On Friday afternoon, exactly three hours before my date with Noah, I’m at a sports bar conducting some interviews for a promotional mash-up video I’m putting together. The bar is basically the unofficial headquarters for the Denver Aces fan club, and even on nights when the Aces aren’t playing, there’s often a large crowd gathered to watch highlight reels and reruns of older games.
I’m hoping to get a few soundbites from mega fans, but getting these guys to make a statement without the constant use of colorful language has been harder than I expected.
“Can you say that again, but without all the swearing?” I request of the man sitting next to me at the bar.
I’ve been talking to him and his buddy for about thirty minutes, and during that time, they’ve both polished off a beer. They’re likely in their late forties or early fifties, and I clocked both of them right away when I entered the bar, because they’re both wearing worn out Aces jerseys and ball caps.
“I can’t swear in this interview?” the man says, laughing as he signals the bartender for another round. “What the fuck kind of hockey fan would I be if I didn’t swear?”
“I know it’s a pain in the ass,” I tell him. “But our public channels need to remain family friendly. It’s a big part of our brand, and we’re actually really dedicated to showing people that hockey games aren’t necessarily as rough or rowdy as they may think. We want people to feel like they can bring their kids to a game, you know? Did your parents take you to Denver Aces games when you were a kid?”
The man smiles and slaps his friend’s arm. “You hear that? She wants to know if we went to games when we were kids.”
The other guy chuckles. He leans across the bar past his friend and looks me right in the eye. “Darling, there was a point in our lives where Jim and I didn’t miss a single Denver Aces game.”
“Granted, the tickets were a lot cheaper back then,” Jim adds. “And we would save up all our allowance money throughout the year so that we could buy a ticket to every single home game when the time came.”
“That’s great!” I grin. “Lifelong fans who used to save up their pocket change so they could see every game. That’s exactly the kind of story we’re trying to tell.”
“If you like that story,” his friend says, “then you’ll love this. One time, in college, Jim and I worked up the courage to ask a couple sorority girls out to a game. And let me tell you, these girls were way out of our league.”
“Even still,” Jim adds. “They weren’t nearly as pretty as you.”
I smile and shake my head, brushing off the compliment. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Oh no, it is,” the other guy chimes in. “They were gorgeous, but they had nothing on you. Either way, we take them to this game, and Jim and I are all nervous, fumbling around with snacks and trying to keep our cool even though the Aces were losing pretty bad that night.”
“The dumbest part,” Jim comments, “is that we kept explaining the rules of the game to these girls. We thought they had never seen a hockey game in their lives.”
“Turns out, they had seen a lot of hockey games. And they were superfans.”
I look up from my phone, which I’m using to record the interviews. “Huh?”
“Yeah.” Jim snorts. “We were confused too. At first. But we found out just how much they loved the game after the second period, when the girls ran up to the glass and took their shirts off. They had two of the players’ names written across their chests and were banging on the glass, asking the players to take them out on a date.”
A laugh bursts out of me, and I cup my hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to laugh. I’m sure that was really sad for you guys.”
Jim and his friend share a look and shrug. “Nah, go ahead and laugh,” Jim tells me with a wry grin. “Looking back now, it was very funny.”
“And we should’ve known they didn’t actually want to go out with us. Like I said, they were way out of our league. When they said yes, that really should’ve been our first clue.”
“Aw, you guys,” I say, still chuckling. “Don’t be so hard on yourselves. Those girls were lucky to go out on a date with you!”
Jim smiles at me, showing off the small gap between his front teeth. “We know you’re just saying that to make us feel better, but we’ll take it. When a beautiful girl gives you a compliment, you don’t ask too many questions. You just say thanks and offer to buy her another drink.”
He looks down at my half-finished glass of beer as he speaks.
“Oh, thanks, but no thanks,” I say, waving him off. “Technically, I’m still on the clock, so I really need to keep my mind sharp.” I check the time on my phone. “Oh, it’s later than I thought. I should head back to the office so I can get this all pieced together before the end of the day.” I stop the recording and nod to them both as I stand up. “Thanks again for your time! Maybe I’ll see you at one of the games.”
“I hope so,” says Jim.
“Yeah.” His friend tips his baseball cap at me like a gentleman would tip his top hat. “The only thing that would make a Denver Aces game better would be sitting next to a pretty girl like you in the stands.”
With that, I leave the two of them to start their next round and head for the door.
On my way out, I notice a group of women who look close to my age huddled together in one of the booths, talking about the Aces. I stop short of leaving when I hear one of them mention Theo by name, and I realize they’re waiting around in the hopes that some of the players might show up. Since the Aces don’t have a game tonight, they probably think there’s a good chance some of them will show up here for a drink or two later in the evening.
