Puck Buddies Page 4
I turn my attention inward, seeking answers.
It wouldn’t just be getting my rocks off with Bree. I care too much for sex with her to be a meaningless physical release. It would be bigger than that, closer and more intimate, and there’s no doubt it will affect our friendship. Maybe it will draw us closer together; maybe it will pull us apart. Either way, I’m leaving in a little over four weeks. So either I leave wishing I could stay and keep making love to her, or I leave with weird, sexually-introduced awkwardness lingering between us.
Both end in multiple losses. The loss of our easy friendship, the loss of the laser-focus I’ll need to make a place for myself with my new team, and the loss of a chunk of my self-respect.
As much as I hate to admit it, Tank has a point. Being a woman’s first isn’t something to be taken lightly, and Bree deserves better than a wham, bam, thank-you-ma’am from a guy who’s on his way out of town.
Finally, after a long beat, and strained silence broken only by the purr of the Zamboni idling on center ice, I shift my attention to Tank with a resigned sigh. “You’re right. I’m being selfish.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
I hunch my shoulders. “I’m going to tell her I’m honored, but I’m not her guy.”
“In person,” Tank says. “That’s not something you do over the phone or in a text.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I know. I wasn’t raised by wolves.”
He studies me before nodding once, apparently satisfied. “Good. Go warm up. The ice should be dry by now. I’ll park and we’ll work shooting drills first. We’re going to work on your glove-hand side. I noticed you were weak over the shoulder last session.”
I slide off the Zamboni and skate hard toward the net, doing my best to ignore the disappointment weighing heavily in my chest. Tank is right—this is the best decision for everyone involved, no matter how much a part of me insists I’m turning my back on something special, a chance that only comes around once in a blue moon.
Maybe even once in a lifetime.
Chapter 4
Bree
Sunday morning dawns cool and clear with a twinkle in its eye that bodes well for treasure hunting. I’ve been meeting Shane at the Peddlers’ Fantasy Faire in Beaverton almost every Sunday for the past four months, and in that time, I’ve wholeheartedly adopted his flea-marketing superstitions.
Gray skies are good for adding to existing collections, rain gives you extra bargaining power, and sunny days with a bit of bite in the morning air mean unexpected riches await the careful shopper.
But as I grab two fifty-cent coffees from the street vendor outside the closed shop doors and join the crowd of early-bird bargain hunters loitering in the parking lot outside the massive indoor market, I do so without the usual easy anticipation.
Instead, my stomach is filled with hyperactive stress-butterflies, my shoulders are tense and rigid inside my jean jacket—the one with the vintage pins I wear every week in hopes of adding more kitsch to my collection—and my coffee with two sugars leaves a battery acid taste in my mouth.
I’ve been dreading this meeting for nearly twenty-four hours. Dreading meeting Shane’s gaze and the impending mortification that will ensue as I’m forced to tell him that I’ve changed my mind about getting naked together. I tossed and turned for hours last night, tormented by all the various fantasy scenarios…
Shane rolling his eyes and saying he expected I would wimp out—that’s what ancient virgins do, after all.
Shane confused and uncomfortable, clearly no longer down with being friends now that I’ve gone and made things stupid and weird.
Shane shrugging as if he couldn’t care less, making me feel like an idiot for blowing his more-than-friends interest in me out of proportion.
I thought I’d imagined every way this morning could possibly go down, but the sharp, sudden catch in my throat and the racing of my pulse when I spot Shane crossing the parking lot takes me by surprise. I’ve watched him make this walk a dozen times before, but for some reason, he looks different this morning.
Maybe it’s the sun making his shaggy blond hair glow, or the easy confidence in his stride, or the way those battered jeans cling to his powerful thighs—damn, the man fills out a pair of jeans—but he looks even more delicious than usual. So undeniably gorgeous, in fact, that my cheeks flush and my nipples peak against my thin blue tee, making me grateful for the protection of my jacket.
This conversation is going to be awkward enough without nipples involved.
Stupid nipples. Stupid tingling thighs. Stupid body that has decided now is a good time to develop a capacity for morning lust.
Until now, I’d assumed I was an evening-only good times girl—I can get up early when I have to, but I’m rarely fully alive until noon—but as Shane steps onto the sidewalk beside me, it’s all I can do not to tremble with longing. Literally tremble, like an addict craving a hit of Shane’s sexy scent and oh-so-delicious kiss.
“Good morning,” he rumbles, his gravelly morning-voice making the nipple situation even worse.
“Morning,” I echo breathily as I thrust a coffee toward him, the better to put something dangerously hot between us. “Caffeine. For you.”
“Thanks.” He slides his sunglasses up to reveal those killer baby blues, sending another zing of awareness rocketing through my traitorous body. “Been here long?”
“Nope. Five minutes. Tops.” I gulp down another bracing sip of battery acid. I usually love the hair-on-your-chest brew, but today stress is making everything go sour on my tongue.
I just need to get this over with. Like a shot.
Or jumping into a pool filled with cold water.
Or the required reading on “penis envy” for my Psych 101 class.
