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“It was terrible, actually. Turbulence like fucking crazy and Howey puked on Rolo’s shoes. It was a mess.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry, that sounds disgusting.”
“Oh it was. Howey likes to eat beef jerky on flights.”
I make an exaggerated gagging sound. “Ewww, can you not?”
He just grins and we end up talking for almost two hours while he lounges in his hotel room. Not about anything in particular, just random bullshit. I’d forgotten how nice it is to do this, to just talk and laugh and be stupid without worrying or having to pick my words carefully so that nothing gets taken the wrong way, starting a fight.
“Then Rizzo waltzed right out of the locker room, like it was nothing,” Connor says, finishing a ridiculous story about the time Connor had taken Rizzo’s lucky underwear and hidden them, “saying that if he didn’t have his lucky underwear, he wouldn’t be wearing anything at all.”
I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. “So he was just walking around nekkid as a jaybird?!” Connor makes a sound that is somewhere between a snort and choking.
“What in the fuck did you just say?”
I grin and realize that I’ve barelystoppedgrinning the entire time we’ve on the phone, my cheeks actually starting to hurt. I say slowly, pronouncing every word, “nek-kid as a jay-bird.”
Connor laughs again. “Ok, I think I’m with Jules on this whole accent thing. What else ya got?”
So, we start a whole new conversation on what Connor dubs my “Southernisms,*”and I swear I almost pee my pants by the end of it when he starts just making up completely ridiculous things and claiming they could be southern sayings.
“You’re as jimbly bimbly as a biscuit’s nutsack.” When I bark out a choked laugh, barely getting out the word “what!?” he adds, “Hey, I think that’s a good one actually.”
“I can’t breathe,” I wheeze, wiping tears out of my eyes.
“The south is a crazy damn place, that’s all I’ve determined after this conversation. These crazy sayings and the fact that you eat those creepy little lobster things...” He shudders dramatically.
“Crawfish are delicious, thank you very much. But yougottasuck the head…” His eyes go wide and I bite my lip, scrunching my nose. “Oh my God, that really didn’t come out right.” We both burst out into another fit of laughter and I’d nearly forgotten what this was like: having someone I could just be me with, no expectations, no pressures, just being stupid and talking and God, it’s nice.
A knock sounds in the background on Connor’s end of the line. “Oh crap, hey I gotta run. I forgot I was supposed to have dinner with some of the guys.”
“Have fun. I’ll talk to ya later.”
“Maybe I’ll see if they have crawfish,” he teases. “Bye.”
With that, we finally hang up—two and a half hours later.Holy shit. When was the last time I talked on the phone that long on purpose? I smile as I poke around in the fridge for something to eat, laughing lightly as random bits of our conversation spring to mind. After that phone call, I’m definitely feeling much better about the idea of being friends with Con—er,Shep. It’s going to take some getting used to. He’s been Connor in my head for the last few weeks, and I have a feeling he’s going to remain that way, though I’ll do my best to call him Shep to his face, as requested.
And now I’m apparently Mac. I already know it’s going to spread and the entire team will be calling me that by the time they get back from this trip.
The thought actually makes me smile. It’s like I’m officially part of the Vipers now, like I really do belong here.
[*a glossary of “Southernisms” can be found at the back of this book]
“Are you sure you’re lifting??” Connor grunts out as we attempt to maneuver a plush, oversized chair through my front door. It weighs a freaking ton, but as soon as I'd seen it, I needed it in my life. I immediately pictured lounging in it by the fireplace, reading or napping, and I had to have it. We’d loaded it up in Connor’s truck fairly easily, but now Connor’s bulging muscles—which I havenotbeen ogling—and the chair are having an all out battle of wills.
“Of course I am!” I huff out. I’m admittedly not much help in the grand scheme of things, really, but Iamtrying. “Set it down for a sec.”
It thuds to the ground and we stare at each other over the chair between us, wedged in my doorway. He narrows his eyes at me, sweat dripping lazily down his temple. He takes his hat off, wipes the sweat away and then pulls the cap back on backwards.Damn him. There is just something about a man in a backwards hat…Focus, Hattie.
“What?” I demand.
“I don’t think you’re lifting at all.”
“Am so! It’s not my fault that the great Connor Shepherd is a weakling.” His eyes go wide. “Oh, I said it. All those muscles," I gesture to all of him, "are only for show apparently.” I arch a brow in challenge and his mouth pops open in astonishment before he snaps it shut, eyes glittering with something between incredulity, irritation, and amusement.
“Move,” he says in a stern voice. I eye him warily but do as he says. He takes a few deep breaths, bends down, and hoists the damn chair through the doorway himself. I yelp and leap forward to try to help before hastily backing out of the way as he shifts his grip and lifts the entire fucking thing.
“Shep!” I cry, worried he’s going to hurt himself. If I’m responsible for the Vipers’ star goalie getting hurt because I was being a turd, I’ll never hear the end of it.
