Altercation (Playmaker Duet #1; Prescott Family #4; Love In All Places #6) Page 7

  “Where you taking her?” Nico asked as we both stood and skated toward the center, where we would start drive drills.

  “Probably just Maggiano’s.”

  Nico lifted a brow. “Seriously? Take her somewhere nice.”

  “That is nice. But it’s not so nice it’ll, I don’t know, scare her or some shit,” I said, mumbling the end.

  “C’mon, Cathys, let’s do this,” Ant said, pushing between Nico and me. Ant dubbed Nico and I ‘Cathys,’ for ‘Chatty Cathys,’ shortly after training camp began in the fall.

  When the line in front of us shot and Armstrong saved the puck, the three of us set up. Once those three were out of the way, we ran our own drill, driving down toward Armie. The puck slapped and hit each of our blades with well-practiced precision until Nico finally netted the puck.

  Ant tapped the back of Armstrong’s calf with his stick as we peeled away, going back to the group to wait for our next turn.

  “The kid’s taking his girl to Maggiano’s,” Nico informed Ant.

  I groaned, rolling my eyes heavenward. You didn’t tell an Italian you were going to a chain Italian place, no matter how nice it was.

  “You should bring her to the house. Maria can make you real Italian.”

  “Yeah. Real Italian. Not that…family-style bullshit.”

  “I’ve got this, guys. Really.” I shook my head in their direction, then glanced over my shoulder toward Asher. She was fiddling with her phone but glanced up, and this time it was me fighting the heat in my face.

  She smiled softly, as if she was unsure, and lifted her fingers in a wave.

  “You better wrap it,” Ant said.

  “What the fuck is with you two?” I blurted, turning away from Asher’s eyes.

  Nico laughed and Ant just shrugged, his mouth moving as if he were digging shit out of his molars. “You’re the hotshot rookie in town who hasn’t slept with a single willing and available woman. Surely, you’ve got needs. You’ve been here, what? What’s it been, D’Amaco?” Ant turned his attention to Nico. “Three months? Four?”

  Nico nodded. “Damn near.”

  “Shit or get off the pot, brother. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “I bet your wife likes that mouth,” I said, and the moment the words left—

  “She sure as hell does. I won’t go into details, respect and privacy, you know, but yep. She sure does.”

  My mind went to places it had no business going, not with Ant and Maria, but eventually I was thinking about my mouth, and Asher.

  And damn it all to hell, I was fucking uncomfortable in my gear again.

  It was going to be a long three periods.

  This was my first true hockey game, and I found that it was really, really exciting.

  Sure, I’d watched some of Porter’s games on television, but in person, it was a totally different beast. The sounds of skates on ice, the shaving noises as the players slid to a stop, the puck slapping against sticks.

  And the back-talking.

  From where I sat, I could hear a lot of sassy comments from the other team as they passed the Rockets’ bench.

  When Porter came in after a session—shift, Avery had told me once—on the ice, I even heard him curse out, “Goddamn fucking mother shitter!” as he slammed the door behind him, causing my brows to rise well into my hairline, I was sure.

  He must not have liked how he played.

  I thought he had done fine, but what did I know?

  With each line change, though, the hockey players brought in a burst of cold air. I was thankful for the blazer that Avery added to this ensemble.

  I tried texting her earlier to scold her—what in the hell had she been thinking!—but she had yet to respond. I was curious as to when she got a hold of my bag and added the outfit, as well as why she added the outfit, but whatever her reasoning, I was able to put it to use.

  The heels were really fucking uncomfortable though.

  I wore heeled boots on occasion in the past, but these things were fancy nude pumps and had a super thin, four-inch heel.

  Ok, maybe not super thin, but when you were used to chunky heels on boots, these puppies were thin.

  I was quite impressed at my ability to walk in them though.

  I uncrossed my legs and instead crossed them at my ankles, pulling the blazer closed over my chest. It was freaking cold in here.

  Glancing up at the Jumbotron, I saw there was only a minute left in the game, and the Rockets were up by two—an insurance goal, Avery called it the other night.

  I’d watched a few games though, where that insurance goal did absolutely nothing, and the players scored twice in a thirty-second span. In this game, you couldn’t let your guard down.

  There was a television timeout called and each team went around their respective bench. Porter and Nico were on the ice, leaning into the boards as their coach talked and drew on a dry erase board.

  I kept my eyes on Porter as I thought about how he responded to my showing up yesterday.

  Aside from that really weird moment this morning, he actually seemed glad that I was here. And if I were to be honest?

  I was really glad I came, too.

  Even if it was by trickery, Avery.

  Porter was playing well tonight, too, aside from whatever missed something-or-another he did that warranted the swear-vomit earlier. At least, I thought he was playing well. I got that I didn’t know everything about the game, but he scored a goal and was on the ice during another, so those were good things, right?

  The refs were moving toward the middle of the ice and players started to push away from the boards. Before he followed suit, Porter looked up at me and winked again.

  The guy winked at me more tonight than any guy had winked at me in my life. I really didn’t think it was normal.

