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I’ve created a picture of Max Cassiano in my mind, but that isn’t who he is. From his interviews, I figured that a boy who was so talented and good looking had to be a conceited turd. And when I met him—right on this ice—I took his teasing as a confirmation that my assumptions were correct.
But he’s been a damn gentleman. Taking the clothes off his back so I wouldn’t keep flashing everyone, carrying me on his back, shaking his annoying roommate off me, and scattering those creeps. Even after he tricked me into kissing him, he never touched me anywhere I didn’t let him.
He recognizes when he’s wrong. Gives me space. Even now, when I’m having an emotional crisis, he doesn’t push. He just waits.
Max is a genuinely good guy. Not one of those who pretends to be nice as a veneer to hide all their ugly intentions. No, he’s just sweet.
Me gusta. Max Cassiano me gusta.
Knowing this changes nothing. We already agreed it’s best we go on our merry ways. The sane part of me says I should focus only on hockey for as long as I have with it. And school’s no joke. I’m nervous about midterms. Max is simply so huge that even an unrequited crush would take up all the space in my life.
“Thank you for your concern. And no, they didn’t appear again.” I suck in air like the Little Mermaid coming to the surface and look up at him. “So does that mean you accept my apology?”
“Were you really that concerned that I wouldn’t?” Max blinks fast.
“What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic.”
“I see.” He leans back on his haunches. “If it makes you feel better, sure. But there’s really nothing to apologize for.”
What I really want to do is push him onto the ice and kiss him until the cold seeps through our clothes and until the kiss grows too hot to be in public. If I stare at him for a moment longer, I think I may betray myself.
I get back on my feet. “Anyway, why were you out here training on your own?”
He moves slower as he pushes back up to stand. I head over to the goal and sweep a few of the pucks out. My heart pounds as if I’ve been skating at full speed for ten minutes.
“Same as you, I assume.” His deep voice is somewhere behind me, not close enough to give me a heart failure. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Big games tomorrow, huh?”
We’re both playing squads that are considered contenders for the conference title. It’s the last time we’ll have games at the same time on the same night. Which means I could maybe sneak into a Thunder Bolts game to observe their captain in action. Purely for research.
“You’ll do great,” I say as I take out the last pucks. “I don’t know about the rest of the Bolts, but you’re off the charts…”
The words die in my throat as I turn. He’s right in front of me, as close as he was at the library. Except this time I’m trapped between him and a hockey goal.
“Uh, Cassiano?—”
“How do you know?” His voice is a low rumble. “That I’ll do great.”
Well, I—crap. Right now I don’t even know my own name. Someone should tell him that his eyes are weapons of mass brain destruction.
I lick my lips, and his attention goes there.
No, I need to bring this back to friendly territory.
“Oh, you’re a big deal in the hockey world, Cassiano.” I shove him away in what I hope is a friendly way. It gives me a few extra inches of space to breathe. “You might not have known me before bootcamp, but I knew about you. Your face’s been plastered on all the up-and-coming-talent lists for years.”
“A shame.”
I tilt my head. “What?”
“That I didn’t know about you before.” Max lets out a little snort. “Especially after I put my foot in my mouth from the get-go.”
“Your only mistake is that you keep calling me Tinker Bell.”
For the first time in days, Max cracks a smile. The spark returns to his eyes, and it does bad things for my pulse.
“But it fits you so well.”
