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He lifts his shoulders and begins to rise from the hard plastic of his chair. “I’ll go grab—” My hand shoots out, touching his muscled back, and I flinch it away because of how intimate it feels or looks. Reid comes off as the dude who doesn’t like being touched in any way, shape, or form, and the last thing I want to do is come off like a weirdo who suddenly thinks I can randomly touch him.
Especially someone he thinks is as annoying as me.
“No, really,” I retort with a small grin of reassurance. “It’s fine.”
“I don’t mind,” he replies. “It’ll take me two seconds—” The expression on my face must speak for me because I’d hate for him to miss something important just because he was getting some stupid drink for me.
“Beer’s fine,” I tell him. “Promise.”
Reid stares at me for a second before raising his arm to get the attention of the guy with the freezer bag. After money is exchanged and Reid orders what he wants, we both have a Coors Light in our hands, and Reid is sitting back for the first time in his chair, relaxed.
“You haven’t asked me any questions,” Reid professes, as though sounding desolate that I haven’t. “I thought you wanted to impress your new boyfriend.”
Right.
However, I’ve just been enjoying myself more than anything. The vibe of this place is charged with rare energy and excitement. I couldn’t help but be wrapped up in it.
“I’m honestly not sure what to ask,” I reply. “I’ve just been settling into the vivacity of the game.”
“The what?”
“The spirit,” I say with a chuckle. “I’ve never experienced anything like this, and it’s wild.”
His brows clench. “Like…a good wild, or you hate it here and you’ll never do it again, wild?”
I mock his expression. “Why would I say that? I like it here.” Reid grunts and returns his focus to the ice, alluding that he doesn’t fully believe me. “What position do you play?”
“Left winger.”
“What does that do?”
“I move the puck out of the defensive zone, take passes, and block shots.”
“So, you do everything?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then what is the enforcer?”
At a snail’s pace, Reid turns his head over to me, and I suddenly think I may have said something wrong. “What do you know about that, Shorty?”
What I’ve read online.
However, how do you say that without giving yourself away and giving off more of those weirdo vibes?
“Weston said it,” I fib with a dismissive lift of my shoulders. “What’s wrong with that?”
“How did he explain it?”
He obviously didn’t. I just saw it in the headlines.
“If he said anything, I wasn’t paying attention,” I dismiss, taking a small sip of my beer so that I don’t have to say anything else.
Reid perks a brow, and I really wish he’d look back at the game now. His dark features under that hat make half his face hard to read, and I don’t like being under a microscope for him to study. Good thing he’s not an interrogator for a living. I’d be locked up within two minutes. “You weren’t listening to your boyfriend?”
I narrow my eyes. “Reid…he’s not my boyfriend…yet.”
He finally returns his attention to the ice, but not before I see him roll his eyes. Then he points to one of the players on the ice with the puck. “That’s the left winger.”