These ladies are puck bunnies, and what they have to say about the players is definitely not going to be anything family friendly, but I can’t help but linger awhile by the door and eavesdrop. But as the seconds drag on, I realize just how obvious it is that I’m standing around listening, so I pretend to get a text and stare down at my phone as I take a seat in the booth next to theirs.
“No way,” one of the girls is saying. “I read that Reese is, like, totally devoted to his girlfriend. You’d never get him to take you home.”
“I might!” insists another. “I’ve talked to him once before, you know. At this very bar. He was really sweet, and I thought we sort of… clicked.”
“Why are we even talking about Reese Sutton right now?” A third woman lets out a trilling laugh. “I came here to run into one man and one man only. Noah Blake.”
I perk up, leaning back into the booth so I can hear what they’re saying a little better.
“You know Noah’s rule,” one of her friends says. “He doesn’t hook up with the same girl twice. You’ve already slept with him, so what makes you think he’s going to break that rule for you?”
“Well, for starters, I’m not sure he would recognize me!” Her friends laugh at that, but she continues to make her case. “I’m serious! We hooked up over a year ago, and that was back when my hair was blonde. He’s had sex with so many women. Do you really think he’s got a photographic memory of them all? Not a chance.”
I wince a little when the girl emphasizes how many women Noah has been with, but I try my best not to let it affect me too much.
“I don’t blame Hillary for wanting to hook up with him again.” This must be the fourth girl in the group, because it’s a voice I haven’t heard yet. “That man is sex on a stick, I swear. Watching him play is like watching a god on the ice.”
“Thank you,” the girl I now know to be Hillary crows. “That’s what I’m saying. Seriously, I’ve never had sex like that before. That man rocked my fucking world.”
I don’t know why exactly, but that last comment is what bothers me the most. Pretty much since I met him, I’ve known that Noah has a past and can be a bit of a player, but hearing just how good he made that woman feel is sort of like a punch to the gut. What he did for me, the things I felt the night we were together, the passion and the pleasure—it wasn’t anything new for him. He may have given me the best orgasms of my life, but apparently he’s used to providing women with those kinds of climaxes.
Rocking a woman’s world is just old hat to someone like Noah Blake.
Against my better judgment, I steal a look over my shoulder and regret it right away. All the ladies are just as pretty as I thought they were going to be, a couple of them even prettier. They look like they could all be models, like they work out five times a week and get their roots touched up the moment their real hair color starts showing.
They work on themselves in a way I simply do not. Even though I go to the gym a couple times a week and know how to do a good smokey-eye look, these women are on a whole different playing field when it comes to the beauty game. And these are the type of women Noah normally spends time with.
So where does that leave me?
As I’m thinking this, my phone buzzes, and I look down to see a text from Noah. It’s a photograph from inside a flower shop, and underneath it is another text.
NOAH: Can you believe they don’t have a single sunflower in this entire store? I’ve been walking around for thirty minutes, and there’s not anything that even LOOKS like a sunflower. Don’t they know it’s the best flower in the world?
A smile curves my lips before I can stop it, and I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly.
This is why I’m falling for Noah. This is the side of his personality that he doesn’t let other people see. The woman sitting behind me may have had sex with Noah once, and he very well might’ve rocked her world, but she doesn’t have little inside jokes with him. He doesn’t know her favorite flower, hasn’t comforted her when she was afraid, or told her that she brings him good luck when she wears his jersey.
What we have is deeper. It’s different.
ME: I also like daisies 🙂
NOAH: Filing that away for future reference. But still, daisies aren’t your favorite. And I’m not going to settle for your second-choice flower. There are still a few more shops I haven’t gone to yet. Wish me luck!
Grinning, I text him back good luck and then put my phone away. The women are still chatting behind me, but now I’m determined to tune them out. I stand up and walk out of the bar without paying them any mind, then head back to the office for a few hours.
Once the work day ends, I head out, getting home just in time to start prepping for my date.
Getting ready, however, proves to be far more daunting than I originally anticipated. I end up changing my outfit three times, then having to get undressed all over again when I decide that I’m actually wearing the wrong bra and underwear combo.
By the time I settle on an outfit and the right undergarments, I only have thirty minutes left to do my hair and makeup. I watch a tutorial on the internet on how to do a loose, messy braid, but after my third try, I get frustrated and decide to just leave my hair down. I work some honey-scented oil through it to give it a bit of shine, then do a simple makeup look and apply my favorite lipstick.
Looking at my reflection once more before walking out the door, I’m satisfied with what I see.
