HOCKEY FOR DUMMIES. Those clever idiots. I roll my lips together, trying not to smile at the hilarious, if not offensive, present. And the jersey with Mitch’s last name on the back? Why does that gift feel so… intimate?
Is wearing a guy’s jersey sort of like wearing a guy’s letter jacket… or class ring? Mitch and I are barely even friends, right?
And is it me, or is Mitch’s scent different this evening… not his usual waterfall in the mountains smell… but something more fruity, with a subtle hint of bubble gum.
Mitch interrupts my thoughts, leaning towards me. His lips are right next to my ear when he asks, “How’s the home gym?”
I don’t think he’s trying to flirt, it’s just loud in the arena and if he didn’t say that directly into my ear, I wouldn’t have heard him. But my body responds anyway, sending a shiver down my spine. And it’s not even cold all the way up here, so I can’t blame it on the ice. I take advantage of his nearness and attempt a subtle sniff.
Yep, definitely a hint of bubble gum.
“Great!” I answer, pulling back slightly to put some distance between us. “I even got my speakers hooked up for my audiobooks.”
His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and his cheeks turn red. He shakes his head slightly as if trying to remove thoughts from his own brain. Then he grunts instead of responding.
What was that all about?
Before I can say anything, someone starts announcing the opposing team over the speakers. A few people clap and cheer politely, but the real fun begins when a booming voice announces the Eagles. Classic rock music blares through the speakers and red fog comes out of machines near the ceiling. I glance over at Noah, who’s having the time of his life.
He smiles and says, “This is awesome!” I nod, agreeing with him. I may not be a hockey fan, but there’s no denying they know how to put on a good show.
The announcer says the names of several players I don’t know, and the crowd goes wild. I don’t recognize any of them until the goalie skates onto the ice, waving and grinning. It’s Bruce. I cheer loudly and clap for him, even though he can’t hear or see me.
Colby comes out next, and the female fans go absolutely berserk. There’s whistling and whooping. He eats it up, skating around for the crowd and blowing kisses. I shake my head and look over at Mitch, who’s watching me instead of his teammates.
Probably just wanting to see how I react to my first NHL game, nothing more. I look away quickly.
Weston Kershaw, the assistant captain apparently, is announced next. I recognize him from Noah’s game. I remember he has a fiancee, but he gets his fair share of female fanfare from the crowd too. It must be so weird to be engaged to a man so beloved by the female population.
Lastly, the team captain is announced. Which, of course, is Remy. He gets the biggest applause and the loudest cheers. Everyone clearly loves him, but he’s more humble about it. He gives a faint smile and a big wave to the arena before skating to center ice for the puck drop.
But before the referee drops the puck on center ice, the announcer starts up again. “Tonight we have a special guest with us! Ladies and gentleman, give it up for Mitch ‘The Machine’ Anderson! We’ve missed you, man!”
The crowd erupts again, mostly cheering, but a fair amount of booing too. The Jumbotron zooms in on Mitch, and I lean as far away from him as possible, so as not to be on the Jumbotron. No, thank you.
Mitch’s face is stoic as he looks at the camera and gives it a small salute. No smile, no kisses, no attention-seeking behavior. Just the same stony face I’ve come to expect. And hell if it doesn’t make me smile all the same.
Thankfully, the camera doesn’t slide over to me, or to Noah, and the arena quiets down for the puck drop.
Throughout the game, Mitch calmly explains what’s happening, not in a condescending, mansplaining way…. but just filling me in on the rules of the game. Some of it I’ve figured out from watching Noah’s games, but a lot of the information is new, and helpful.
With each bit of commentary from Mitch, I swear he scoots closer and closer to me. When one of the Eagles forwards gets sent to the penalty box, I swivel on my stool to look over at Mitch, meaning to ask why the player was penalized… but I hadn’t realized how close he’d scooted to me and the movement makes my knees bump against his. He doesn’t move away, and I don’t either. I have the overwhelming desire to rest my palm on his muscular thigh, I can practically feel my hand itching to move in that direction.
