping my wine. “Her name’s Emily. We started dating in high school and stayed together through my time in the juniors and minors. Then she moved to Houston with me when I got called up to the Jam. We were serious—first love and all that. But the pressures of my professional career were hard on her, and we eventually broke up. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”
Willa nods, her eyes understanding. “And you haven’t dated anyone since then?”
I shake my head. “I loved being in a committed relationship, but I’ve been focused on my career. No one has really interested me.”
“Until now,” she says, glancing down at the cracker in her hand.
“Until you,” I confirm.
Willa’s gaze slowly rises to meet mine. “My marriage to Scott was… not good. It ended horribly and as you know, I made a huge mistake in marrying him. It makes me—”
“Cautious?” I guess.
“It makes me different,” she says, and I cock my head in question. “Right now, I’m not interested in getting serious with anyone. My marriage was so suffocating, I felt like I was in a prison. Now that I’m free…” She looks down and shrugs. “I guess I just want to stay free.” Her eyes come up to meet mine. “I just want… casual.”
“But I’m a nice guy,” I point out because she’s trying to set some clear boundaries. “You’re safe with me.”
She smiles but it’s a little flat. “Yeah… Scott seemed like such a nice guy at first too.”
I wince but reach out and take her hand, squeezing it gently. “I get it. I really do. But you said yes to this date and I can tell you’re enjoying yourself. You’re going to say yes to a second date too. We’ll see where it goes.”
“I’m not averse to dating at all. Again, I like it casual.” I see the uncertainty on her face. “The age gap though… it worries me.”
I lean in, looking her straight in the eyes. “Willa, age is just a number. Are you worried because you’re thinking about what others might think or how it might look?”
“I guess,” she says, a slight shrug telling me she’s not sure the source of her angst.
“Well, I don’t care what anyone thinks. It’s no one’s business anyway.”
“Your friends are going to make fun of you,” she points out. “Dating a cougar.”
I laugh, leaning in and giving her a swift kiss on her mouth that makes her look a little starry-eyed. “No, they won’t. Rafferty and North figured it out somehow and they didn’t mention your age once. In fact, Rafferty wanted to ask you out and I shut that down quickly.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Not kidding.”
“Rafferty, huh?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I mean… he is handsome. Is he older than you? Closer to my age?”
Her teasing is exactly what’s needed, because it means she’s not overly uptight about this issue. I kiss her again, mostly to wipe Rafferty’s name off her lips. She sighs into me, and my hand goes to the side of her neck to hold her in place as I explore her mouth.
When I pull back, she blinks at me dreamily. “I bet he doesn’t kiss like you.”
Laughing, I press my lips back to hers. “I have no idea and I’m not about to find out. But let’s do this again, and we can keep it casual if that’s what you want.”
I can see the hesitation and dare I say fear, but it’s short-lived and I’m rewarded with a blinding smile. “Then it’s a definite yes for a second date.”
CHAPTER 10
King
The referee positions himself, puck in hand, as my line moves into place around the circle near our opponent’s net. There’s nineteen seconds on the clock and we’re down by a goal against the Buffalo Wolves. The pressure is immense to make something happen and we’ve already pulled Drake from the goal to give us an extra-man advantage. Anticipation hangs heavy in the air, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. The clang of sticks against the boards from my fellow players is a familiar chorus and the home crowd roars their need for us to score.
I take a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand.
Penn lines up for the face-off, his intense gaze locked on his opponent. I take my spot on the circle along with my line mates Stone, Boone and Bain, as well as Foster who is our extra man with Drake now on the bench. I’m positioned near the blue line, my stick ready to intercept and shoot if the opportunity arises.
The referee steps in. Time stands still as blades kiss the ice and then the puck drops. Penn reacts with lightning speed, his stick clashing with the Wolves’ center. He wins the face-off cleanly, sending the puck back to Boone. Boone immediately passes to Stone, who cradles it for a nanosecond while looking for an opening. The Wolves’ defense closes in, but Stone manages to slip the puck over to me.
I take a quick snap shot, aiming for the top corner, but the Wolves’ goalie knocks it away with his glove. The puck rebounds, bounces, and Bain crashes the net, battling for position. The Wolves’ defense is relentless, blocking his attempts and shoving him away from the crease.
