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Honestly, I was ready to cave. I wanted so badly to kiss her. Just once, to feel her full, soft lips entwined with mine.
But no, that’s not going to happen. That’s why I was careful just to tag her arm when I caught up to her on the ice.
Thankfully, I’d come to my senses.
We did some practice drills then, just shooting pucks at the nets. She was cute with her fun little shots.
I tried a whole bunch of angles and setups, but not the one I’ve been obsessed with. In fact, I’m not even dwelling on that botched playoff shot anymore.
Thanks to Willow.
Without even knowing it, she’s gotten me to think about other things.
“Yeah, like her,” I say, laughing.
It’s true, and I want to spend even more time with her. That’s why I asked her on the drive home if she’d like to go into town on Saturday night to hit up the local theater and catch a movie.
I would have suggested we go tomorrow, which is Friday, but I have dinner plans with Nils.
I thought about canceling with him, but I need to show some self-restraint here.
I mean, come on, I can’t be with Willow all of the time, right?
I try to convince myself that my wanting to spend so much time with her is because doing so keeps my mind off of that terrible playoff game that’s been haunting me since it happened.
Yeah, sure that’s the only reason.
I then try to tell myself that I’m just helping out friends, doing what Hayden and Addison asked me to do.
Okay, keep telling yourself that bullshit too.
“You know what?” I get out of the car and slam the door. “I think I will.”
“Dude,” Nils says, peering over at me curiously from across the table. “Where’s your head at? You’ve been a million miles away ever since we sat down for dinner.”
We’re at an upscale Italian restaurant in downtown Atlanta, waiting for our entrées to arrive.
Nils isn’t wrong; my mind has been somewhere else all night long.
Blowing out a breath, I admit, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He quirks a brow as he asks, “Hey, you’re not still dwelling on the playoff loss, are you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
“Good.” He blows out a breath. “So what is it, then? What are you obsessing over?”
Fuck, I may as well tell him.
But I have to wait a minute or two, as our entrées arrive—pasta carbonara for Nils and fettuccini Alfredo with shrimp for me.
When our waiter leaves, I say in a soft voice, “It’s Willow, man. That’s what’s on my fucking mind.”
Picking up his fork and twirling pasta on a large spoon, he says, “Shit, no way. Is hanging out with her that bad?”
I laugh. “If only that were the case. Try the opposite.”
With pasta dangling on the fork he’s holding aloft, Nils looks over at me and raises a brow. “Are you saying you actuallylikespending time with her?”