Instead, I focus on his face, which is a mere six inches from mine. My eyes quickly steal a glance at his lips. They’re set in a straight line, of course, but at this close distance they look softer and more full than I expected. I’ve never kissed a guy with a beard, and my mind can’t help but wonder what it would feel like. I allow my eyes to dip down to his suit too. He looks so dapper, so perfect, practically edible. But I have to admit I miss those long-sleeved tees he wears when working with Noah, the ones he scrunches up during practice to show off those incredible tattooed forearms.
I blink a few times and look back up to his hazel eyes. His gaze is on my lips and a little thrill runs through my body at the idea. When his eyes flick up to meet mine, I note that his eyes are more green than brown today. The hunter green of his suit brings out the green flecks in his eyes in a way that makes it difficult to breathe.
We sit like that for a moment, looking at each other in a blatant way we haven’t allowed before. Like in this moment, we’re both silently acknowledging our attraction, that we don’t actually hate each other. The noise in the arena and Noah’s conversation with the Eagle’s general manager fade into the background. All I see is Mitch, his kissable lips, his eyes piercing straight through mine like he can read my every thought. All I feel is his knee against mine. All I hear are his quiet but steady breaths.
Quiet and steady, just like the man.
If we were truly alone at this moment, I’m 99.9% sure he would kiss me. And if he didn’t… I’m 100% sure I’d kiss him. I imagine how I’d do it: my hand on his thigh, my chin tilting upward, letting him know my intentions. I’d pause, allowing him the chance to say no. But he wouldn’t. He’d close the distance and take over, kissing me fervently.
At least, that’s how I imagine it would go.
“Andie,” Noah tugs on my sleeve. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before turning away from Mitch’s searing gaze and his warm knee against mine. I plaster a smile on my face and pretend I wasn’t just about to drag my little brother’s hockey coach into the storage closet—if this room even has one of those. “Mr. Parker says we can meet the team after the game.”
“Haven’t we already met most of them?” I ask in a teasing tone.
Tom Parker chuckles. Noah’s jaw drops in offense. “Not even close. I’ve only met four of them!”
“You’ve met the most important one,” Mitch says, leaning in so Noah can hear him. His chest grazes against my shoulder in the process and I struggle not to flinch with the contact.
Noah scoffs. “Whatever.”
Noah goes back to his conversation with Tom and I excuse myself to the restroom to compose myself after… after what? Grazing shoulders with Mitch Anderson? I’m pathetic.
When I come back to our box, I feel normal again. Until I spot Mitch, who’s now in Tom’s spot beside Noah. They’re leaning into one another, chatting about the game. One of the Eagles players scores a goal and they both clap and cheer. Tom must’ve left for general manager duties, but I’m grateful for the break from sitting next to Mitch. I can’t handle the arm grazing, and the knee touching, and the silent glances any longer. A woman can only take so much.
I sit down and notice the bar is lined with food now. There’s nachos, sodas, popcorn, cotton candy, and corn dogs. Whew, something to do with my hands—and mouth—besides running them all over Mitch Anderson.
Speaking of Mitch, he’s not partaking in the junk food. Instead, he has a grilled chicken salad in front of him with a bottle of water and a protein shake. He looks up at me when I sit down and sees me eyeing his food.
“My suspension is over soon, I need to eat for peak performance,” he explains.
If the Mitch I’ve seen over the last month hasn’t been at peak performance, how am I going to resist him when he’s at peak performance?
I nod, not trusting myself to say words at the moment. Grabbing a corn dog, I take a big bite, extra incentive not to speak and say something stupid about his peak performance.
Noah’s attention is back on the ice, happily watching the game. He’s also chowing down on nachos and soda. I foresee a late night. But it’s his birthday, after all. I’ve been freaking out all week that he’d be so upset today. His first birthday without Mom and Dad. But thanks to the big man sitting with us, his birthday was amazing.
Mitch keeps surprising me and helping out when I least expect it. If someone would’ve told me a month ago that Noah would make friends with a pro hockey player and start actually enjoying life again, I wouldn’t have believed them. And if they would’ve told me he’d be our biggest source of support, besides Ronda, I would’ve laughed in their faces.
Mitch ‘The Machine’ Anderson is a good man. A damn good man. But something tells me he doesn’t see himself that way.
