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I shrug.
“I’m probably still sweating out alcohol,” I say, tucking my chin when my friend looks away to see if Cutter is still watching me. He’s telling a story to a rapt table filled with teammates and a few of his “fan girls,” so I drop my smile and swivel my head back to our table. Ivy snags my flannel and quirks a brow.
“If you’re not going to wear it, mind?”
I shake my head and my friend slips her arms into the sleeves over her long-sleeved Tiff Nursing T-shirt. The music kicks in a few seconds later, so I spin around on my stool to face thedancefloor and Ivy scoots closer to me. One of our favorite activities is watching college dudes try to learn line dancing. There are always a few pros hanging around Patty’s, and being in Iowa means country music is on heavy rotation at just about every bar. Tonight’s spectacle starts with two very cute blondes in boots, frayed denim shorts, and pink hockey jerseys. Their steps are complex and the routine is one of the faster ones I’ve seen. As they spin and tap their heels and toes, a few of Cutter’s teammates migrate from the pool tables to join them on the dancefloor. And as I’d hoped, things get hilarious.
“Why do they insist on even trying,” Ivy says, leaning into me.
“Because they think this is the key to getting in those girls’ pants. If only they could spin and step and slide in the right order, their nights would be made,” I say.
We both laugh at my assessment and don’t bother with the unsaid reality. Those girls are doing this to get eyeballs on them. They’re already in hockey jerseys. Those dudes would be better off never getting on the floor and making jackasses out of themselves. They’re sexy enough simply being hockey players.
When one of the guys finally breaks the sympathy bubble, which is when the girl showing off finally feels bad and offers to teach him a few steps off to the side, Ivy and I turn around. I refill our waters with the pitcher that was dropped off, then slip from my stool to take the empty back up to the bar and hit the restroom. I must finally be catching up because this is the first time I’ve had to pee all day.
The ladies room is empty when I go in, but I hear the door whoosh open along with giggling when I’m in the stall. I lean forward to spy through the crack in the door and recognize one of the dancers right away.
“Why do you think Cutter never dances?” she says to whoever is with her and out of my sightline.
“Girl, I don’t know. But I bet he’d know what he was doing if he did. He’s the kind of guy who just knows how to doeverything.Know what I mean?”
I roll my eyes and hold my tongue. And Cutter wonders why I give him such a hard time. I guess this reputation isn’t all his fault, but it had to start somewhere. He certainly feeds it.
“I would give anything for him to walk up to me and ask me to dance in there. His hands on me,ooooh!” They both giggle and I let my head fall forward into my palm while I squat out of site with my jeans around my ankles.
After eavesdropping on that, I can’t bring myself to leave my stall until they leave. After a makeup reapplication and a short phone call with one of their friends who apparently went to the wrong Patty’s first—there is no other Patty’s—I finally break free. I wash my hands and flip my head upside down to run my fingers through my post-practice hair. I didn’t wash it because I was feeling lazy, but that means the weird kinks and waves that start to form after a day or two are at their most mischievous.
When I flip back upright, I’m hit with a wildness of hair that leaves me with no other choice but to laugh. I feel in my back pocket and make a silent wish and am rewarded with two hair ties. I almost always have one around somewhere. I twist the mess up into something semi-human looking on top of my head and work the band around it to form a bun. The blessing of the curls is that I can tuck and pull just about any piece to form some sort of style.
I walk back out into the bar just as the music is turning over into something a little more R&B, and I see quickly that one of the dancing hockey players has scored himself a slow dance with his very pretty instructor.
“Good for him,” I say, sliding back into my seat.
“I’d toast to him, but it’s not the same with water,” Ivy teases.
I decide to do it anyway and grab our glasses, handing one to her so we can clink. We both gulp down several more ounces then fish out our credit cards as the waitress delivers our check. Ivy snags mine and forces it back on me.
“This one’s on me,” she says, ushering the waitress away with only her card and the bill.
“Ivy, you don’t have to do that,” I say.
My friend clears her throat and nods over my shoulder.
“Yeah, I know, but you’re about to have company, and I think you might be too busy to settle up.”
I spin back toward the dancefloor in time to catch Cutter’s last few strides toward me. He’s wearing the same jeans he was last night, the small hole that was forming on his knee a tiny bit bigger. Probably because I picked at it while trying to fall asleep. His hair is a bit messy, but intentionally so, a few pieces flopped over one eye giving him something to push back with his hand like a freaking Esquire model. There’s a definite difference between him in a jersey and the average fan wearing one. Cutter’s shoulders and chest fill everything out.
“Isn’t this on your playlist?” He points his thumb over his shoulder toward the dancefloor. I know this song, but it’s definitely not on my playlist. This is a line.
I sit back and rest my elbows on the table behind me.
“Don’t think so.” My lips tighten into a smug smile and I let my head fall a little to one side.
Cutter’s gaze sticks to mine as his tongue pushes behind his teeth and flustered smile.
“You’re really gonna make this hard on me, huh?” he says, eyes squinted.
I shrug, ignoring my best friend’s foot kicking mine.
