I guess whoever made all those stereotypical college movies weren’t athletes. If they had to factor in practice, and gym time, and game time, as well as keeping the hockey house clean, as well as, as well as, well, everything on my plate makes my head spin.
“Oh my god, is it actually itchy?” My fellow inmate leans back, face contorted in disgust as she eyes my crotch.
“Huh?”
“You went all quiet and got this weird look on your face. If your dick has issues, I’m out.” She shakes her head.
A chuckle rumbles through me. “It’s not itchy. I was just thinking I want to write a song about you.”
Her brows furrow. “Excuse me?”
My cheeks heat again as my brain-to-mouth filter seems to be all-the-way broken. “I’m a musician.” That much is true. I’m a songwriter and guitar player. That’s not a lie.
The lie of omission that I play hockey digs into my skin as she takes me in.
“And I want to write a song about you.”
She snorts, derision as clear as the smattering of freckles across her nose. “How many songs have you written about women?”
I pop my hip with a dramatic flourish of my hand. “A bunch actually, but generally only after they’ve broken my heart into tiny pieces. Never when I’ve just met them.”
Again, her eyes widen. I don’t know if she’s not used to people being as frank and honest with her as I am, or if she’s surprised I’ve had my heart broken, or surprised I have the higher brain function to write songs. Either way, I wouldn’t blame her. I haven’t exactly put my most competent foot forward with this woman. She has me flummoxed.
I kinda like it.
“Anyway. My point is, nothing’s itchy. And since we’re on the subject, everything works the way it’s supposed to. Y’know. In case that piece of information matters to you.”
She smirks. “I’ll be the judge of whether it works the way it’s supposed to or not.”
Her brashness is alluring. We’re bantering back and forth, sure, but something about her tone tells me I’m going to be buried balls deep in this woman by the end of the day.
And my dick, along with the rest of me, is very enthused at the idea. “One date.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I want one date. Let me take you out when we get out of here.”
She does a slow shake. Head, shoulders, torso, they all move from side to side with a resoundingno. “No dating.”
“No date, no dick.” I’m showing all my cards, stepping through brave and going right to stupid. It could very easily push this woman the wrong way, but something deep in the center of my chest tells me I need more from her than just a good romp between the sheets.
From the way her brow and nose wrinkles, she doesn’t seem as convinced as I am. Not by a long shot.
She hisses air through her teeth, her assessing gaze weighing heavily on my face. “Twenty questions. Then I’ll decide about the date…and the dick.”
I do a gleeful dance that ends in a mid-air heel click. The resulting eye roll is a thing of beauty. She looks around, presumably to see if anyone’s watching my dorky, semi-public outburst.
“Person, place, or thing?”
She rolls her pouty pink lips before tapping a finger on her chin. “Thing.”
I have about sixty minutes, and nineteen questions to make this woman agree to come on a date with me. Convincing her she loves me and we’re destined to be together is going to take a little longer.
That’s okay.
I’ll believe in it enough until she’s ready to accept that love at first sight is a thing and can happen in real life. In the meantime, I’ll write songs about her auburn curls and jade eyes and hope she doesn’t shank me with a filed-down toothbrush she has hidden under her bright orange jumpsuit.
CHAPTER 3