Three things I’m grateful for today; Mitch Anderson, his goofy teammates, and surprisingly enough… hockey.
“Right down this tunnel is the locker room, but let me warn them so you don’t walk into a bunch of naked hockey players,” Tom tells me as he leads us toward the Eagles locker room.
I laugh and don’t bother telling him that that would be most women’s dream come true.
He scans his I.D. on his lanyard on the door scanner and it unlocks, he slips through the large, heavy-looking door, leaving me standing there with Mitch and Noah. Noah has wide eyes and looks nervous, and Mitch is standing stiffly, seeming uncomfortable. I wonder if it’s really weird for him to be here visiting instead of in the locker room cooling down with the rest of the team. I imagine Noah would feel that way too. Noah looks at me and I offer him what I hope is a comforting smile.
Noah releases a slow breath. “I’m nervous.”
Mitch relaxes slightly and smirks. “Why? Just a bunch of sweaty, smelly athletes.”
“Sweaty, smelly, professional athletes. Athletes literally living my dream,” Noah says with a shake of his head.
Mitch roughs up his hair with one of those giant hands of his and Noah shoves it away and tries to smooth his hair out.
The heavy door opens and Tom waves us in. “Alright, everyone’s decent.”
We walk inside the spacious locker room, sweaty guys grin at Noah and give him fist bumps and high fives. I take a second to look around, because this is a really fancy locker room. Polished wood separates each player’s locker/cubby area. Name plates with each guy’s name are secured onto the wood. A giant eagle light sprawls across the ceiling, and awards and trophies are displayed on the walls opposite the lockers. Locker room isn’t even a fitting term for this sweat-palace.
But it still reeks of sweaty boys, just like any other locker room.
Bruce waddles toward me on his skates, his torso bare, but still in his gear from the waist down. “Blondie! How’d you like your present?”
I try holding back my smile, but it’s impossible with Bruce grinning at me with that ornery smile of his. I manage to keep my eyes plastered firmly on his face, because if I look down, I know I’ll see nothing but muscles on muscles on more muscles. And I don’t need that image in my head. The only guy in this room I’d like to see shirtless is the grouchy one behind me.
Colby ambles up beside him, also shirtless (and also spectacularly fit), with his padded shorts still on. He slings a sweaty arm over Bruce’s shoulders. “Did you read the book during the game? Or were you too busy watching me?”
Bruce shoves him and he teeters on his skates. “I was too busy eating nachos and corn dogs. Sorry, I didn’t really pay attention to the game.” I shrug.
Colby brings a hand to his bare chest, feigning offense. “I’m hurt.”
“Me too! I had some sweet saves you missed,” Bruce says in a pouty tone.
I laugh and spot Remy across the room from us, he sees me and gives me a brief wave. There are two reporters, one connecting a mic to Remy’s shirt and the other connecting one to Weston Kershaw’s. They’re ushered out of the room, I assume for an interview. I wonder if Remy enjoys interviews and press? He seems so quiet and reserved. Actually, he and Weston were part of the few guys in here who still had shirts on.
Bruce and Colby sidle over to chat with Noah and their other teammates and I smile at the excitement on my little brother’s face.
Realizing Mitch hasn’t made a peep this whole time, I glance over my shoulder to look at him. I can tell Mitch is standing right behind me because my body is humming the way it always does when he’s nearby. I can also still smell the very faint scent of berries and bubble gum coming from him, which is a welcome reprieve from the locker room’s other smells.
Mitch’s expression is not amused at all. He’s glaring at his teammates. The man practically has laser beams coming out of his eyeballs.
“Why the sour face?” I ask in a low voice.
He crosses his arms. “The guys could’ve had a little respect and stayed dressed for five more minutes.”
“Whoah, I didn’t realize you’re a prude, it’s not like I’ve never seen a man’s chest before.” I pause, leaning in slightly closer to him. “Plus, there’s only one person I’m interested in seeing shirtless.”
His gaze falls to my lips and lingers there for a second before glancing back up. “Is it Colby?”
I snort, very unattractively, and give him a shove so he has to take a step back. “You’re clueless, Big Man.”
