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That last part was what had tripped me up so much. Because I failed to see how the man standing over by the fountain fit anyone’s definition of “low standards.” There wouldn’t be six-pack abs beneath that shirt, and there didn’t need to be. Normal people had no earthly reason to train themselves into the ground like professional athletes did, and from where I’d been standing, the man in the blue jacket had a perfectly average and seriously sexy dad bod going on. He might’ve been a little overweight—I had no real frame of reference except guys who carried under ten percent body fat—but there was no universe in which this man qualified as low standards.
And there’d been no one else in the park who’d matched his description, so either Isaiah had left, wasn’t there yet, or… was standing right there in front of me at the fountain looking like someone who was going to leave me tongue-tied.
With my heart in my throat, I’d approached him, still disbelieving it was really him, but also hoping it was, because… oh my God.
It was him. And when he’d turned around…
Fuck.
If I’d ever seen blue eyes that pretty gazing back at me from beneath a visor, I’d have lost an edge. No doubt about it. Holy shit.
Up close, I’d recognized him from the other night and, I was pretty sure, a signing I did last season. He’d been surprised I remembered him. As if I could have forgotten him.
Now we were here, sharing some artichoke dip and flatbread while we waited for our entrees, and I was just… stupid for him. That was the only way I could describe it. Not just because this man was jaw-droppingly attractive, but because he was Ian. The face I was looking at was the face that had been behind that avatar all this time.
You’re real. And you’re here.
I can’t believe it’s you.
Unaware of my mind spinning out over him, Isaiah spooned some of the dip onto a square of flatbread, and his eyes flicked up to meet mine. “Okay, I gotta know.” One corner of his mouth rose, taking my pulse with it. “Who started that”—he made air quotes—“‘fight’ between you and Bennett at practice?”
The question caught me off-guard, and I laughed hard enough it tugged at my stitches. At least that wound wasn’t as tender as it had been the first couple of days, but it still stung.
Isaiah grimaced. “Crap. Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He gestured at his own lip.
“No, no, it’s fine.” I busied myself putting some of the dip on another piece of flatbread. “It’s been, what, five days?” I rolled my eyes. “You’d think I’d learn to be careful.”
“Still.”
“Nah. Don’t worry about it. And to answer your question, Bens absolutely started it.”
Isaiah quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
I snickered, being more careful about my lip this time. “Okay, so we played against each other in major juniors. During the playoffs our last year, he tried to get me to fight. But when he dropped gloves, I went around him, grabbed the puck and scored.”
“No shit?” Isaiah stared at me with wide eyes. “Oh, he must’ve been pissed!”
“Yeah.” I smirked. Well, as much as I could with half of my mouth. “Especially since it was the game-winning goal in an elimination game.” I chuckled as I brought up the piece of flatbread. “He, uh, might’ve had a bit of a grudge over that.”
Isaiah whistled. “Wow. I figured it was just some locker room chirping or something. Since it didn’t seem like, you know, an actual fight.” He went for his beer. “Didn’t think there was any real heat behind it.”
“Oh, there wasn’t. I mean, he was pissed about it for a while, but more at himself than me. By the time we both ended up in Pittsburgh, it wasn’t that big of a grudge. Just something we talked trash about.” I took a bite of my flatbread, then a sip of beer. “And one day after practice, we were bored, and we ‘fought.’”
God, that laugh was doing more to make my head light than the alcohol. Not that I was drinking anything very strong, but still. Isaiah’s smile made me dizzy. And I loved it.
After a swig from his own glass, he said, “The video was hilarious.”
My face heated as I laughed. “Yeah. I should’ve known someone was filming.” I rolled my eyes. “There’salwayssomeone filming during practice.” I paused. “Do you, um… Do you come to practices often?”
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that. Not if I ever wanted to concentrate again.
Isaiah blushed, shifting a little in his chair. “When I can. It’s usually during school hours, but if it’s a weekend or we’re on break…” He half-shrugged, offering up a grin that was almost apologetic. Before I could say anything, the grin faltered. “That’s, um… You don’t mind, do you?”
“Nah, of course not. We always love when fans come to practice.” I met his eyes, and by some miracle, they didn’t scramble my brain. “Just, um… Don’t be surprised if I’m not playing at my usual level next time you’re there.”
He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
Wasn’t it obvious?
