There’s something about him that draws me in. It’s the same something that pulled me in when I was a girl.
I want to understand how he can be so sweet with me and so hard on the ice. And why his reputation is so incredibly deplorable. I want the rumors not to be true, even though I know they must be. At least some of them. But it doesn’t make sense with how averse he is to touch.
I don’t ask any of those questions, though, because I don’t want to ruin the perfect bubble we’re in right now.
“Would you like me to order wine?”
He keeps brushing his lips across my knuckles. My stomach is fluttering so much it’s hard to focus on anything but the feeling. “I’d have a glass.”
“To go with your Shirley Temple?”
“Are you making fun of me?”
He uncurls my fingers and drags the index one across his bottom lip. “I think it’s precious, just like you.”
That name sends a sweet shiver down my spine and raises goose bumps along my arms. “You’re full of lines tonight.”
“You think I’m feeding you lines?” I see his hurt even though he’s still smiling.
I hate that I don’t know whether to trust my gut with him. I want to. But I’m not sure what he wants out of this. “I don’t know. Are you?”
He releases my hand, setting it on the table and propping his fist under his chin, as though he’s contemplating my comment. “Why would you think I need to feed you lines?”
“I don’t think you need to do anything. I think you’re used to getting whatever, or maybe whoever, you want.”
“But you’re not whatever or whoever, Poppy. You get that, right?”
“I’m not?” I’m pushing now, but I want something from him. Some kind of reassurance that he’s not going to play me like he does other women.
He takes my hand again and presses my palm against the side of his neck. I feel the heavy thud of his pulse beneath my palm. “I want this. You.”
“Why?” I still don’t understand why me. What makes me so different from everyone else? What makes me special?
“This.” His fingers caress the back of mine, still pressed against his cheek. “Feels nice.” He opens his eyes slowly. The weight of them on me is almost suffocating. “It’s never felt nice before.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s never been you before.”
“But it has been me before.”
“You mean in the closet?”
“Mmm. Was it nice then?” I remember the sound he made when he kissed me, the way his arm tightened around me, the hard lines of his body as he pulled me closer and his tongue swept my mouth.
“It was. So I had to work really hard to forget it for a long time.” Lance flips the wine list open.
I want to ask why he wanted to forget something I spent most of my teen years replaying over and over like some kind of dirty Disney love story, but he seems to be done talking about that.
“Do you like red or white?” he asks.
“I prefer white.” Of all of the alcohol options out there, white wine is the one that doesn’t give me an immediate hangover.
“And you’re sure you’ll have a glass if I order a bottle?”
“Yes.”
“Because you want to or because you’ll feel obligated?” He’s reclaimed my hand and is kissing the tips of all my fingers now. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as his tongue touches the pad of my thumb.
“Both.”
He smiles. “I like how honest you are. Why would you feel obligated?”
“Because this is a date, and that’s what people usually do on dates.”
“So you want to drink wine because it’s conventional?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I’m nervous.”
Lance frowns. “Why?”
“Why?” I echo.
“Why are you nervous?”
“Because you’re you.”
Lance blinks a few times, releases my hand again, and leans back in his chair. The floor vibrates with the bounce of his knee. “And what exactly does that mean?”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not offended. I’m curious.”
The waiter chooses that moment to return with our Shirley Temples. He gestures to the open wine list. “Have you made a selection?”
Lance gives me a tight smile. “I think we’re okay for right now.”
At my murmur of agreement the waiter turns back to Lance.
“Would you like to start with appetizers?”
“We’ll need a few more minutes, please.” Lance’s voice is as tight as his expression.
The waiter leaves us alone again. I don’t like the sudden change of mood. Lance has gone dark.
“You’re a professional hockey player; I’m just a massage therapist.”
“You’re not just anything,” Lance replies.
“You know what I mean. People know who you are, even if they don’t actually know you. No one knows who I am.”
“I do.”
“To a certain degree, yes, but we only give the part of ourselves we’re comfortable with, right?” I motion between us. “Being here means we must be willing to give a bit more, doesn’t it?”
“And that makes you nervous?”
“Of course. You have an idea of who I am, an ideal even. I’m the girl who gave you her first kiss in a closet.” I look down at my napkin. “I won’t lie and say I haven’t romanticized that memory, even if it’s a silly, na?ve thing to do.”
Lance adjusts his silverware, his knee still going under the table. “So what’s the part that makes you nervous? That I’m not gonna be the romanticized version you’ve built me up to be?”
I don’t tell him I already know that part of him has been buried for a long time. Based on what happened in the closet after we went out for dessert earlier this week, I’m aware that the boy I knew is definitely still in there, even if he’s been hiding. But there are years of time and experiences creating a barrier between us now.
“And that I’m not the same version of the girl you remember.”
He nods, like maybe this makes sense.
“Sorry. This got heavy fast.”
He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. “I don’t mind. No girl ever gets real with me. It’s kinda nice for a change.”
I laugh. “I can’t imagine how much lip service you get on a regular basis.”
“A lot more than I want, actually. I don’t like being played with by people.”
It’s a loaded statement. I can almost taste its bitterness.
The waiter returns to ask after our order. I decide on a glass of sauvignon blanc, and Lance requests a bottle instead, checking with me for the brand. I point to one in the middle of the row, but I won’t know the difference between a high-end bottle and the cheap stuff from the local liquor store.
He also orders appetizers since we haven’t even opened the menu. When the waiter leaves, I look it over. They have all of my favorite things with a classy twist. Everything sounds amazing, and I decide to go for the spaghetti Bolognese.
Once the waiter returns with the wine and takes our dinner order, Lance settles back in his chair, his knees brushing mine under the table.
“So, I gotta ask how a good girl ends up at a high school party at the age of twelve. I can’t imagine your parents actually let you go.”
“Absolutely not. My parents went out, and my sister was babysitting me. She didn’t want to miss the party, so she took me with her.”
“That wasn’t very responsible.”
“I could’ve stayed home by myself, but my sister isn’t known for her responsible tendencies.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there.”
“She was always a little wild. Fun, but she pushed the boundaries a lot. Sometimes I wanted to be more like her. The night we went to that party, I felt so cool.” I shake my head at the memory. “She never really grew out of that rebellious phase. She’s better than she used to be, but she still struggles with things like keeping a job for more than six months.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Oh! Cinny.”
“Like Cinnamon?”
“No, like Hyacinth. My parents were big into botany when we were born, so we’re both named after flowers. Anyway, what about you? Why were you there that night?”
“Some girl in my class invited me, said it was gonna be a good time and there’d be booze, so I went.”
“Ahh. Very responsible of you.”
Lance laughs. “Not even a little.”