Reality TV? I’d pick reruns of Friends
His choice is exactly like him—light and happy. It makes me want to bask in his brightness, hoping to steal some for myself.
Hockey Boy:
Meet me outside in 10
I sit up at the new message, excitement slowlychurning within me.
Me:
It’s almost 11 p.m.
Hockey Boy:
Do it
I’m coming to pick you up
A half hour later, I’m standing at the edge of a surprisingly crowded parking lot, staring at the back of the man who has brought me to, of all things, a taco festival. If someone told me a few weeks ago I’d be grabbing midnight meals with a handsome man as platonic friends, I wouldn’t have believed them. I glance up at the streamers that’ve been strung between the food trucks, fanning out like a shell. Underneath the lighted canopy are rows of picnic benches, creating a perfect seating for the food fanatics present here. Latin pop fills the air, adding to the cacophony of dialogue from every corner.
The dark sky juxtaposed with the vibrant atmosphere is mesmerizing. My gaze returns to Cal, who shoulders past the crowds holding an armful of food. I can’t look away from this man and neither can the women he walks past. With high cheekbones, a square face, and a jawline that could make angels weep, he’s breathtaking. And he’s currently searching for me.
Covered in day-old scruff, a backward hat, and an Ironhearts sweatshirt, he’s the blueprint for an all-American sweetheart.All-Canadian,I correct myself.
Friendly, sexy, magnetic.Irresistible.
When he finally catches sight of me, his pink mouth curves up in a stellar grin that sets every molecule within me abuzz. He jogs in my direction, completely ignoring the flirtatious waves and backward glances thrown in his direction. It’s as if he doesn’t see them when he’s looking at me. Goosebumps break across my skin at such a wistfulthought. As he comes closer, my belly swoops in anticipation. I unconsciously rub my arms in an effort to keep calm.
“Cold?” he asks, brows knitting lightly when I nod. My ears burn from the lie. Cal places our food on the table before reaching one hand behind his back to pull his hoodie over his head. The action causes his t-shirt to ride up and I’m treated to a glimpse of a body that matches the perfection of his face. How many abs were those? Four? Six? My mouth waters and it’s not because of the aroma of fresh tacos.
“Arms up,” he instructs. Like a fool whose brain function has been destroyed by the beauty of a boy, I obey. His warmth surrounds me as the thick material glides over my body. He fusses with the length of the sleeves, folding them over until they aren’t hanging off my hands. Pinching the edge of the sweatshirt along my shoulder, he adjusts it to his satisfaction before sliding both hands up to cup either side of my neck.
Long fingers tangle into my hair as he tries to gently pull it out of the sweater neck. My gaze flicks up to his face. . . and that’s when we realize how close we are. How intimate our position is: his calloused palms privy to every fluttering pulse in my throat, his nails scraping the base of my nape. Heat coils low in my belly as our eyes lock. My heart thumps with the speed of a rabbit trying to outrun a fox, a bruising rhythm that sounds in my ears. When his grip tightens the slightest bit, tugging on my scalp, my mouth parts in a silent moan. The green of his eyes melds into glittering emerald, and it’s all I see anymore.
A loud screech over the speakers disrupts the music as much as our moment. Cal clears his throat before carefully sliding his fingers out of my hair and stepping away. But his scent is on me and I almost sway as I try to recover.
Bappa re,the man is a weapon and makes my brain melt into my knees without even trying.
He hands me my plate and gestures for us both to sit. I swipe a couple tortilla chips from the brown paper bag and shove one into my mouth, thankful to have some time to rein in my traitorous body. Eventually, my heart stops trying to burst out of my chest and I’m no longer at risk of swooning like a 70s Bollywood heroine.
“When’s your next game?” I ask, enjoying the crunch of the hard taco Cal picked for me.
“In two days. Rest day tomorrow.”
“You didn’t have to come cheer me up.”
“Aha,” he exclaims, talking around the bite he’s taken. “So you did need cheering!”
“I had a weird. . . date.” I shoot Cal an embarrassed glance before finding escape in my taco.
“Guy asked you to rate him?” He sounds choked. Like he barely got the words out.
I nod.
“Was it a joke?”
“I thought it was, until he didn’t laugh. That’s odd. Right?” I turn to him, beseechingly. “It’s not me being judgmental?”