STEPPING OUT OF MY CAR, I see Mitch and Noah sitting outside the iceplex chatting. It’s a brisk January evening and they’re both bundled up in their coats. Mitch is all big shoulders and chiseled jawline where Noah is slight, his face still rounded in that youthful way. Not quite a man, not quite a child.
Seeing the difference they make in each other amazes me. Like they both just needed someone who understood them. Noah needed someone after we lost our parents, and I can’t help but wonder what happened in Mitch’s past that made him need someone too. And made him feel kinship with Noah.
Their heads pop up when I put the car in park and they start walking my way. Noah has his giant hockey bag, as always, the one with that dorky wombat on the side.
I pop my trunk via the lever inside my driver’s side door, then walk around to the back to make sure the groceries are out of the way.
“Hey, guys. How’d it go?” I ask before bending down to grab Noah’s bag and hoist it inside the trunk.
Mitch’s eyebrows knit together when he spots my hand on Noah’s bag.
Noah, who’s oblivious to his look, responds, “Good. See ya, Coach Anderson.” He strides to the passenger door and plops down in the seat, closing the door behind him.
Mitch’s face is still sour, and he’s still glaring at my hand. He places his hand over mine, sending warmth shooting up my arm. The sensation of his rough, warm hand is something I’ve never experienced, something new. Sure, I’ve held hands with men before, but this contact is unique… it’s more… somehow.
The distraction of his gigantic, calloused, manly hand covering mine keeps me from noticing that Mitch is still silent… and glaring. When my wits come back, I stare at him, feeling utterly confused. Did I do something?
“Did Noah piss you off, Big Man? Why the sour face?”
He nudges my hand with his, and I realize he wants me to remove my hand from the bag. Feeling embarrassed, and a little offended, I remove my hand quickly. This whole time he was completely unaffected by the feel of my hand. Meanwhile, for me, the feel of his hand on mine will linger for days. I’ll dream about that big, grumpy hand. And wonder how those calluses would feel against my cheek, or running through my hair? Really freaking nice, I bet.
“Noah should carry his own bag,” the big guy finally speaks, his voice doing that low, grumbly thing that makes me want to curl into it, to nuzzle my face against his stubbly throat and see what his voice feels like. “He shouldn’t make you do it.”
He lifts the huge bag like it weighs nothing, making me think back to a few weeks ago when I saw Mitch for the first time… when he lugged me over his shoulder like I weighed no more than a stuffed animal. He doesn’t step aside after lifting the bag inside the trunk, but stays put. He’s no more than a foot away from me. So close that I can smell that hiking in the mountains and stumbling upon a waterfall scent that always lingers on his skin. Sweat, paired with whatever deodorant he uses. It shouldn’t be enticing… but it is. I want to climb him like the mountain he smells like.
“Oh,” I mutter, my brain clearly not working. “But it’s so big.” I’m talking about the bag, not the man right in front of me… I think.
Mitch’s hazel eyes, an even mixture of blue, green, and brown today, find mine. He doesn’t look away, but just calmly looks at me. “If he can wear the gear, he can carry the bag. It’s a rule in hockey. Everyone carries their own bag,” Mitch’s voice is even deeper now, with a raspy edge to it.
“Huh,” I breathe out. “I suppose that makes sense.”
I can feel my body trying to lean into him, to get closer. But I resist the urge. Especially since Noah is sitting a few feet from us. If his friends teasing him about me makes him upset, I can’t imagine he’d be good with me and his coach getting frisky.
Mitch’s mysterious, color-changing eyes look away from me. He must find something interesting in the trunk of my car, because those mood-ring eyes widen and his mouth quirks. My head whips to the side to see what’s so amusing, and I notice that my bubble-gum-scented bubble bath has slid out of the grocery bag. It’s the kid stuff, the one that makes the good bubbles. And I’m not ashamed.
“Captain Bubbles, huh?” He smirks, giving his eyes an evil twinkle.
It hits me then, as this man towers over me, smirking… Mitch ‘The Machine’ Anderson is the real-life lovable villain that everyone loves to hate… or hates to love.
“It makes the best bubbles,” I admit, placing my hands on my hips. A pose I’ve come to depend on around Mitch. A pose that makes me feel tough, like I can resist him.
His eyes land on my hips and rest there for a moment. The way he’s looking at me isn’t helping me feel like I can resist him. “Don’t knock Captain Bubbles until you try him.”
