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“I want,” I cut her off before she can talk herself out of it. I twist my fingers in the bright curls hanging down her back and watch her smile.
Chicago scores a goal and then the Arctic returns the favor almost immediately, leaving the score at three to one with half of the third period already gone. I have to admit that I’ve stopped paying attention to the game. I’m just grateful to see Quinn hasn’t reached for her e-reader once after I caught her the first time. The game is getting choppier, and the fans rowdier, as the clock runs down, and Chicago gets desperate. She’s still a little jumpy when the players slam into the boards, but nowhere near her initial reactions. She’s having fun. It’s hard not to find that infectious.
Would it be inappropriate to invite her back to my hotel room? Yes, all the blood in my body is still making my pants tight. I had to adjust after that kiss and the problem hasn’t self-corrected, but extending an invitation doesn’t have to be about sex. I want to spend more time with her. I don’t want the final buzzer to go off in seven minutes and thirty-two seconds and we go our separate ways, even if it’s only for twenty-four hours. We have less than seventy-two hours before my plane taxis down the runway and catapults me back to my apartment and my melodramatic cat. I want to spend as many of those hours as possible with her. More kisses, joint orgasms—both would be a bonus. The real treat is Quinn.
Another Arctic goal, this time on the power play after a high stick that is going to require stitches, and this game is basically over. A lot can change in a few minutes on the ice, but the Arctic has a solid lead and Chicago can’t seem to pull their sticks out of their asses long enough to put up a decent fight.
A pair of small dark hands wrap around Quinn’s waist and I drop my arm as she shifts away from me.
“Bye Quinn. Bye Rick,” Graham says, hugging her as tight as his little body can manage. “We’re leaving now ‘cause Naya and Grayson have to go to bed.”
“Erik,” Quinn corrects, patting his skinny arm. “Don’t stay up too late reading. Tomorrow is a school day.”
Graham rolls his eyes and waves at us both as he follows his mom out of the row.
“He’s not one of your students, right?” I ask. In the row behind us, several people file out of their seats, too.
Quinn shakes her head. “There are three elementary schools in town, but he either skipped every single art class since kindergarten or he doesn’t go to mine.”
“Hopefully his teachers appreciate his newfound love of reading,” I say, and she winks at me. She is too damn cute.
“Here’s hoping.” Quinn glances around as the stands continue to empty of fans. The clock still shows four minutes remaining in the game. “Why is everyone leaving?”
“Trying to beat the traffic,” I say as the Arctic huddle around their bench for a pep talk during a commercial break. “The end is pretty guaranteed, so they’d rather not sit in the never-ending lines to get out of here.”
Stupid. What if she heads out now, too? I haven’t locked down her time for after the game.
“Good thing I parked like ten blocks away,” Quinn is watching me out of the corner of her eye. “Did you need to get going early to avoid traffic?”
I shake my head, “I took an Uber from the Marriott, so I can order a car whenever. I may have to wait a little. Too bad I didn’t think to bring a book.”
Quinn’s mouth twists as if she isn’t a fan of my answer. “I like you, Erik, but I don’t lend my e-book out to anyone,” she says, tucking her hands underneath her thighs.
“Do you want to grab something to eat after the game?” I didn’t mean to ask like that. I meant to be smoother.
She smiles before she makes eye contact, green eyes shining.
“I could drive you back to your hotel.” Her blush streaks across her cheeks. “And I know a few local spots where we could grab something—”
“I’m not hungry.” I cut her off. “Unless you’re hungry, but the Marriott has room service until midnight. We could just go there and—” and fuck. I don’t want to sound pushy or creepy. The only thing I want to taste is her, but I’d also willingly order her one of everything on the menu and listen to her talk.
“Yes,” Quinn nods and her flush deepens. “Let me just text my roommate. Promise you’re not a serial killer?”
“Scout’s honor.” I hold up two fingers and she rolls her eyes as she pulls out her phone.
“Why do I just know you weren’t a Boy Scout?”
I wasn’t one, but that’s because I’ve been playing hockey since my seventh birthday. I didn’t have time for Scout meetings or projects when every day was practice, and every weekend was a game or a tournament. The older Vic and I got, the further we had to travel for games. There had been nothing but hockey. We hadn’t wanted anything but hockey. Right until my life came to a screeching halt. Then there was nothing but hospitals and pain.
“The Marriott downtown?” Quinn asks as she taps out a message on her phone, and when I nod she asks, “Room number?”
“Three Oh Four.”
She laughs at something, types another message, then slips her phone away.
“Jen has your name and room number, so if anything happens to me, you’re going to be in big trouble.”
“I promise I won’t do anything to you that you don’t ask for,” I say, trying and failing to keep the blood north of my groin when she flushes.
