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His leg is hard, solid muscle beneath my palm. He’s a big guy, but even so, my fingers curve across the top of his quad and rest along his inner thigh. Every nerve ending in my body is hyperaware of this fact. I’m not even touching him that close to his groin; much closer to his knee, in fact. But…Icouldslide my hand up a little bit. I turn my head, trying to get a glimpse of his face. He looks at me and smiles, crinkles fanning out around his dark eyes.
It would be so easy, so fucking easy to lean forward and kiss him.I should do it.There is no reason not to; he made it clear that he’s not going to rush me and make any bold moves, which, ironically, makes memorenervous because now it’s up to me to do it.
I turn my face away, back toward the TV, and a dose of shame joins the anxiety sitting low in my chest. He tightens his arm again, as though he’s trying to pull me closer still; we’re already plastered together though, and the only way I’m getting closer is by crawling into his lap.Maybe you should do that, my brain helpfully supplies.
Since I’m not quite bold enough to sit on top of him, I content myself with a measured slide of my hand, moving it up his leg a few millimeters. Spreading my fingers, I try to cover as much surface area as possible, and given that I have very long fingers this works in my favor. I hear a small inhale from Nigel, and shoot a quick glance at him; his eyes are fixed on the TV, but the corner of his lip is depressed, as though he’s biting it.
Watching his face, I slide my hand another inch up his thigh. He swallows, Adam’s apple shifting. When he glances over and meets my eyes, I can’t help but smile.
“Thanks for the foot massage.” I say, quietly. The volume on the TV is low, room dim around us. It feels cozy, and safe, and I wish I was brave enough to ask him to stay.
“You’re welcome.” He glances down at my hand on his leg. “You going to repay me with a groin massage?”
I widen my eyes, trying to project an air of innocence. “Oh no, did you strain your adductor during the game?”
He laughs, ducking his head down to kiss my shoulder. By all accounts, this is the least romantic kiss one could receive given the sheer amount of clothing between my shoulder and his mouth. But damn if I couldn’t feel that touch burn right through.
???
“Get fucked, St. James.” Walden spits, shoving hard against my chest, trying to dislodge the arm I’ve got him pinned against the glass with.
“Oh, I plan to, your mom and I always have so much fun together.”
“Seriously?” I grunt over my shoulder at Nigel, as Walden hurls himself against me in his effort to get to him. Nigel just laughs, raising two gloved hands in the air when the ref skates up to separate everyone.
I let go of Walden after making sure he won’t go after Nigel again, and he knocks hard against my shoulder as he skates away. Nigel opens his mouth to call after him, and the ref points a stern finger at him.
“Keep your goddamn mouth shut if you don’t want to reacquaint yourself with the penalty box.” He turns to me. “Put your dog on a leash, Sanhover.”
I shoot an accusing look at Nigel who smiles at me around his mouthguard as we skate back to the bench. “That guy has it out for me.”
“Gee, I wonder why that might be?” I grab a bottle of water, squirting the lukewarm stream into my mouth and wiping a glove across my forehead.
We’re playing Florida tonight, and it’s been a scoreless game with only a handful of minutes left in the second. Both teams have been fighting hard, putting up high numbers of shots on goal, but the night is turning out to be a battle of the goaltenders. I watch as Lawson stops yet another, directing the puck to one of our second line forwards who attempts to get it out of our zone.
Down the bench, one of the trainers is bent over and speaking to Troy who took a puck to the torso earlier. He’s shaking his head, telling him he’s fine, although I saw where he was hit and know that our padding is light there. Bruised ribs are likely; I’ll have to talk to him, make sure he’s not playing through an injury.
Nigel slaps a hand on my shoulder and swings a leg over the boards; popping my mouthguard back in, Troy and I follow suit, hopping over the wall and heading back out onto the ice. By the end of the second, the score remains zeroed and Lawson looks like he’s just climbed out of a swimming pool. He sits down on a bench in the locker room, rubbing a towel over his wet face. When Troy sits next to him, he peeks at him from under the cloth.
“You realize I’ve got padding specifically for, you know,stopping the puck, right?”
Troy, rubbing a hand over his ribs, shoots a furtive look over his shoulder, making sure the athletic trainer isn’t watching him. “Fuck you, you’re welcome.”
I sit down next to Lawson, towel drying my own sweat-soaked head. Nigel sits next to me, and we all listen as coach outlines everything we’re doing wrong and what we need to do to salvage the last period of the game. When he’s done ripping us a new one and we’re heading back down the chute, Lawson sends a stern look toward Troy.
“Stop trying to do my job, kid.” Troy opens his mouth to respond, but Lawson talks over him, waving his stick to encompass Troy, Nigel, and I. “And you three start doing yours.”
Nigel grins, rolling his head between his shoulders. He holds a gloved hand out to me, and I tap mine against it. When we take the ice, the crowd booing and cheering in equal measure, I skate close to Troy.
“You good?”
He nods, quickly. “Fine. Just a bruise.”
I take him at his word, since he couldn’t tell a lie to save his life. “Alright. If that changes, I expect to be the first to know, okay?”
In the end, the game goes into overtime after Florida scores a goal and I follow it up with one of my own. Luckily, OT is quick and dirty, Troy sinking a wrist shot and winning the game. Because we’re playing back-to-back games, we aren’t staying in Florida tonight, but immediately flying home; it’s a blessing and a curse, because while it will be nice to sleep in our own beds tonight, it’ll still be hours until we get there.
I’m the last to board the plane and am surprised to see Lawson sitting next to Nigel. When I pass them in the aisle, Nigel sends me a subtle wink. I drop down in the seat next to Troy, who’s dark head is bent over his phone, thumbs flying over the screen. He glances over when I sit down, dimples flashing in a smile. His eyes are bright, and his leg is bouncing; I’ve never met anyone in my life who has the type of energy reserves Troy is able to harness.
