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Nothing saysI appreciate youlike vomit on your shoes. Or skates.
Whatever.
It's bound to be disastrous regardless of what he's wearing on his feet.
Why didn't I just write him a letter and send it?
Actually…why am I just now considering that as an option?
Jesus, take the wheel.
"Holy crap," Addy mumbles once we make it through the metal detectors into the arena. The entire place is a sea of yellow and blue as fans make their way toward the stands. "You were not kidding about these games, were you?"
"It's a home game," I say, shrugging. "Everyone turns out for home games."
"Uh-huh," she says, her eyes wide.
I laugh quietly. Addison knows nothing about sports. She calls the penalty box the naughty box…which has a nice ring to it. Especially when I think about all the dirty things I could do with Weston Davies in it.
Spending five minutes in the Sin Bin with him wouldn't be a hardship at all.
If it weren't for my dad, I wouldn't know much more about sports than Addy knows. But I grew up yelling at the television and cheering on the teams my dad coached. I loved every minute of it.
"Tickets," the man at the ticket booth says, holding out his hand. He glances at me dismissively and then shifts his gaze to Addison. His wide-set eyes widen.
Addison shifts nervously.
I hold the tickets out toward him, but he's so busy staring at her chest, he doesn't notice.
"Um, hello?" I tap the plastic partition. "Tickets?"
He blinks, pulling his gaze away from Addison. When it lands on me, he scowls like I'm a bug or something and then grabs the tickets out of my hands.
Jeez. He's rude.
"Here." He rips our tickets in half, grabs a seating chart and a flyer, and then practically shoves them through the window at me. "Enjoy the game," he mutters, already staring at Addison again.
I start to hand her ticket stub to her, only to catch sight of the flyer in my hand. Weston's handsome face stares up at me.
"Win a Valentine's Date with Weston Davies," I read aloud, and then quickly scan the rest of the flyer. "What is this?"
"Win a Valentine's Date with Weston Davies," the ticket attendant mutters unhelpfully, still staring at Addison, who is practically hiding behind me at this point, trying to avoid his lecherous stare. "The entry fee is fifty dollars. It goes to St. Jude's hospital."
Valentine's Day is tomorrow. I'd almost managed to forget its existence this year. It's my least favorite holiday. The only thing it has going for it is chocolate and cuddly stuffed animals.
"You can enter at the booth near concession," the attendant says, still leering at Addison.
Christ on a cracker. Why is he so creepy?
"Her eyes are up higher," I snap at him. Like me, Addison hates being the center of attention. And he's old enough to be her grandpa. Way too old to be perving on her when she's clearly uncomfortable with the attention.
"Come on," I say, grabbing her hand to pull her away.
He stutters behind us.
"Thanks," she says. "He was creeping me out."
"Me too."
