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Aaron leans in and gives me a quick peck on the cheek.
“This was fun. We’ll do more of it soon, okay? And don’t just give him a hug in front of his team. Congratulate him, throw your arms around him. Be a proud girlfriend. He did get a hat trick, which is a big deal, by the way. Just follow his lead.”
Too bad Dom is as useless as I am when it comes to this physical stuff. Actually, probably worse.
My legs feel shaky all of a sudden. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do. I’m already bad at relationships, and fake ones—where the guy doesn’t even want me to touch him—make the entire ordeal so much worse. This isn’t good for someone with gut-punching anxiety.
Aaron rests both his hands on my shoulders. “Hey…nothing to be anxious about. It’s just business, right?”
“That obvious, huh?” I exhale.
Aaron has deep-gray eyes. They are such a unique color, and he gets compliments everywhere we go. I have the same almond-shaped eyes as him, but the color is nothing special. Our mother has the same shade of gray, and our dad has hazel eyes. Which means, I’m an outcast when it comes to yet another thing in our family.
Maybe I’m the mailman’s daughter.
“You’re both going to be fine. Love you.” He kisses the top of my head and turns, walking down the hallway.
Aaron is different. Older and more mature, but not in a good way. He’s not the same Aaron who lived in that small studio apartment when he first moved to New York. Maybe he’s hiding too. Don’t we all wear masks in some way to hide who we truly are from the rest of the world? Even from people we know and love. I always hoped Aaron and I would never wear any masks around each other. But life doesn’t work like that. The fear of judgment and rejection is enough to make me want to hide forever.
I wait until he’s out the door before turning to face the shit show that awaits me. There are staff running around, laughing, riding the high from this home game. Hollers and cheers can be heard from adjacent rooms as I make my way to the locker room, sticking close to the concrete wall.
It would be easy to bail right now. I could fake being sick, text Dom and tell him my stomach doesn’t feel so great after the arena food. Turning my butterfly ring around and around on my middle finger, I consider chasing after Aaron.
Frustrated and completely uncomfortable in my own skin, I decide to head back down to the glass for a bit to compose myself. The Zamboni is already on the rink, painting on a new sheet of ice, and the place has already cleared out. Fans rushed out early to beat traffic and get back to their lives.
The place is so peaceful, the complete opposite of what it was merely an hour ago.
“It’s cool, isn’t it?”
A deep sound behind me has me jumping out of my skin.
“Shit, sorry.” The mystery man with big, bright-blue eyes cringes, worry written all over his chiseled face.
Are these hockey players living here, sharing bedtime stories with the gym equipment? This guy has impressive shoulders and an athletic build, with muscles that ripple beneath a sun-kissed complexion. A cascade of damp, blond waves sling to the side of his face, intensifying the ice blue of his eyes. Strong jaw, perfectly straight nose, and rosy, kissable lips. He’s in a white dress shirt and gray formal pants. My eyes linger on the top few open buttons of his shirt, his muscles peeking through.
I recall Aaron telling me hockey players arrive and leave dressed to impress before and after every game. They are required to wear formal attire, something about the press… I’m drawing a blank because this man is making it impossible to focus on anything else right now.
Say something, you idiot.
“It’s okay…I forgive you for trying to give me a heart attack. They have doctors on site here, right?” He smiles brightly at my cheesy response.
“No doc needed. I would have gladly nursed you back to health.”
I bite my lip, letting out a peal of laughter at the terrible pickup line. He rubs the back of his neck, grinning wider as his eyes linger on my lips. He was expecting me to be offended, maybe give him a hard time, but I’m nothing special. I’m just here, wearing yet another mask as I pretend to be someone I’m not, helping out a friend…an acquaintance? Can I even call Dominik that?
He extends his hand out. “Hi. I’m Noa… I play for the Slashers. And you are?”
“She’s mine.” A growl has us both turning.
I barely register what’s going on before Dom comes into view, pushing Noa out of the way as his chest presses into me. He wraps his arm around my waist while his other hand finds the small space behind my neck. Fresh tingles burst from the contact and the closeness of our bodies.
“Hi,” he whispers, his voice bringing awareness to every place our bodies are touching.
“Hey.” I gulp.
The hand around the back of my neck inches up to the front of my neck, his thumb stroking my chin as he lowers his face. His lips are a breath away from my own.
He’s hesitant, staring down at me.