Mitch’s eyes meet mine again, and one of those dark, roguish eyebrows arches. “You don’t think I’d take a bath with Captain Bubbles?”
My mind goes back to when we were texting and he’d just gotten out of the shower… the picture of him in just his towel. In my head, the towel dips low enough to see his abs and he’s still glistening a little with steam.
“I can’t picture you taking a bath at all. You seem like a shower guy,” I rasp, then regret my words instantly. I’d do anything to push them back inside. But it’s like toothpaste… easy to squeeze out, impossible to get back inside the tube.
“Ah, so you picture me in the shower?” He brings a hand up to rub his beard thoughtfully. “That’s weird, since I’m so ugly and hairy.”
My mouth gapes open. “That’s not what I said!”
His throat makes a noise that sounds like a strangled laugh. “Sure…”
I open my mouth to defend myself, but Noah appears beside Mitch, he glances between the two of us with a strange expression on his face. “Are you two done arguing? I’m starving.” He glances between us again before turning and going back to his spot in the passenger seat.
Mitch is still smirking. I want to wipe that stupid look off of his stupid face. Instead, I glare at him.
“See you, Blondie,” he says before strutting off toward his fancy vehicle.
I watch him walk, not because his butt is incredible—because it totally is—but because I’m internally willing for him to trip or do something dumb.
But of course, he doesn’t stumble, or trip, or anything. He struts away like a magnificent peacock.
With an annoyed huff, I slam the trunk of my car closed, stomp around to the driver’s side door, open it and slide inside.
Noah is smirking at me, similar to the way Mitch just did. “Your face is all red again.”
“Shut up.”
On the drive home, Noah talks to me. Not just occasional sarcastic comments, but he really talks to me. This has been happening more and more since Mitch started coaching. I may be reading into this, or seeing what I want to see… but I don’t think so.
I think Noah felt so lost without a strong male influence in his life, and now he has someone to fill that role. But I worry that when Mitch’s suspension is over and he goes back to his insane schedule with lots of traveling, we’ll barely see him anymore.
What if Noah clams up again when Mitch is too busy for him? Ugh, I’m not cut out for this parenting stuff.
“So then I told Mitch he should try bubble baths because that’s how you relax.” Noah pauses and looks at me expectantly. I realize he’s been talking this whole time, and he’s waiting for a response.
I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Why does he need a bubble bath?”
Noah releases a heavy sigh. “You weren’t even listening, were you? His therapist told him to find ways to relax. Anyway, he said he might try it because he has a huge tub that he’s never used.”
“Mitch goes to therapy?”
“Yeah, he lost his parents too. And his grandpa. Well, his parents didn’t die, but he says there are many ways to lose people.”
I’m at a loss for words. Something inside me crumples at this information, but it also puts together so many pieces to Mitch Anderson that had been a mystery. Sure, a person isn’t defined by losing a loved one, or multiple, but it makes sense now why he’s closed off. And the kinship between Mitch and Noah definitely adds up now. They have this huge thing in common, this thing that has shaped both of them, this history of trauma and loss.
“Really?” I ask quietly, not knowing what else to say. “I didn’t know that.”
I just want to give them both a big hug. Noah definitely won’t let me… but Mitch might. Maybe the man just needs a good hug. Goosebumps break out along my arms just thinking about wrapping my arms around him… it’s like my senses are screaming, we volunteer! We volunteer as tribute!
“You enjoy hanging out with Mitch, huh?” I glance over at him quickly, then return my eyes to the traffic in front of me.
He’s quiet for a few seconds, contemplating his answer. “Yeah,” he says with a small laugh. “I hated him at first. But I guess he’s grown on me.”
I smile to myself, turning on my blinker to turn onto the street that leads to our townhouse.
“And he’s grown on you too,” he says. It’s not a question, it’s a statement.
Willing myself not to blush, I decide to change the subject to something safer. “So, you have homework tonight?”
He huffs a laugh, seeing right through my subject changing tactics. “Just a division worksheet. No sweat.”
I pull into our designated parking spot and peek over at my little brother. His head is turned slightly, looking out the window. But he looks so relaxed, and so happy, it breaks my heart a little.
Because a month ago, I wondered how we were going to deal with Mitch Anderson being in our lives… and now I’m wondering how we’re going to survive without him once he’s gone.
