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“What’s your name?”
“Dawson Davis,” he replies. “And you? What’s your name?”
“Devon. Devon Kirkpatrick.”
I rack my brain, trying to recall every movie and TV show I’ve seen. His name, like his face, rings some distant bell in my head, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s driving me crazy.
“I swear I know you. Tell me where I might know you from. Please?”
That deep chuckle rumbles through my body again and I subtly squirm in my seat, trying to keep from drawing his attention for fear he’ll know that I’m sitting in a puddle back here.
“Do you watch hockey, Devon?”
“Hockey? No, I never have.”
He nods. “Well, I’m a pro hockey player.”
The fact that he’s a pro athlete explains his big, toned frame. Dawson is probably six-two or six-three—almost a foot taller than me and twice as wide. The man dwarfs me in every way. But I don’t think there’s an ounce of fat on the man. He’s hard muscle from head to toe.
Normally, I don’t like guys like that, who spend hours upon hours per day in the gym and never let others forget it. They don’t usually have much between the ears, which is what I find most attractive. But something about Dawson just strikes me differently. I don’t know what it is, but he just doesn’t seem like the typical gym bro I tend to despise.
“Oh, really?” I ask lamely. “Where?”
“Here,” he says with a laugh. “In LA.”
“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” I can feel my face turning bright red. “I didn’t even realize we had a hockey team here.”
“Yep. We’ve got uniforms and everything.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Dawson. I’m just not a sports person.”
“Don’t sweat it. Hockey isn’t everybody’s thing.”
We drive on in silence for a few minutes as I try to push away the feeling of mortification gripping me. I feel like I just spit on the man's profession—and also proved myself to be an ignorant wretch in the process. Who doesn’t know LA has a pro hockey team? But that explains why his name and face ring a bell. I’m sure I’ve heard of him. I probably heard his name or saw his face in blurbs on the news or whatever.
“Okay, we’re here.” He pulls into a lot and stops the car.
Dawson climbs out and comes around to open the back door then gives me his hand and helps me out. I turn to him with a grateful smile.
"Thank you. I appreciate you driving me home."
“You’re not getting rid of me quite yet,” he replies. “I’m walking you to your dorm.”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s just across the quad—”
“Just consider me a full-service Uber driver.”
“Dawson—”
“I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe inside your dorm. So, we can stand here and argue about it all night or we can start walking.”
His voice is firm and commanding, and it’s clear he means what he says. I’m not used to being ordered around like this. I like to consider myself a strong and independent woman. I don’t normally tolerate anybody telling me what to do. But the way he’s looking at me and the tone of his voice… I’d be lying if I said it didn’t turn me on. Of course, my thinking might be muddled since I’m already dripping wet, but I don’t think that’s it.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s walk.”
Dawson walks beside me, and I catch myself stealing glances at him as we turn onto the pathway that will lead us from the parking lot and through the quad. His big presence is intimidating but, at the same time, really reassuring to me. I know nobody is going to dare mess with me with Dawson at my side.
“So, what are you studying?” he asks.