I’m not dressed like a puck bunny, but I still look sexy. I have some cute panties on, and the locket necklace I always wear draws attention to my cleavage—but at the same time, I’ve maintained my own style and prioritized my comfort. I’m wearing boots with a low heel instead of stilettos, because I’m not interested in having sore feet the whole night. I’m also wearing a fluffy black sweater over my tight red dress, because as much as I want to seduce Noah, frostbite just isn’t cute.
I smile and push my shoulders back, letting go of the nerves that rise up and reminding myself that tonight is going to be fun.
“Forget everything you heard those ladies say, forget all the rumors you’ve heard about Noah, and just remember the kind of person he’s shown you to be,” I murmur to myself. “Don’t get in your head, Mar.”
Then I touch up my lipstick quickly, grab my purse, and leave for my first real date with the captain of the Denver Aces.
I knew Noah lived in a penthouse in Downtown Denver, but I had no idea his building would be this fancy. At the door, a man wearing a suit smiles and dips his head deferentially to me like I’m some sort of princess.
“Good evening,” he says.
“Hi.” I smile at him, pulling my sweater a little tighter around me to ward off the cold. “I’m here to visit Noah Blake. He’s expecting me.”
“Of course. Do you know where you’re going?”
“Um, sort of,” I answer. “Can you point me in the right direction?”
“Not a problem,” the doorman says, following me inside. The lobby of the building is stunning, and there’s jazz music playing from the speakers overhead. I feel like I’ve just walked into a five-star hotel. He points toward an elevator on the far side of the lobby. “That will take you up to Mr. Blake’s condo. Top floor.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping forward as the doorman turns his attention to another woman who just entered the building.
Ugh. Elevators.
I’ve been a bit skittish about getting into elevators ever since being trapped in one, but I always remind myself that if Noah can get on an airplane for every away game, I can face my fears and take an elevator. I’m just starting to walk toward it when someone taps me on the shoulder.
I turn around to see the woman who came in after me, a pretty brunette with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She looks a bit flustered, and her cheeks are red.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry. Did I hear you say you’re going up to Noah Blake’s condo?” she asks.
“Uh… yes,” I say, startled. “I am. Why?”
“Great!” Her face lights up with relief. “Can you give this to him?” She sticks her hand out, and I realize she’s holding a folded up t-shirt. It’s soft to the touch, and when I take it from her, I catch the familiar scent of Noah’s spicy aftershave. “He left it at my studio last night. I would run it up to him myself, but I’m late for an appointment.”
I blink, my chest tightening like someone knocked the wind out of me.
“He… he left it at your studio?” I ask. “Last night?”
“Yeah,” she tells me, glancing down at her watch. “He was in a hurry to leave, and he forgot it. Do you mind giving it back to him for me? Tell him he left it at Stacy’s. Thank you so much!”
With that, she gives me a quick wave and hurries away, disappearing back out onto the street.
Once she’s gone, I stare at the t-shirt in my hand, trying to process what just happened. Was that woman another one of Noah’s random hookups? The way she was talking sure as hell made it seem like it. And the fact that they slept together last night makes me feel sick to my stomach.
Is this what I can expect if I start dating him? We never talked about being exclusive or anything, and that’s on me for not clarifying. But am I really okay with being just another woman in his revolving door of sex partners?
No. I can’t fucking do that.
My stomach twists, and I clench my jaw as an unexpected wave of sadness rushes through me, more intense than I would’ve expected. After all, not much has happened between me and Noah. We haven’t even been on a single actual date yet, so it makes no sense for me to be so heartbroken about the prospect of losing something I never had.
But I am heartbroken.
Because despite his reputation, I thought things were different between us. I knew he wanted me, but I naively thought he wanted only me.
Of course that’s not the case. How would a guy like Noah ever be satisfied with one woman? He’d probably get bored so fucking fast.
My thoughts are spiraling, all the excitement that built up inside me over the week crumbling to dust in my chest. I curl my fingers around his shirt and blink rapidly, glancing around the lobby.
I can’t face Noah right now. I feel stupid and angry and hurt, and I just want to go back home.
Pivoting quickly, I turn around and head back toward the front door, heading straight for my car. The doorman waves to me on my way out, but if he has anything to say about the fact that I’m leaving so soon after arriving, he keeps it to himself.
In the car, I realize I’m cradling Noah’s shirt against my chest like some sad sack who just got dumped. I angrily throw the garment into the backseat and ball my hands into fists. I can feel the tears escaping one by one out of the corners of my eyes, and I hate that he can make me feel this way. I pull down the mirror and try to clean up some of my makeup, running my fingers along the bottoms of my eyes as I meet my reflection’s gaze.
It’s better that you found out now, I tell myself.
But it’s hard to be comforted by that thought.
