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“I told you to trust me,” I remind her, trying not to dwell on the way my intestines squirm under her praise. “You wanted us to be engaging and attractive, to connect with the community and appear wholesome and family friendly. Plus, I like Jim and this place is criminally underrated, décor and all.”
“It does have a certain… aesthetic, doesn’t it?” Tristan looks around the shop again, but this time there’s a lot less horror in her eyes. “I’m sorry I doubted you. I assumed you were only doing these videos because you had to.”
“I wasn’t. You needed a player, and my contract demands I be available to marketing and PR when needed.” I say because it’s true. “But I could have left all the planning to you and shown up with a pasted-on smile, or let another player take the job, and still fulfilled my end of the deal.” I wait until she looks up at me. “I said yes because I think it’s a smart idea to connect more with the fans. I said yes because I enjoy being someone people can count on. My teammates can count on. The organization can count on.”Youcan count on me.
I don’t know what I did before, but I’m going to make it right.
I pour the rest of the smoothie into another glass and hold it out toward Tristan. I wait while she stares at me, her brows furrowing in obvious confusion this time.
“Come on, kitty cat,” I say, “Don’t leave me hanging.” I jiggle the glass a little and a bit of chocolate smoothie sloshes over the side. “Whoops,” I say and bring the cup to my mouth to lick up the drip, then I hold it back out towards Tristan. This time she seems to get what I’m after and she lifts her own glass, clinking it against mine.
“Skål!” I say, before taking a huge gulp.
“Slàinte mhath,” she says and for a moment, I think her eyes dip to my mouth before she takes her own sip.
I turn off the engine to my sleek white SUV and stare at the building straight ahead. It’s a single story with neatly trimmed hedges and a handful of daffodil sprouts just beginning to worm their way out of the dark soil. I rub my sweating palms down the length of my black slacks and pull in a deep breath, closing my eyes against the bright afternoon sunlight.
It’s not the thought of seeing Varg that has my stomach tied in knots and my pulse hammering at the base of my throat. In fact, that gorgeous, infuriating man has zero impact on my pulse whatsoever. I think. No, it’s not the hockey player that is shackled to me for the foreseeable future. It’s the sign over the wide glass door. The one with the big blue heart and the distinctive canine and feline profiles facing each other inside the shape.
And it’s not that I’mafraidof animals, I’m just not used to them. From a distance I think dogs and cats and hamsters and bunnies are fluffy and adorable, but up close I have no idea what I’m doing and I’ve watched enough nature documentaries to know that animals can smell fear and uncertainty.The Arctic might provide decent health insurance, but I’m not exactly in the market for mauling-related stitches.
The knock against my window makes me jerk in my seat, slamming my head back against my headrest and clutching a hand to my chest. Okay, so maybe Victor Varg has a slight effect on my heart rate, if the fact that I think I’m dying right now is any sign. I try to cover my nerves with a forced smile and open my door.
“I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up, kitty cat.”
I don’t have a response for that, mostly because I was contemplating sending an SOS text to one of my sisters so I could get out of this thing, but that would involve explaining who I was with and why I needed a rescue.
Varg doesn’t step back as I slide my feet down to the asphalt of the parking lot. He leaves one large hand draped over the edge of my door frame, the other flat against my roof. He’s caging me in, and I’m reminded—not for the first time—that this man is more than a foot taller than me. He towers even over my vehicle.
Once I’m done noticing the height of the Arctic’s captain, I can’t help but notice just how close our bodies are to one another. Close enough that he can feel every one of my inhalations against the gray cotton of his shirt. Close enough that I can see the little white threads that make the color “heathered.” Close enough that when I tip my head back to meet his eyes, the hazel of his irises breaks down into the obvious burst of amber brown that bleeds out into an almost gray blue.
His mouth is full, lips pink and curved. I watch as they part and he sucks in air. Every part of this man is hard and chiseled, honed by hours on the ice and in the gym. I know enough from my friend Sadie in the trainers’ department that the players typically have between eight and fifteen percent body fat, and there’s no way Victor Varg doesn’t sit at the lower end of that range. Staring at his mouth, I’m pretty sure that at least one of those percentages is in his lips. I wonder if they’d be soft against mine while the rest of him isn’t. I wonder why I’m wondering anything about the mouth that calls me Kitty Cat and about that wide grin he shares with everybody. I wonder why I care at all.
I pull my gaze from his mouth and up to his eyes again. His pupils are wide and dark and his irises are hazy. I can feel the warm puff of air as he breathes over me. His face is shadowed tipped down to mine. It feels intimate holding this connection. Not a single part of us is touching, but I swear I can feel his hands as if they were sliding along my ribs, cupping the bones of my hips. I break eye contact and slip my gaze over his forehead to his furrowed blonde brows. He’s frowning. Why is he frowning? If Varg is known for anything, it’s his lack of frowning.
This man has to lean so far down to see me I must be causing him neck pain. He must be uncomfortable. He must…
My tongue swipes over my lips before I realize I’ve done it and I frown, too. What am I doing? Standing in a parking lot with Victor Varg. Letting my brain take me to inappropriate places. Inappropriate because we work together. Inappropriate because he gets under my skin like a nasty rash and I want to scratch him out. Inappropriate because we don’t like each other. Except, I can’t remember why we don’t get along. It has something to do with his frowning. Or lack of frowning. And there must be something on my face because Vic’s eyes dart back and forth over my features. Then he straightens up to his unnecessary height and steps back.
“Shall we head inside?” he asks, turning away to look out over the empty parking lot. He moves toward the door and I instinctively reach out, my hand settling on his forearm.
“Wait.”
His warm forearm. I swear I feel his muscles twitch under my touch. He stops but doesn’t face me.
“What is the plan for…” I swallow, “inside?”
This time he turns. He’s not frowning anymore, but his face is blank, a far cry from the jokester I’m used to. I shiver in a sudden breeze and he sways as if to step closer, but catches himself.
“We’re just going to go play with some puppies, get some footage, and try to get them adopted.”
Right. Puppies. I knew it would be something like that when he asked me to meet him at Quarry Creek Shelter, and it’s a brilliant idea. The shelter is struggling. They have too many mouths and not enough space, and after what our smoothie videos did for Magic Mangoes, it’s obvious we can do a lot of good for this place too. That’s not even considering the draw of an attractive man holding a squirmy pup.
And Victor Varg is, objectively speaking, attractive. Even with the slight bend in his nose from that high stick against Tampa last season.
Infuriating.
“You aren’t exactly dressed for this, kitty cat. Scared the puppies will cover you in hair?”
