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There’s silence for a moment and I see in the corner of my eye that she gives me the once over. My body heats beneath her studying gaze as she looks me up and down. She’s sizing me up, and though there’s a lot of me to look over, I know women always find it easy to trust me.
I must have that look. A trustworthy face, perhaps… I’m not sure what it is, and despite having this quality, here I am. Still single.
“You never told me your name,” she says, a weird sort of demand behind her words. It’s new and a stark contrast to the sweet trill she’s had up until now. “You could be a killer. Oh, man… Youcouldbe a killer. Did you steal this car from my brother? I really should have asked these questions before we took off, shouldn’t I?”
“Aiden. Aiden Frank.”
She hums. “Hockey player?”
“Yep. Not a killer.”
She hums again, but this time there’s a prudence behind it. The deeper tone catches me off-guard and when I pull up at the lights just outside my apartment building, I twist to see her brow creased towards me.
“What’s with the judgment?” I say stiffly, allowing my brows to dagger despite my heart melting whenever she looks at me.
To my surprise, she just smiles.
Normally my size is intimidating. I don’t like to use it as an advantage, unless of course I’m on the ice and the opposition needs to feel the brunt of my weight. I’m nearly seven-feet tall, and I’m pretty sure the palm of my hand is bigger than her head.
But Vanessa isn’t put off by the attempted glare I’m giving her.
“No judgment here. I just know your type.”
“My type?”
“Yeah. Your type.”
She points ahead and a green light glows in the gloomy sky. The loud toot of a horn is joined by a chorus of other cars all demanding I move forward.
But I don’t.
“And what exactly is my type?”
Vanessa’s eyes flash between me and the traffic lights. “You need to go.”
“You need to tell me what you mean.”
Her cheeks turn pink and a car zooms by, a clenched fist hanging out of the window as they swear loudly. Vanessa watches them race through an amber colored light and looks back to me.
“You’re crazy.”
“Is that my type?” I ask, a deep growl leaving the base of my throat.
Vanessa shifts in her seat and for the first time, I see something in her eyes that isn’t just pure majestical beauty. Gone is the brightness and bubble in her expression. The venom and conviction in the way she said ‘your type’ has me backed up in a corner, fighting to find out more.
There’s hurt in her eyes. A pain of some kind. And I want to know all about it.
“No,” she huffs, slumping down in the seat. “You’re a hockey player. Aprofessionalathlete. And that’s all I need to know exactly what kind of person you are.”
The light goes green, and I shift the gearstick and put my foot down. It takes a big effort to make the wheels of a vehicle this size squeal, but I manage it. We race forward and aside from the roar of the engine, it’s silent for a moment.
I know the story is on the tip of her tongue. I can see her beautiful mind ticking over. The reason she’s so sure she knows who I am without even taking the time to get to know me – it’s right there.
She thinks she can read me with one look?
All of my friends and family have always thought being a hockey player is a blessing. A gift from the God’s that gives me everything I’ve ever needed in life.
For me, it’s a curse.
