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“Right,” she nods. “Can’t be friends with your clients.”
Friends. I try not to chuckle. That’s definitely what I’m most worried about. The ethical implications of spending time with her. I think the ethics board would be significantly more concerned with the fact that I’ve already pictured her naked. That I want to press my mouth to hers.
“Or more.” I watch her brows furrow and then smooth almost faster than I can process. Her mouth twitches too, a picture of confusion. Like she’s trying to convince herself that she misunderstood me or that I didn’t mean what I’d said. I’m willing to give her some time to catch up, even if my ego aches a little over the idea that she might not have even considered the possibility of something. I’ve only been writing sonnets in my head based on the color of her eyes and hair since I first saw her. Okay, maybe not sonnets, but I’ve been thinking about them.
“Right, if the Kiss Cam comes back.” She nods like she understands, but she doesn’t.
“Even if it doesn’t.”
I’m putting the ball in her court. It doesn’t matter that this is crazy, that it can’t go anywhere. Ilikeher. I think she likes me too. And no matter how juvenile that sounds, it’s not something I’ve experienced in longer than I like to admit. If I don’t shoot this shot now, I’ll still be thinking about it in my meeting tomorrow, when I board my flight home, probably when the playoffs start in a few months.
Quinn’s teeth worry her bottom lip, but she doesn’t look away. My skin feels tight, my abdomen heavy and full. I’m dangerously close to a semi. Just from the thought of pressing my mouth to hers.
“That’s good to know,” she says.
There’s a bang as two players hit the boards just to the right of the Arctic bench. The glass shakes and around us everyone jumps to their feet for a better look. The view is obscured as the two men grapple for the puck, tied up on the rail. I can’t see any of the action, but the fun part isn’t the hockey. It’s having Quinn lean into me as she tries for a better view, too. For someone not very into hockey, she seems to be having a good time. I hope that has something to do with me because I’m having a good time too. No mean feat considering I’ve avoided rinks since I was sixteen.
The players clear the puck, moving out towards center ice, and people regain their seats as the whistle blows to stop the play.
“I’m so sorry,” Quinn says, and she’s staring down in horror at where her foot rests over the top of my left shoe. “I should have paid more attention to where I was stepping and—” she moves her foot back even though I never felt the weight. She’s blushing again and I shouldn’t think it’s cute when she feels embarrassed, but it really doesn’t matter that she stepped on me. It wouldn’t matter even if Icouldfeel her weight. “I’m making this a bigger deal than it actually is.” She finishes and then she’s looking out over the ice as if I’m not even there anymore.
“It’s okay,” I say, because it is. And this might not have been how I planned on sharing the information, but I knew I needed to say something. If there’s any chance for us beyond this game—even just for tonight—well, I should tell her now. Yes, I know it’s up to me when and with whom I share personal pieces of my history, pieces of me, but sometimes getting the news out sooner rather than later is the quickest way to weed out the rotten apples. Not that Quinn’s a rotten apple. I already know she isn’t, but it doesn’t stop me from putting this off.
Quinn scrubs a hand down her face, loosely banding her hand around her own throat. She’s trying not to look at me, and I wait a beat—for the game to pick up and the people around us to be distracted—before I reach over and offered her my palm. She drops the hand from her neck and slips it into mine, twining our fingers. Her hand is warm and dry. Solid.
“It’s really okay, Quinn.” I wait for her to look at me. “I didn’t even feel it.”
“Yeah, okay.” She rolls those pretty green eyes. “Thanks for being so cool about me not only stepping on you but freaking out after.”
“I’m not being cool about anything.” I pull her hand to the top of my thigh, watching her for any discomfort. I move slowly so she can pull back at anytime. “I really didn’t feel it.”
Using both our hands, I gently pull on the leg of my jeans. I tug the denim until she can see the mechanical components that make up the ankle joint of my prosthetic as it disappears into my boot.
And then I wait.
I have no idea what to say or how to react.
Erik has a prosthetic leg.
Do I care if he has a prosthetic leg? No, of course not. He’s the same person I’ve been talking to for the past hour. It doesn’t change the lust he sends spiraling through my veins with his crooked smile and heated glances. I want to tell Erik it doesn’t matter. I don’t care that he only has one leg, not in the way he might think, but this is a part of him he’s chosen to share with me. A part he might have made it through the entire game without sharing. A part he could justifiably have withheld for weeks or months as we got to know each other through late night text messages. And look at me getting ahead of myself here, but sharing this still means something. Right?
“If you want to tell me, I want to know,” I say.
My brain is crackling, the kind of static that accompanies a bad television signal, as it comes up with scenarios and backstories. He’s young. Only in his thirties, and yet comfortable on his prosthetic. Comfort and confidence I can only imagine takes a significant amount of time to master. I want to dig into his past and ask for all the details.
The words are bursting on my tongue, eager to ask about the leg, what happened, how it affects his daily experiences, how it affects his…women. But I don’t know if that’s okay. I don’t want to do this wrong, so I won’t ask anything without him guiding the conversation. Insatiable curiosity might have killed the cat. It will definitely kill the possibility sitting between us.
Erik lets his pant leg fall, covering the metal, and I feel the rasp of the thick denim as if it’s dragging against the inside of my skin. I squeeze my fingers around his and rub my thumb over the meaty flesh where his thumb meets his palm. He’s watching the game, hazel eyes following his brother as he takes a shot on goal, but the corner of his mouth twitches up in a small smirk. The cockiest little movement that has my stomach flipping over on itself as if I’ve spun out on The Scrambler at Six Flags.
“You’re dying to ask me questions right now, aren’t you?”
“No.” My voice breaks on the word and I know that I’m the worst liar, but now Erik knows it, too.
“You’re the worst liar.” He shakes his head, but he’s smiling even bigger now.
“Okay, I want to ask.” I admit, “I want to ask a lot, but not all my questions are about your leg.”
He turns to look at me. A blank expression masks his features, and I want to swallow my words or rub my hand down his back. I don’t think it’s the leg that’s putting his guard up, not after the teasing affection and the smiles. I think it’s me saying I want to know more. There’s something else he’s worried about discussing. I try to turn my body to face him, but it’s difficult with the little plastic armrests already pressing into my hips. He goes back to watching the game.