  Once again, the game was in action. I sat up tall as the puck was dropped and the sound of sticks battling one another echoed. I could hear yells and taunts, chants from the crowd, and a solid thwack as the puck left the battle in the middle of the rink.

  Porter raced after it, his speed impressive. He flew down the ice, his stick in front of him and nearly resting on the ice, his other arm bent at his side as if he were truly running. I gasped when the other team tried knocking him into the boards, pinning him there, but sticks and skates fought in the tiny space until, finally, the puck was freed.

  I was on the edge of my seat, my eyes flexing from the play on the ice, to the countdown happening up above.

  Twenty-two.

  The puck was in the Rockets’ possession, and the five men on ice were making great work of passing the puck to one another. A quick play-around of the puck in front of one player, only for it to be quickly slapped toward another.

  Over and over, the puck made it around the area—zone—until one of the visitors reached his stick out, tapping the puck on its way from Nico to Porter, and with skill, the other player attempted to slap it past the middle.

  Seventeen.

  There was racing on the ice now, as the visitors attempted to gain control of the puck, just as the Rockets tried to do the same.

  Twelve.

  A whistle was blown.

  I didn’t see what happened, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have a clue what it meant.

  All around me, fans were talking, laughing, shouting.

  Holding.

  Hooking.

  Goddamned zebra, didn’t you see…?

  The announcement was made—hooking being the infraction. Again, I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but whatever it was had Porter cursing as he was led to the penalty box.

  I watched on the Jumbotron as he angrily sat down, throwing his gloves and helmet to the side. He lifted his jersey to wipe at his face.

  I found my eyes dropping to the box to watch in real time. What the Jumbotron failed to show in its angle was the bare expanse of Porter’s stomach.

  I bit my b
ottom lip and forced my eyes back up on the Jumbotron, where they were replaying what had happened.

  A whistle was blown again and now everyone was set up in front of the Rockets’ goal, only four Rockets on the ice and five of the visitors. The puck was dropped and suddenly there were six of the visitors.

  I glanced over at their net to see that they had pulled their goalie.

  My eyes went back to the clock.

  Eight.

  There was a fight going on in front of the net as the visitors tried to put the puck in the net.

  Even if they succeeded, what was the likelihood that they could get another goal in less than a handful of seconds?

  Apparently, they were going to try.

  With so much happening in front of the net, I had a hard time keeping an eye on the puck, but suddenly the red light was flashing.

  Shit. Goal.

  Across the way, the penalty box was opened, and Porter skated out, still looking pissed as he put his gloves back on, his stick trapped between his arm and side, and his helmet on but not secured.

  He looked a hot mess, and I found myself grinning.

  Which, of course, he caught.

  The pissed off look on his face quickly morphed into a cocky grin and a shake of his head. He stepped into the bench and plopped down, his back to me.

  I stared at the number ‘11’ and ‘PRESCOTT’ on his back. Because their colors were ash gray with white and yellow accents, the sweat on his back was more than pronounced, making the gray even darker.

  His jersey was tucked into his pants in the back, but the thick material and padding did nothing to show the body the man had underneath.

  And man, oh man, did he have a body underneath.

  When we arrived earlier, I had to fight from staring at his ass as he walked in front of me. His dress pants were tailored and fit incredibly well, molding to his firm, but rounded, bottom…

  I puffed out my cheeks and shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

  You’re attracted to him.

  No shit, Sherlock. The question though, was what I was going to do about it. Did I act on the attraction? I thought maybe it was probably likely he was attracted to me, too. But could I…?

  The kid was nineteen. He would want sex.

  And I wasn’t sure I could do that.

  The game started up again, but my eyes remained transfixed to Porter’s back.

  Could it be possible to maybe have more with this guy? Could it be possible for me to move past the ghosts in my closet, and find a way to truly, fully be free of them?

  I had a feeling I was going to find out.

  I rushed to shower and change after the game.

  Three hours of being near Asher—in that outfit, no less—but not being actually by her, was certainly wreaking havoc on me. Her eyes had been on me nearly the entire game. Even if I didn’t see it, I could feel that shit.

  I felt it when her eyes rested on me. When they followed me.

  And now I wanted my eyes on her and only her.

  “Be careful out there, Portsy,” Nico laughed behind me as I was pulling my shoes back on.

  “’Member what I told you,” Ant piped in, walking in from his post-game interview. According to him and Nico, it wouldn’t be long before the networks would want to talk to me, all sweaty and grody, right after games. I much preferred talking after I had a chance to shower.

  I just shook my head at the both of them, attempting to ignore them. I pulled on my suit jacket and grabbed my wallet, stuffing it in my back pocket, and ran my hand through my still drying hair.

  “Wrap it, kid!” came from the depths of the locker room. Jansen, I thought.

  What the fuck, Nico?

  He probably told anyone and everyone who listened, that I had a girl over this weekend.

  I held my hand over my head, the bird proudly flying, and headed toward the double doors separating the lockers from the rest of the after-game frenzy. I was sure to fold my finger back down before exiting the doors though.

  Didn’t need to deal with that PR disaster.