Foster swoops in, collecting the puck and passing it back to me at the blue line. I wind up for a slap shot, but at the last second, I see an opening and pass to Penn, who’s positioned perfectly near the goal. He takes a quick shot, but the goalie deflects it with his pad.
The puck rebounds once more, this time to Boone, who desperately flicks it toward the net. The Wolves’ goalie sprawls to make the save, but the puck skitters to the side. Stone charges, trying to poke it in, but a Wolves’ defenseman gets his stick in the way, sending the puck back to the corner.
I glance at the clock and there’s only five seconds left as I chase the puck down and send it back toward the net one last time. Penn manages to deflect it, but it hits the goalpost and ricochets away. The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the game.
My shoulders collapse in frustration and exhaustion. Despite our relentless effort in those final nineteen seconds, we didn’t do what we needed to do during the rest of the game. Our play was lackluster and it’s a bitter loss going on the balance sheet. The crowd is mostly silent with a smattering of applause from that last-ditch battle.
While the Wolves celebrate with their own fans cheering, our team makes its way to the gate that leads to the tunnel. We bottleneck as each player steps through. Diehard fans hang over the rails, attempting to bump fists, but none of us react. Our heads are hanging.
Penn is in front of me and just as he steps through the gate, a water bottle comes flying from the stands and hits him squarely in the shoulder. It’s full and makes a resounding thwack before clattering to the ground.
I immediately think it’s a Wolves fan but I’m stunned when a loud voice rings out, filled with venom. “Navarro… you’re a traitorous bastard!”
A Florida Spartans fan—Penn’s last team.
“Do your teammates know you can’t be trusted?” the voice calls out and my eyes scan the crowd for the offender, intent on identifying the asshole who just assaulted my teammate. I see security moving in on a man and he’s not wearing a jersey. He’s in his late twenties and while I can’t hear the conversation, he’s arguing with the security professionals who take him by the arms. His face is red with anger and his eyes remain locked on Penn as he screams, “You know what you did, Navarro. Karma is a bitch and it’s coming for you.”
What in the ever-loving fuck? This isn’t some disgruntled Spartans fan who’s pissed his team lost the best player in the league. The spite in those words sounds very personal.
Penn’s face is pale, his jaw locked hard. For a brief moment, he’s frozen in place, staring back at the man. Then, he just shakes his head slightly and moves into the tunnel, out of sight of the fans.
I watch the security guys drag the man out of the bleachers, many of the fans booing him for throwing the water bottle.
“Move it, King,” Stone says from behind me and I realize I’m holding up traffic.
I hustle into the tunnel and when I catch up to Penn, I ask, “Hey, do you know that guy?”
He doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder at me and his voice is flat and without emotion. “No, just some drunken fool. Probably pissed off that I left the Spartans to come here.”
I frown, not entirely convinced, but decide to let it go for now. “Well, screw him. You made the right choice joining the Titans.”
Penn nods but doesn’t respond as we enter the locker room. He moves straight to his cubby to grab his shower gear. I head to my own locker, lost in thought as Rafferty steps up beside me. Pulling his shower bag out, he says, “That was some bullshit.”
I shrug, looking over to see Penn has already left for the showers. When I look back to Rafferty, I say, “Did you hear what was said?”
Rafferty shakes his head. “Nah… I wasn’t paying attention. Just saw the bottle hit him.”
“That dude yelled that Penn was a traitorous bastard, that his teammates can’t trust him and that karma is a bitch and would be coming after him.”
Considering those words, Rafferty lifts a shoulder. “Disgruntled Spartans fan.”
“Most likely, but he also said, You know what you did, implying that Penn did something nefarious. At least by the tone of his voice and you should have seen his face… he was livid with fury. I asked Penn if he knew the guy and he brushed it off, said it was a crazy fan.”
“Probably what it was,” Rafferty says as he sits on the bench to unlace his skates.
“I suppose.” But I’m dubious. I perch next to my teammate and start on my own laces.
“You going to Stevie’s tonight?” He nudges my shoulder and grins mischievously. “Or perhaps you’re seeing Willa?” Rafferty then reverts to a twelve-year-old and makes kissy faces.