Freud was out of his damned mind. The only emotion I’ve ever experienced upon pondering my lack of a penis is relief. As a kid, extra bits and pieces down there sounded uncomfortable, and I was positive they would interfere with important things like riding a bike or doing the splits. As an adult, seeing how penis-driven my male friends are makes me glad I’m a member of the sex capable of focusing for long stretches of time on something other than getting laid.
Getting laid…
Sob.
God, I was so close to finally getting laid.
And not just laid, but excellently laid. Standing here in front of this Thor-like sex god, a man of such magnificence every woman from sixteen to sixty turned to sneak a peek at him as he made his way across the asphalt, there is no doubt in my mind that Shane would have been every bit as skilled in the sack as he is lovely to look at.
Even with tension tightening his features, he radiates a relaxed but confident sex-vibe.
Uh-oh. Tension.
I glance up at him through my lashes and confirm that yes, Shane definitely looks tense. He must have picked up on my weird vibes. He’s no dummy, and I’m the worst at concealing my emotions.
Shit! This is already going off the rails, and the longer I wait, the worse the weirdness is going to get. Time to drop the bomb. Now. Before I chicken out, flee across the parking lot, and fling myself into oncoming traffic.
Sucking in a deep breath, I blurt out, “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I thought about it all day yesterday and realized it’s just a bad idea all around.”
He exhales sharply, his shoulders sagging. “Yeah, I think so, too,” he says, sending an odd mixture of sorrow and relief dumping into my stomach.
Ignoring the sad part, I force a smile. “Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Me, either,” he echoes. “I value our friendship too much to put it at risk.”
“Me, too,” I say, touched by his words. “And I would never want to do anything to hurt you. So yeah. This is for the best. And we’re still good, right?”
“We’re good,” he says, but his forehead remains wrinkled. “I’m a little confused, but…we’re good.”
I glance at the locked doors, w
illing them to open so we can concentrate on treasure hunting and put the awkwardness behind us, but it looks like Velma, the ancient proprietor, is running late again. I turn back to Shane, blinking faster as I ask, “Confused about what?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I guess I thought…” He laughs tightly. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, tell me,” I say, motioning between us. “Let’s get it all out there. Clear the air and move forward with no weirdness.”
“Okay. Well…” Shane’s jaw works back and forth for a long beat. Finally, he announces, “I mean, I was worried about hurting you, Bree. You’re the one who’s…you know.”
I frown. “You know what?”
His gaze darts to the left as he shrugs. “You know. You’re inexperienced.”
My side-eye intensifies. “Yeah. What’s that have to do with anything?”
He rocks back on his heels, his shoulders squirming with discomfort. “You know. The first time is special, and no matter how tough or street smart they are, women tend to get attached. Emotionally attached.”
“Emotionally attached…” I trail off as I put two and two together and come up with a V card.
When I realize what he’s saying, I can’t help but laugh. Hard.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“You,” I say, giggling. “So what, exactly, did you think was going to happen? That I’d catch a fit of the vapors and be possessed by unrequited love the moment your magic peen breached the walls of my trembling lady flower?”
“No.” Shane crosses his arms as he leans down to add in a softer voice. “And would you keep your voice down?”
“Why?” I glance around, taking in the largely geriatric bargain hunters nearby, all of whom look well over the age of consent. “We’re all adults here. Even I, the poor clueless virgin.”
He huffs. “Stop it. You’re twisting my words.”
“I am not. I’m responding to your assumption that I’m incapable of separating the physical from the emotional.” I stand up straighter, pinning him with a cool look. “But I’m an adult, Shane. And I may be a virgin, but I’m not inexperienced. I know myself, and I know what I can handle. Can you say the same?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re the one who’s hinted that you’d like to be more than friends,” I say, regretting the words the moment they’re out in the air. I don’t want to embarrass him, but it’s too late to stop now, so I push on with a breezy wave. “I mean, I could be wrong, but I kept thinking about all the times you’ve sort-of asked me out, and I decided a friends-with-benefits situation wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“Fair? To me?” His snort of contempt is so loud a Pomeranian in a purse a few feet away barks in admonishment. “And what did you think was going to happen, Sabrina? That my self-respect would fly out the window the instant my poor lovesick peen made contact with your magical Pegasus pussy?”
I lose the battle against a grin.
“Why are you smiling?” he demands.
“Pegasus pussy,” I mumble, acknowledging his solid comeback skills. “That’s good.”
“Thanks.” Shane affects a wounded expression. “But flattery isn’t going to work this time, Marks. I’m pissed, and I’m going to stay that way until at least nine a.m. Maybe ten.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Why? You’re pissed because I care about you? Because I would rather stay a shriveled up old virgin than risk hurting someone who means so much to me?”
“Maybe,” he says, but I can tell he’s coming around. That tender look is back in his eyes, and when he sweeps a stray hair from my face, his touch is as gentle as ever. “And you’re not a shriveled up old anything. You’re beautiful. And fun when you’re not being a pain in the ass.”
I grin. “Like you’re one to talk.”
