with spices. It must be woman’s intuition that tells her where all of my things are because she’s as comfortable as cooking in here as I am.
“Graduate school?”
My look must not hide my surprise because she laughs again. She does it so easily. All the time. Sometimes when I laugh, I surprise myself with the sound.
She gives the sauce another quick stir before running her finger along the spoon and tasting it. I get stuck on watching her lick the taste off her finger. A low hum falls from her pink lips that shoots straight to my dick. I clear my throat and get her attention, realizing I’m only half-listening as she starts talking. I can’t wipe away the vision of her lips wrapped around something else.
Damn. I’ve never been a guy to think with my dick as my teammates say it, but I definitely understand what it means now.
“My uncle owns my condo. He’s on a three-year arrangement out of the country for his work so when he heard I was accepted into the grad school at NCU, he asked if I wanted to live in it while he’s gone. That way he didn’t have to worry about selling it or renting.”
“You must be close with your family.”
“Yeah. I don’t have a lot and my parents live a couple hours away, but we’re close.”
She says nothing else and I have so many more questions. It’s not like me to care so much or want to know so much but I’m intrigued by her. And it has more to do with her showing up at my door with a baby in her arms.
“My family is in Denmark.” She hasn’t asked, but I want her to know about me too. She hasn’t even said anything about the team. Or what position I play. And I’m not sure if I like her disinterest or if it’s killing me. There’s a stigma that comes with being a professional athlete. There’s the idea that all the guys only think of how often we can get our sticks wet off the ice as often as possible. In a much larger truth, the guys who play on my team and most are good guys. There’s always an asshole or three on every team, but most of the guys I know want the wife and family. They go to church. They volunteer because they want to give back, not because they’re forced to for their image. They are faithful. And good.
Paisley might not have much knowledge of sports, but I can’t imagine she doesn’t have some idea of what she thinks a player is.
“Are you close with them?” she asks and it’s almost hesitant. Her bottle of water is gone and I almost offer her another one when she helps herself.
“No.” I don’t mind admitting it either. My father and I haven’t spoken since the last playoff game in the spring when we lost. I missed three shots on goal and it wasn’t my best game. He made sure to call to let me know he watched it and to repeat what I already knew. “My father is not a nice man, at least not to me. He pushed too hard and nothing was ever good enough. I send them money because if I don’t, he will call and remind me that I wouldn’t have so much if it wasn’t for him.”
Her lips part and her skin pales. She’s tan but that vanishes as she licks her bottom lip. “That’s, well, that’s horrible.”
“He made me the player I was, and then I became better than he ever was. I think, although he likes that I’m good enough to play in the pros here, he also hates I’m better than him. That he didn’t get the chance.”
Her fingers strum on the counter. I can almost see the fight in her eyes. Does she ask me about hockey or not?
“That’s too bad. Parents should always support their children.” She says it quietly, and I can tell it truly bothers her.
I open my mouth to reassure her I’m used to it. I’ve had three years of growing up without him around. To me, my father is nothing more than a yearly bill I pay.
Before I can, Angelo lets out a loud squawk that tells me he’s had it with sleeping and swinging.
We both move to him, like we’re instinctively prepared to get him first, but I beat Paisley. She steps back, chuckling, and I smile at her as I bend