“Grow up,” I growl, which is ironic given that Willa is weirded out by the age gap and I’m obviously more mature than Rafferty who is also older than me. “But yes, I’m going to Stevie’s.”
Hendrix had posted on the team thread asking everyone to come hang at Stevie’s bar tonight after the game. He didn’t say why and there doesn’t seem to be a special occasion, but he’s never formally requested the team show up en masse. Usually he invites a handful of us since much of the team does their own thing after a game. Some go to Mario’s, some go home to their families and others go out to meet their honeys. I asked Willa to come as my date, but she has some medical function to attend tonight, so it’s just me and the guys.
♦
It’s a laid-back atmosphere as almost the entire team fills Jerry’s Lounge, but most notably absent and without surprise is Penn. I appreciate the general chill vibe in this place, because although there are many hockey fans in here, they tend to treat us like regular patrons and don’t make a big deal about our presence. The mood is slightly somber since we lost, but that doesn’t stop us from having a good time with our fellowship.
The familiar clatter of pool balls and the low hum of conversation diverts our attention from the sting of defeat and smiles and laughs are still happening. I’m hanging with Rafferty, North and Atlas near the pool tables, watching Stevie school yet another challenger. She’s the undisputed queen of billiards around here, and no one’s been able to beat her that I’ve ever seen. She’s whipped my ass more than once, but I guess that comes with the territory when you were essentially raised in a bar.
Hendrix has been hanging with Bear up at the bar talking but now walks our way, a determined look on his face. Stevie’s standing, her back to him, talking to Lilly and Mazzy and doesn’t see when he pulls a black velvet box out of his pocket and places it on the pool table. There’s a tradition that you place quarters on the ledge when you want to issue a challenge, but anyone who’s watching knows that this box represents something far deeper. I elbow Rafferty in the ribs as he’s caught up in conversation with Atlas and they both turn to watch. Someone mutes the jukebox—I’m sure by design—and the bar falls silent.
“Stevie,” Hendrix announces loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. “I challenge you to a game of nine ball.”
Stevie turns around to face her boyfriend, her eyes rolling due to his audacity to issue a challenge he’ll never win. But her dismissal freezes as she spots the box.
With a frown, her gaze lifts to Hendrix. “What the hell is that?” she asks, which is classic Stevie. She then cocks a suspicious eyebrow. “Are you drunk?”
“Drunk on love,” he says with a mischievous grin. “I’m challenging you and the stakes are as follows. If I win, you have to marry me.”
A murmur of excitement runs through the crowd, and Rafferty elbows me back, grinning. “This is going to be interesting,” he says.
Stevie places her hands on her hips, lips pursed in amusement. “And what happens if I win?”
“What do you want?” Hendrix asks.
Stevie puts a finger to her lips as she ponders. Finally, she says, “You have to do laundry for a month.”
“Fair enough—”
“And,” she continues, “clean the toilets here at the bar for six months.”
Hendrix flinches, his face scrunching up in disgust. “Fine, but—”
“And,” she drawls impishly, “you have to wear a pink leotard and tutu to the next team workout.”
Everyone roars with laughter and Hendrix tightens his jaw. “Fine,” he growls. “Now, can we play?”
Stevie sweeps her arm toward the table. “Let’s do it.”
The game begins, and it’s clear from the start that Stevie is holding back. Hendrix takes his first shot, sinking the one ball with a lucky ricochet. Everyone cheers, completely invested in Hendrix winning so an engagement will happen.
Atlas gives a shrill whistle. “Nice shot, Hendrix! Didn’t know you had it in you!”
Stevie’s turn comes, and she misses an easy shot, clearly letting Hendrix gain the upper hand. North leans over to me, whispering, “She’s letting him win, isn’t she?”
I nod, grinning. “Definitely. Although I’d love to see him in that pink leotard and tutu.”
As the game progresses, Stevie hits a good shot here and there but it’s Hendrix sinking more balls than his girlfriend, each one greeted with enthusiastic cheers from the crowd. When he makes a particularly tricky shot, Rafferty whistles. “Maybe he’s got some hidden talent after all!”
Despite being loved by the crowd as a whole, Stevie gets booed every time she sinks one but it rolls off her back as she keeps a knowing smirk on her face the entire time.