“Guilty,” he admits. “But I wasn’t trying to be a pain in the ass about this. I was trying to do the right thing.”
“Me, too.” I glance to the left as a creaking sound signals that the doors are opening. But Shane doesn’t move to join the crowd shuffling toward the entrance. His focus is still one-hundred percent on me, a fact that warms me all over.
And makes me think.
Makes me think wonderful, wild things that send fresh prickles of hope dancing across my skin. “I think this is a sign, Walls,” I say, nodding faster as the sign-ness of it all becomes even more glaringly obvious. “Think about it—we were both trying to put each other’s needs and well-being before our own.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, I guess so. We’re nicer than I thought we were.”
I punch him lightly on the shoulder. “Be serious for a minute.”
“One minute,” he agrees, “but then I’m going to be ridiculous for the rest of the day to make up for it.”
I nod. “Good.”
He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He really is so flipping gorgeous, inside and out, and with my friend-abuse fears put to rest, I don’t see why we can’t give this a shot.
“Maybe we can pull off benny buddies, after all.” I take his hand, encouraged by the way his fingers curl around mine. “Our heads and our hearts are obviously in the right places. We both realize what we’re signing up for and know better than to get attached to a person who isn’t going to be in our lives in a month.”
Shane’s brow furrows. “I’m still going to be in your life, Bree. I’m moving, not dropping off the face of the earth.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But it won’t be the same.”
He sighs. “No, it won’t.” He glances down at our joined hands with a nod. “So I guess we’d better make the most of Sunday fun day while we’re still in the same time zone.”
“We should,” I agree, wondering about other kinds of fun—particularly bedroom fun—but not wanting to push him.
For all his insistence that he’s a good-time guy who lives life by the seat of his pants, I know Shane better than that. When it comes to the things that really matter—his career, his relationships, and which vintage pieces make the cut for the shop he plans to open—he takes his time and makes thoughtful, clear-headed decisions.
He’ll let me know if a more-than-friends situation is back on the table when he’s ready. In the meantime, there are treasures to be unearthed from the dusty shelves inside the Peddlar’s Fantasy Faire.
Though I can’t help thinking that the real treasure is the man who holds tight to my hand as we head inside, the dear friend who might finally be the one to show me all the grown-up fun I’ve been missing.
Chapter 5
Bree
Shane and I part ways between booths two and three as he examines Mr. Takata’s vintage Japanese space toys and I crouch down to peruse the boxes of books on the floor of booth two. These are the finds so fresh that Niles, the book bloodhound, hasn’t had time to shelve them yet.
I’ve barely scratched the surface—moving aside a smattering of westerns—when I come across a delightful little bound copy of A.E. Housman’s poetry. Housman was a hoity-toity eighteenth-century English scholar who hid his creative work from the world for decades. I don’t remember the rest of his backstory, but I know he wrote charming slice-of-life poems about his boyhood in Shropshire.
I’m sure Shropshire is different than rural Wisconsin, where Shane grew up, but don’t all country boys have the same sunshine and dirt coursing through their veins?
I flip gently through the pages, finding several sweet things I think Shane might like, enough to decide I need to share this with him as part of my continuing quest to prove that not all poetry is stuffy and awful.
I pay Niles and hurry to booth three to show Shane my treasure. But Shane is nowhere to be found. Tucking my package under my arm, I wander down the row of overstuffed booths, nodding to familiar flea-market addicts and waving away the bag that Dora in booth four tries to press into my hand when she sees me carrying a book without a bag.
Summer is always better at the bar than other seasons—the tourists like to drink before, during, and after their foodie tours of the swanky restaurants in our part of town—but winter is coming, as they say, and I don’t want to get into another rent crunch situation. I need to pinch every penny while times are good, padding my coffers for the lean parts of the year.
That’s another thing I’m going to miss about Shane—cooking for him. We had a great system worked out. He showed up on my doorstep a few nights a week bearing ingredients and a starved expression—and I would whip up dinner for the both of us. It was the perfect barter system, free dinner and leftovers for the chef, and a home-cooked meal for a man who would live on takeout and chips and salsa if left to his own devices.
I’m thinking of our dinners and feeling wistful about no more nights spent sharing a beer in my kitchen while Shane fills me in on the Badger team drama and I regale him with horror stories from my latest run-in with campus security, when I round the corner to see him locked in battle.
I’ve been bargain hunting with Shane long enough to recognize the stiffness in his posture, the certain set of his jaw, and the fire in his eyes that means he’s not going home empty-handed without a fight. His nemesis is Mrs. Adamescu, a pint-sized Romanian woman with an eye for ceramics and a poker face like a pro-circuit vet. Mrs. Adamescu, with her no-nonsense black jeans, turtleneck, and apron, who doesn’t believe in repeat customer discounts and who is not the least bit charmed by Shane’s good manners or pretty face.
She’s the only person in the cavernous market who won’t knock off five bucks just for the pleasure of shaking Shane’s hand to close a deal. Whether they’re hockey enthusiasts or simply appreciators of fine-looking men, the vendors here are rabid Shane Wallace fans.