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So what if the last can of Diet Coke wasn’t there? It didn’t matter.
She didn’t need Cal’s Diet Coke—which was really her Diet Coke but possession being nine-tenths of the law and all. He could have the last can. If she really wanted one, she could go down to the vending machine and take care of things herself, just like she always did.
“Your secret admirer must be out sick today,” Bear said as he took a sip of coffee from his World’s Greatest Grandpa mug that had not-so-mysteriously reappeared by the coffee machine this morning.
Feeling a little more snarly than she had for reasons she would not be analyzing, she glared at him and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“’Course you don’t.” Bear lifted up a hand in apology. “My mistake.”
The alarm on her phone went off. Astrid nodded a goodbye to Bear and marched down to the arena and her favorite seat to watch Tig’s on-ice session with Cal. It was the best seat because it was close enough to the rink’s mezzanine hallway that she could sneak out before anyone—translation: Cal—realized she was there.
Or so she’d thought.
Someone had obviously figured out her pattern because the sixth can of Diet Coke was in the cupholder in front of her seat, sitting on top of a piece of thick white paper that was folded in half. Belly all fluttery, she glanced down at the men on the ice to make sure they weren’t watching her. They weren’t. Instead, they were—per usual—chirping back and forth at each other during another one of the drills Tig swore up and down he didn’t need to do despite the fact that since he’d started with them, his save percentage was finally going in the right direction.
Finding another seat was the smart thing to do in this situation. Astrid should just leave the Diet Coke and the folded piece of paper alone and sit one row down. She’d still be able to get out of here before Cal spotted her. And then tomorrow she’d go to a different section entirely. Maybe she’d watch from the suites—the Beckett suite had Cajun Rage jerseys on one wall, which made it kind of feel like a visit to an old home.
Yes. That was exactly what she’d do.
Tomorrow.
Today, though, Astrid did the dumb thing and picked up the can of Diet Coke and the single sheet of paper and sat down in her favorite seat. The can went onto the floor between her feet. Butterflies doing loop-de-loops in her stomach, she snuck another look at the ice as she unfolded the piece of paper. They’d moved on to another drill that was in heavy rotation during their sessions.
Good.
Perfect.
Everything was going exactly as it should—right up until she finally looked down at the paper and all those butterflies went wild and it felt like she just might start flying herself.
It was a drawing of her wearing shiny silver armor and a helmet with a big red plume on top. She stood Captain Morgan–style with her metal-booted foot resting on a big jar labeled Ye Olde Fuck Hockey Jar. In the background, there was a flag with a crest on it that—she looked closer and then fought back a giggle—had a Diet Coke can incorporated into its center.
The drawing wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be.
She only knew one person who had a sketchpad next to his bed, and when she looked up from the drawing, he was staring right at her.
There were almost fifty rows of seats between Astrid and the ice, and it felt like exactly zero. Awareness sizzled along her skin, traveling the same path as Cal’s fingers and his mouth had taken after bingo night. God, she’d never wanted anything as much as she wanted to rush down the arena steps just so she could kiss him. Fine. So she could drag him into the nearest private room, closet, alcove, whatever and say thank you in the most naked way possible. And he was watching her like he knew every dirty thought she was having and wanted to share his with her, making her core clench in a hell-yes-now-please-and-thank-you response.
Every part of her was 100 percent focused on Cal to the point that the Earth could start spinning the opposite way on its axis and she wouldn’t notice. It wasn’t because of the Diet Coke and little gifts. It wasn’t because of the fabulous drawing. It wasn’t even because the man knew how to make her toes curl so well she’d probably get off just by listening to him talk.
It was because he didn’t just talk, he listened to her—even when she hadn’t realized it. He’d come back from an injury so severe it would have turned most people away from hockey forever and had found a different path to make his dream happen. He’d stuck up for her when she’d still been just a stranger. He’d carried an old arthritic dog up three flights of stairs just to be neighborly. He’d worked some kind of magic with Tig, not giving up on the goalie even though most people would have.
It was because he was Cal Matsen. And fuck her life because she wasn’t just falling for him. She had already fallen.
What in the hell are you going to do now?
There was only one thing she could do. Without ever dropping eye contact with Cal, Astrid carefully refolded the drawing, picked up her can of Diet Coke, and got out of her seat.
Then, like the chicken she was, she high-tailed it out of there.
Chapter Thirty-Five
ASTRID: I’ve been thinking.
CAL: About that ridiculous call on Petrov? Me too.
ASTRID: It was a shit call, but no, not about that.
CAL: Are you wondering why I never went to art school?
