“Nixon Scott. Number 34. Defenseman for Vancouver.”
“But he’s been circling and interfering with Rohan’s play all evening.”
“That’s the game though,” Irsia mumbles. “The entire point of an agitator is to bother the opposition so they lose their cool.”
“Are you justifying the actions of someone we’re playing against? Rooting for the enemy, Ish?”
“He’s not—”
I don’t hear the rest of her answer because Cal scores and I can’t help it, I bolt upright, screaming in unison with every fan around me. My face hurts with how wide my smile stretches, my cheek muscles tightening high, making me nearly squint in happiness. I’m clapping so hard, my palms will sting all night long. The Ironhearts pile onto each other to celebrate a two-point lead and I laugh at their rowdy yet boyish behavior.
As if he knows I’m cheering for him, as if he feels my pride on his behalf, Cal’s head turns and he zeroes in on me. Bright lights flash across his face and I can imagine his irises lightening to a glacial green. My heart jackhammers against my ribs, thumping like an overeager pet who’s caught the scent of her favorite human.
He punches his hockey stick in the air with the confidence of someone who knows how effortlessly sexy he is. Even with a red face slick with sweat, Cal is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
As if putting on a show for me, he deliberately lifts the edge of his jersey to wipe the side of his neck, revealing the cut muscles on his torso beneath the padding. My fingers twitch, knowing exactly how hard his body is to touch, how warm he gets under my palm. Or mouth. How those muscles flex when we lay flush together. Heat curls deep and low in my abdomen when his perfect lips tip up, his wink aimed at me.
The screeching and swooning of the fan girls in the row ahead yanks me out of my daydream, just in time to catch the shine of mischief in his eyes as he skates past us on a victory lap.
“If you keep eyeing each other like that,everyonewill know you two are dating,“ Irsia teasingly whispers, bumping her shoulder into me.
“We’re not,” I mumble, dropping into my seat. To my confusion, Irsia snorts. It takes her a second to realize I’m not being facetious and, just as quickly, her giggles subside.
“Aloo, c’mon.”
“What? You’re the one who told me to find a gentleman and helped me pick out a dress for a fling. So that’s what this is. A fling.”
“Is there a rule that says flings can’t turn into more?” she questions curiously.
I’m not ready for more, am I? I don’t sound confident when I protest, “I got divorced only a few months ago.”
“Again, is there a rule that says you shouldn’t be in a relationship soon after ending a shitty one?” she asks. “The question is, do you like Cal?”
“Of course. He’s amazing.”
“And he makes you happy in and out of bed?”
“We haven’t. . .” I sneak a glance around me to make sure no one is listening. Between the music and noise of the game, not a single person is interested in two whispering women. “We haven’t actually slept together. Yet.”
Irsia’s mouth drops open so low, I have the opportunity to pop a chip in to snap her out of it.
“Alia, what the hell?” she splutters. “What about Vegas?”
“I got cold feet. And Cal agreed to take it slow.”
She blinks, stunned. “He did?”
“I mean, we’ve done other things.Incrediblethings. I never knew it could be like that. The stuff he does with his hands and mouthalone—” I bite my tongue, chagrined. “Sorry, TMI.”
Irsia lets out a quiet guffaw, her face torn between awkwardness and acceptance of this insight into my sex life. “No, Aloo, it’s okay. You can talk to me about anything. I’m glad you’re getting what you wanted. And I’m so happy you found a man patient enough to wait until you’re ready. But it all brings me back to the same point. You’re dating him.”
“Irsia!”
“He brings you flowers, cooks for you, takes you out on cute little dates, practically falls all over himself to come say ‘hi’ when he should be focusing on winning the game, shoots hearts out of his eyes when he sees you cheering for him, and can’t stop staring at you like a lovesick puppy. Newsflash: he’s acting like a boyfriend.”
“He’s a player. He knows how to act,” I argue, even if the words feel hollow. I will my fraying nerves to settle. This isn’t a situation that requires a fight or flight response, so I have no idea why my entire body is thrumming like I’m under attack. “He’s amazing, charming, handsome enough to make my brain malfunction with a single look. He can haveanyonehe wants.”
I’m acutely aware of the discomfort spearing my chest when I picture Cal moving on to a woman better suited to him. She’ll be the one receiving his attention. The comfort of his hugs and the strength of his support would be hers. I’m already envious of this nameless, faceless person.