Page 33 of Off the Post

Fuck me.

I’m such a coward. Warmduscher.

Here I am in this small, enclosed space, with the perfect opportunity to kiss Ali, to show this generously sweet and bubbly woman exactly how I feel about her. To tell her how much I crave spending time with her and the way her effervescent personality makes me—the epitome of a lone wolf—feel seen.

Yet I let the moment slip by like it was a shot right through the five hole.

If I’d been between the pipes, I wouldn’t have allowed this to happen. Out there, in the net, I’m confident. Clear on my duty. Ready for whatever comes my way.

I am the fucking Wolf.

But get me near a woman whose company I fucking enjoy, and I act like a fool.

I’m determined to turn things around and make this lunch date enjoyable for Ali. If she has a good time, maybe she’ll want to do it again.

“Is there some place you’d like to eat?” I ask, holding the building’s main entrance door open for her. As she passes through, I catch a whiff of her light, citrusy scent, and it makes me hungry. Not for food, but for her.

I want to devour every inch of her as dessert.

I clear my throat, sidestepping someone on the sidewalk. “Do you have a favorite restaurant around here?”

When she turns her head to look at me, her auburn hair flips over her shoulder and I’m again hit with the luscious scent of her shampoo. I have the compulsion to sink my hands through the silky strands and bury my nose against her scalp, savoring every sniff.

Ali’s face lights up and she points up the street from us.

“If you enjoy a good pad Thai, there’s an amazing place about two blocks that way.”

“I’m down for anything.” And by anything, I mean it.

People assume that because I grew up in Austria, I only eat bland food like schnitzel and sauerkraut, and that pork sausage is the spiciest food on any menu. But I will try anything at least once. It’s the only aspect of my life where I will take risks anymore.

When I first moved to Vancouver, it did take me a few attempts to adjust to the heat of certain international foods, but now I’m firmly believe the hotter and spicier it is, the better.

When we approach the crosswalk opposite the restaurant, the Walk sign turns green. Ali is about to step off the curb when I notice a car clearly not about to stop. I grab hold of Ali’s wrist and yank her back so abruptly that she yelps.

“What the⁠—?”

Adrenaline and guilt rush through me, but the surge is enough to overpower the intense reaction I get from the feel of Ali’s body against mine. I suck in a sharp breath as she wobbles on her feet before finding her equilibrium with a palm against my chest.

Jesus, if she only knew how good that feels.

A squawk of surprise sputters from her mouth and she removes her hand to cup her mouth and yell at the driver. “I’m walking here, asshole!”

The quote is from one of my favorite old movies, Midnight Cowboy, and I smile slightly. Günther and I used to watch classic American movies after our parents died. Our favorites were those intense, dark cinematic masterpieces that hold their timelessness regardless of how long ago they were filmed.

And then, to my amazement, Ali shoves both hands in the air and gives the maniac driver two middle fingers.

This girl. The more she shows me the different sides of her, the more I want all of Ali.

A burst of laughter tumbles out of me like a rumbling earthquake dislodged from the depths of Earth’s tectonic plates.

“Gah. Some drivers can be such inattentive dickheads.”

“Yes, they can,” I agree, a stupid smile hovering over my lips. When she drops her arms, I take one of her hands in mine and slip my fingers through hers. I glance up and down the street to make sure the coast is clear before proceeding.

“People drive like they’re on the autobahn around here. I feel sometimes like the streets in this city are more dangerous than being in the net with 100 mile-per-hour pucks hurling at my body.”

She laughs.