  I walked through the ongoing interviews—one with Coach, another with Armstrong—and ignored my name being called. I smiled and nodded, but I had places to be. When I neared Melissa, she waved.

  “You up for a chat?” she asked with a smile on her face. That was her code word for interview.

  I shook my head. “Sorry, Mel, not tonight. Places to be.” I continued walking.

  Her smile fell slightly but returned quickly. “Alright, well, good game tonight.”

  “Thanks,” I said, lifting my hand as I continued on my way.

  I had given at least one interview after every game since the moment I joined this club, but one night wasn’t going to hurt my reputation. Not in the least.

  Asher was going to meet me in the lobby near the elevator banks that would take us down to the garage. I pushed through the exit doors at the end of the hall and ran up the stairs, my dress shoes clunking as I cleared the stairs two at a time.

  I walked down the small expanse of hallway there and pushed through the next door, now entering the lobby on the far side—the quiet side. From here, I could see fans milling about in the open area, kids being lined up for school buses to take them back to their schools, and finally, my eyes landed on Asher. She was standing by herself near the elevator I pointed out to her earlier this afternoon before walking her to her seat.

  I guided the door shut behind me so it wouldn’t make a noise, quietly allowing me to take her im.

  She was hot.

  Shit, no. That sounded wrong even in my head.

  She was fucking gorgeous.

  In the outfit she had on; in the hoodie she wore last night; with her face tired as she and I talked early this morning.

  It was a very guy thing of me to think, but there you had it.

  She had the blazer pulled closed in front of her as she crossed her arms, but she didn’t look uncomfortable or put out.

  And there she stood, by herself, watching others as I was watching her, and it hit me square in the gut—

  It may have been an unintentional solo trip, but that girl over there at the other side of the room? She came to visit me. Who cared about the logistics and that Ace had planned this, using her super Spidey senses I was sure, but Asher was here, and she was here for me. If she had wanted a way out of this trip, she could have easily figured something out after Ace abandoned her at the airport.

  I stepped away from the door, more than ready to close the distance between us.

  Halfway there, her attention turned to me. The smile on her face was small, but her face lit up upon seeing me.

  Yep. I liked this girl, and she liked me.

  “You played well,” she spoke over the ongoing chatter, walking toward meet me.

  “Yeah, there were some things I could have done better though.” I stopped just shy of her and she did the same. Without her heels, Asher stood a head shorter than me but in them, it brought her eyes nearly to nose level. If she tilted her head just a little, her lips…

  I shook off the thought and continued to take her in, now that she stood so near. Her arms were still crossed over her chest. “You cold?”

  I could totally pull off this gentleman act. I lifted my hands, bringing them to the lapels of my jacket.

  She shook her head. “I’m good.”

  Well, shit. I’d been all ready to take off my jacket and give it to her.

  “Hungry?” I asked, stuffing my hands in my pants pockets.

  …And all she did was nod. To be fair, I was asking short questions. I’d have to work on that.

  This was awkward. I wasn’t sure what the correct protocol here was.

  Did I hold her hand? Put my hand on her back and guide her, like I often saw my brother, Cael, do with his wife? Or just walk by her side, like we were old friends?

  Unsure, I just nodded my head in the direction I came. “T
his way.”

  And so we walked, next to one another like we were ‘ol’ buddy ol’ pals,’ while her arms were crossed over her stomach tightly. I wondered how I could possibly lighten the mood.

  When we reached the door, I pressed a code into the keypad and pushed at the door too soon. With my momentum from trying to walk, my knee slammed into the door while my nose was almost flattened in the same breath. “Fuck,” I mumbled.

  Real smooth, Prescott.

  And she laughed.

  It was quiet and muffled but shit, she laughed, and I felt it.

  I grinned over my shoulder at her, “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” At least I lightened the mood.

  I reached over to re-punch in the code, this time waiting for the tell-tale click before pushing the door open, allowing Asher to walk through the doorway before I did.

  She glanced over at me before we headed down the stairs. “Are you okay? Your knee?” she asked. Her arms loosened from around her, but they were still crossed.

  I nodded at her question. “I’m good. Are you?”

  Was she uncomfortable? Apparently not as much as she’d been in the lobby, because the hold was looser, but still…she held herself and I wanted to know how to fix it.

  That was quite the kicker, I had to admit to myself.

  My only serious relationship had been back home with Mo, and even then…she and I had been friends with benefits, with a fancy label attached. There were things we went through, yeah, that I tried to shield her from—things that involved police and her elite cheer team, to mention the smallest of the offenses—but never before had I been so focused on wanting to fix something for a girl.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  I slowed my steps once we reached the stairs, unsure how Asher would fare them in her heels. I let her have the side of the stairs with the railing, and walked next to her the entire trip down, the click of her heels matching the thud of my own shoes. She kept an arm in front of her, keeping the blazer pulled closed, and used the other to guide along the railing. My hand itched to go to her elbow or back, but again, I was struck with the knowledge that I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed where Asher was concerned.

  “You seem to know what you’re doing,” I said, breaking the otherwise silent stairwell. “Walking, I mean. In your heels. I mean, considering you don’t wear them ever.” Fuck that up much, Prescott?