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“Push-ups, O’Brian.”
The girls all started bouncing in their skates, singing, “OOOooooh, he’s in trouble!” and then chanting “Push-ups! Push-ups!” as he went down to a plank on the ice, his hands in his gloves. Holding that position, he looked over at me and flashed a wink and another panty-melting smile before knocking out one perfect push-up after another.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but I watched every single one.
He didn’t stay long—after taking a team picture, he wished the girls luck in their season and left us to our practice.
I should have known that wouldn’t be the end of it.
On my way out after practice, the guy who sharpens skates caught me and handed me a note.
I’m a guy who takes responsibility for my actions.
Tell me what I can do to make this better.
For a minute Ialmostfelt bad. Because there wasn’t a thing he could do.
Not that that stopped him. Then there was the game last Thursday. Nat swears she didn’t tell him I’d be there, but from the minute he came onto the ice for warm-up, he made sure I knewhe knewI was there. Rapping his stick on the glass as he passed our seats on the first lap, dropping into a classic canoe paddle as he passed on the next.
Thankfully his head was in the game once it started, but once we were back at the bar, he started up again, getting player after player from the team to come over and deliver a testimonial about how not-douchey he was.
By the end of the night my stomach hurt from laughing so hard.
But no matter how much this guy flirts or jokes or makes an ass of himself to get my attention, it’s not going to change anything. He’s still the guy who made a sport of playing me almost seven years ago. Still the guy who took things I can never get back and threw them away without a backward glance.
He’s still the guy who cared so little about his actions that he doesn’t even remember that everything he’s trying to get from me now… he’s already had.
That’s what I’m thinking in Nat’s apartment as Quinn barks out a laugh. “Jesus, Vassar, she was seventy years old! She needed a hand.”
Eyes saucer wide, Natalie covers her mouth, and I’m shaking my head no. Because even if every rumor about Quinn O’Brian is true… he wouldn’t. Would he?
“Ever hear of Ted Bundy? That motherfucker just needed a hand too.”
“It was raining and she clearly didn’t know how to change it herself.”
The guys come into the living room. Both men are soaked from the knees down, their socks making squishing noises as they step, water dripping off the brims of their hats, and in Vaughn’s case, the ends of his hair. Quinn is sporting a muddy splatter that covers what was once a white thermal, his neck, and jaw… except for a clean circle of skin with a single mauve lipstick kiss dead center.
“Oh my God,” Nat gasps as I nod, feeling the smile I’m not even trying to hide spreading fast.
That’s when the guys notice us. Vaughn’s whole face lights up as he starts in on how Quinn has a death wish and pulled over to change this woman’s tire.
“This isn’t your first rodeo,” he chides Quinn. “You’ve been mugged before, man. You know better.”
My breath catches, and my belly goes tense at the thought of him facing that danger.
“You’ve been mugged?” Nat asks. “Here in Chicago? Were you hurt?”
Quinn waves her off. His eyes keep cutting to mine like he wasn’t expecting to see me here and now that he has, he looks almost embarrassed.
Which can’t be right.
“No, back in college. Just a couple punks looking for trouble, not money. Broke my nose.”
That nose I’ve stared at so many times, wondering what happened and when, because it was straight as an arrow the first time I met him. I’d always assumed it happened on the ice.
“See?” Vaughn comes back. “And that was before you had your face plastered across billboards and popping up in the highlights reel a couple times a week. Now? You know what it means to be a part of a team like this. People get weird fixations. Guys. Girls.Grandmas.”
Quinn blinks, and when his eyes come up, they find mine and hold. And for a second, it’s like I can read everything he’s saying in one glance.
