That response surprised me a little. It seemed the theme of the day. “I’m sorry you have to deal with people like that.”
The corner of his mouth crooked up. “Careful. You said that almost like you care about me.”
We both fell silent after that.
My head was spinning from the one-eighty from the day before. I’d gone from having him seething in my face with my chin clutched in his hand to being front row and center to the softest parts of him.
I didn’t know what to think anymore.
And I damn sure didn’t have a box to put him in.
But one thing I did have was the climbing numbers on our social media channels to remind me that this was all a job. There was only one reason why a man like him and a woman like me were in the same place — because it was an assignment. For both of us.
I could think about my subject all I wanted, and I’d even give myself the pleasure of appreciating how unfairly good looking the man was. But that was where it ended.
There wasn’t a time that existed where the two of us mixed past this one we’d found ourselves in by happenstance.
The night crawled on, and Vince put on that music I’d heard the first morning I’d walked into his condo. It was a cross between French and Arabic, and it set a vibe unlike any other, especially paired with the views of him creating.
I had expected it to be beautiful, watching Vince mold that clay into a vase.
I had not expected it to be erotic.
But there was no better word for it. Watching this beast of an athlete work with something so fragile and delicate with his massive, calloused hands was sexy as hell. The clay covered his fingers and knuckles and palms, and he moved each muscle in his hand with perfect precision to turn a lump of terra-cotta clay into something sensational.
I pulled out my camera, taking a long video of him when he was halfway through. I started zooming out, catching a smirking Vince as he glanced at me and shook his head before focusing on his work again. Then, I carefully walked closer, zooming in the camera to focus on his hands.
On only his hands.
And to add a little cinematic touch, I slowed parts of it down in post, editing the video so that for ten seconds of it, the viewer saw Vince Tanev’s hands and fingertips dancing around that wet clay and shaping it in super slow motion.
Watching it playback before I posted it made my throat dry, like it was almost too hot to post, like I was about to push a sex tape into the world instead of an innocent video of a man molding pottery.
I wrote out a long caption, one that detailed a little bit of the story Vince had told me about how pottery came into his life, and I highlighted one quote in bold.
This is the one thing in my life that isn’t goal-oriented, the one place where I can be free.
By the time I woke up the next morning, the video had gone viral.
With over eight-million views.
What’s With the Fish?
Vince
The long drag of the buzzer sounding was music to my ears.
The home crowd in Tampa went wild, blue and white towels being waved overhead in a battle cry as I was tackled from all angles by my teammates. We celebrated the goal, one Carter had assisted me in, with a cheeky dance to the roar of the stadium. It was a mixture of applause and laughter, and even the referees smiled while shaking their heads and giving us the look that said we’d better wrap it up and get ready for the next play to start.
We were up three to zero with less than eight minutes left to play.
One of the wingers for the opposing team knocked me hard in the shoulder as I passed him, and I turned with the hit, smiling as I skated up next to him.
“Oh, are you the tough guy?” I chirped. Then I pointed my stick at him and called out to Jaxson. “Watch out, this one’s the tough guy.”
“Fuck off, Pigeon,” he spat.
“This pigeon is shitting all over your goalie,” I reminded him. “Like he’s a bench seat in Central Park.”
He shoved me hard, which just made me laugh as I skated backward toward the bench. I took off my glove and wiggled my fingers at him in a wave that made him grit his teeth.
“Alright, Tanev. That’s enough,” Coach warned when I was close enough to hear him. But I saw his grin. “Save the fights for when we need them.”
I jumped the boards and took a seat on the bench, graciously accepting water from one of our trainers as I tried to catch my breath. The puck was dropped, and my focus zeroed in on my teammates.
But I felt Maven where she stood in the tunnel like a current of electricity buzzing through my veins.
The last week with her had tilted my world on its axis. And where she’d been like a thorn in my side that first game in Boston, she’d been more like a soothing balm today, quietly observing me while I got ready to play.
We’d spent my entire day off together on Sunday, and then she’d followed me all yesterday, too, during practice and film and everything in-between. The frost she’d iced me out with in the beginning was thawing now, and she talked to me, laughed with me, and let me peel back a little layer to see more of who the girl was beneath it.
She was a walking contradiction, Maven King — simultaneously a fascinating, generous, free-spirited hippy, and also a closed-off, teeth-bared in warning brat. It was so far from what I was used to when it came to women, I couldn’t help but be enamored by it, by her.
And whether I chose it or not, she was now a part of my routine.
The corner of my mouth twitched up when I recalled her standing in my doorway when it was time to head to the stadium earlier. She’d leaned a hip against the frame, the white pencil skirt she wore hugging her slight curves, and the midnight blue top she wore with it cinching her slim waist. Her hair framed her face in a curly halo, and her glossy lips had spread into a smile as she watched me grab my bag and head for the door.
She didn’t move once I reached it.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you pass,” she’d said, tilting her head a bit. “Not until we fight.”
It was a tease, a reference to the game before, and I’d folded my arms over my chest and sized her up. “What do you want to fight about?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
“Hm…” I’d said, tapping my chin in thought. “I need to figure out a way to piss you off.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard for you.”
I’d smirked at that, and then, I’d dropped my bag to the floor and dug my fingertips into her sides, tickling her mercilessly.
I smiled wider remembering the squealing peals of laughter that she’d let loose, how she had tears coming out of her eyes as she tried to break free from me. In her attempt, her body had been completely pressed into mine, and I’d felt the weight of her slight frame in my arms, had inhaled her scent — lemon and vanilla, like a refreshing dessert I was more than curious to taste.
She was breathless by the time I’d finally relented, and as soon as she had her breath back, she’d socked me right in the gut.
I’d doubled over with an oof, but had laughed all the same.
“You’re such a prick,” she’d yelled. “I couldn’t breathe!”
“Is it time to kiss and make up now?”
She’d sucked her teeth at that, turning on her heels that matched her blouse before strutting down the hall like a model.