Fake Skating(60)

Like he was trying to help her.

I texted: This might sound crazy, but I think he’s trying to fix things with you.

Dani: How is he doing that exactly? By grunting a lot in my presence?

I could see how she could miss it. The old guy was shit at communicating. But as much as I wanted to help Mick out a bit, I needed to cover the kiss immediately.

I texted: So… subject change.

Dani: Yes…?

Me: About that other thing that happened in your driveway.

Dani: What other thing?

Okay, so she clearly didn’t want to discuss it. And yet all I could do was think about it.

Me: Fair enough. See you tomorrow.

She didn’t respond, but just as I plugged my phone into the charger and switched off the lamp, my phone buzzed.

Dani: My grandpa just came into my room and told me to tell you to ice the shoulder before you go to bed, even if you’re too tired.

I stared at the message in disbelief. I wasn’t sure why it made my throat feel a little tight, and I had no fucking idea why it made me feel a thousand times more exhausted.

I texted: Tell him thanks.

And then I went downstairs and got some ice.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Dani




Game day was a series of shocking events.

For starters, Alec looked ridiculous when he picked me up for school. I opened the kitchen door and almost dropped dead from a heart attack. I opened my mouth but the only words that came out were “Where are your contacts?”

“Too tired to put them in,” he said, looking confused. “Why?”

What does “why” mean again?

I knew that the team dressed up for some game days, but they hadn’t for the last one. He’d worn joggers and a hoodie, for God’s sake, so I wasn’t prepared for this.

I hadn’t pictured him dressing up so… well.

Alec was wearing perfectly tailored black pants that somehow showed off how muscular his thighs were (or maybe that was just my foggy brain still shocked by the change in him). He had on a nice belt that matched his very stylish dress shoes, and the gray cashmere sweater he wore clung to his pectorals and amplified just how hard and wide his chest was.

And he was wearing glasses—dear Lord he looked good in those tortoiseshell frames. I remembered him getting contacts in sixth grade, but apparently he still wore glasses from time to time.

It wasn’t an exaggeration—it really wasn’t—to say he looked like he could be in a photo shoot for hot young businessmen, and it kind of freaked me out.

I wasn’t comfortablewith how attractive he was, and I could tell he’d noticed me looking.

Dammit.

So I said, “Your mom has the best taste.”

“What?”

“I like your outfit,” I said with a heavy dose of teasing condescension. “It looks like Mommy got you really nice church clothes.”

His mouth slid into an arrogant smirk and he shook his head. “I know I look good; don’t be a little shit.”

“So humble,” I muttered, going around his big body because I couldn’t look at him for another second. My cheeks were hot and I felt unaccountably nervous, and the feeling didn’t get any better when I nearly broke off the car door handle.

I yanked, but it was still locked.

“Can you please unlock the door?” I asked with a sigh, glancing at him over my shoulder.

Only he was right there, much closer than I’d thought. My eyes met his, and a thousand images of him kissing me in that very driveway slammed into me.

It might’ve only lasted for mere seconds, but God, I could still feelhis big hands tangled in my hair and see the intensity in his dark eyes as he’d lowered his face.

As his mouth had landed on mine.

He cleared his throat.

Gah!

I jumped a little and said, “God, it’s freezing out here.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” he said, unlocking the door and quickly walking over to the driver’s side.

I could feel the awkwardness between us.

Like every moment together was edged with tension.

Inflated.

And I had no idea what to do with it.

Looking to talk about anything not filled with weirdness, I asked, “Are you excited about the game tonight?”

“Are you mocking me?” he asked as he started the car.

“No, I mean it,” I said, watching out the window as he backed out of the driveway and started driving. He was so serious about hockey that it had to stress him out. “How do you feel on game day? Are you excited or nervous? Listening to pump-up music in your headphones while playing air guitar in the locker room—that sort of thing?”

He was rarely serious with me; he was either the obnoxious jock boy or a flicker of silly little Alec, so I was surprised when he swallowed hard and his jaw clenched. There was something in his dark eyes when he said, “I think I’m more stressed out when it’s not game day.”

“What? Really?”

“I can control my game, so I can’t wait for that,” he said. “Everything else is out of my hands, but when I get out there, it’s all up to me, so I’m just counting down the hours.”

He looked uncomfortable, like he was thinking unhappy thoughts, and I realized it was probably because I was sounding too interested.