Delayed Penalty by Shey Stahl

12. Assist

An assist is given to the player who helped set up the scoring goal. It’s given to the player who handled the puck preceding the goal.

Ami

Evan keeps his promise to take me to a live game. It comes on Friday night when they play the Vancouver Canucks at the United Center. I’m so freaking excited the entire day I can barely make it through it.

Having only been in town since late November, I’ve never ventured to this part of town and have no idea where the United Center even is.

Glancing around the city, I realize how beautiful it is. Downtown Chicago consists of mostly high-rise buildings. It offers a lively uptown scene you don’t see in Oregon. When I first moved here, I was so into dancing and trying to get over the death of my family, I never took a look around the city, other than the few restaurants near Blake’s place at Regents Park in the Indian Village.

The thought of Blake makes me sick to my stomach. I knew from Evan that Detective Paulsen questioned him and nothing came from the lead, but the thoughts are still there that he could have been the guy. He’s the last memory I have of the night. I’ve told Paulsen my fears but he’s assured me if it was Blake, he would have had something on him by now.

I don’t know how a case like this works, so I assume he knows what he’s talking about.

Evan pulls into the parking lot, and a girl is waiting for him. It’s Callie, I assume. He already told me I’d be sitting with her tonight.

“That’s Callie Pratt,” Evan says, reaching behind the seat in his Audi for his suit jacket and a black bag. “She’s going to take care of you tonight.” He looks over at me, eyebrows raised, a slight smirk to his gorgeous lips. “Is that all right?”

I nod, my hand reaching for the door when his right one touches mine. “You sure you want to be around these rowdy fans?” he asks softly. “It’s intense at times.”

“Yes... I want to see a live game.”

Since seeing Evan on television in the hospital and then again at his parents’ house, I can’t get the idea of him playing out of my head, and I need live visuals for that.

Evan shakes his head, his beautiful smile surfacing. “All right then. Let’s go.”

When we step from Evan’s car, Callie smiles in my direction and then scrunches her nose at Evan. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Shut up,” he snaps at her, moving past her and bumping into her shoulder. “Callie, this is Ami. Be nice and keep out of trouble.” He turns to me, smiling again, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “You okay? I have my phone on me so text me if anything goes wrong tonight.”

“Seriously, Evan, I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” He points his finger at Callie. “I’m trusting you, Pratt.”

She rolls her eyes as he’s walking away and leads me to the ticket booth. We say nothing to each other at first until she takes my ticket out of my hand and hands it to the lady standing in the booth.

“So you’re the girl Evan’s all strung out on, eh?” Callie begins as we walk into the United Center. Briefly, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer size of all of this and the fans who wildly support their home team.

“I wouldn’t say strung out. He’s my knight in shining armor, though.”

That earns me a grin out of Callie. “He’s a good guy.”

I hear laughter from behind as a group of girls dressed in tight jeans and low-cut shirts congregate around a large poster of Leo and snap selfies of themselves in front of it.

Callie, loud enough for them to hear, says, “And that’s what the boys refer to as puck bunnies. Some get the term ice princess, or hockey hookers, others get glass lickers, and some, well... they don’t even get names.” She eyes the one wearing what appears to be a hot pink tube sock. “She wouldn’t have a name.”

“You’re one to talk,” one of them says in Callie’s direction, glaring at her. “Have you fucked the entire team yet?”

Callie doesn’t appear to be scathed by their comment and spouts off with “No, haven’t played the pipes with the goalie.” She clicks her tongue and does a twirl. “But maybe tonight.”

Is she joking? I can’t tell, but I’m thinking probably not.

I wouldn’t have doubted that Callie had “played the pipes” with most of the players. She’s absolutely beautiful and has a body girls dream about having. Her dark hair looks like she’s spent hours on it, but strangely enough, looks like it’s that way naturally. Wide chocolate eyes are highlighted by thick black lashes and creamy olive skin. She looks like Moana and the complete opposite of my light hair and blue eyes.

“Ready?” she asks, taking my hand and twirling it so it’s hooked into her arm.

“I guess so.” Leading me inside the United Center further, I’m pleasantly surprised to see we’re two rows back from the glass and right on center ice behind the Blackhawks’ bench. “Wow, nice seats.”

“Mase hooked us up,” she notes, motioning me forward.

We settle in our seats next to two older gentlemen, who appear to be rooted in their seats, discussing the playoff potential of the teams. I can’t follow anything they’re talking about other than Evan’s name is mentioned a lot.

“So this is your first game?” Callie asks, casually taking her flask from her bra and pouring what smells like whiskey into her 7-Up bottle.

“Yeah.” I watch her every move, and then she offers me the flask. I shake my head.

“You’re in for a good night.” She beams. “They put on a good show on home ice.”

“It seems like it.” Everywhere I look fans are decked out in Blackhawks jerseys, with painted faces, and wearing beads. I almost wish I had more Blackhawks gear to wear.

Adjusting her flask and balancing the 7-Up, she turns to me. “Evan said you just moved here in November. Where are you from?”

“I’m from a small town in Oregon... Lebanon.”

Callie nods. “No idea where that is.”

“South of Portland.”

Another nod as she continues making her drink concoction. “Okay, okay. Why Chicago?”

“My brother was a Bears fan.”

“Nice. I like him already.”

I don’t miss the present tense she uses and I also don’t correct her.

“Are you from Illinois?”

She high-fives a foamy finger that’s slapped our way. “Born and raised in Chicago.”

“So have you always been a Blackhawks fan?”

“Yep.” Callie gives another nod before taking a drink of her beer. Yes, she has a flask, 7-Up, and a beer. “Been coming to the games since I was a kid. My dad’s a broadcaster.” She points to the glass high above the United Center where the press are. “He’s up there.”

A guy two rows behind us yells Callie’s name, apparently she knows him, and they talk for a few minutes. When they finish, she rolls her eyes. “His parents are assholes.”

“He seemed nice,” I offer, laughing at how laidback she is. I want to be friends with her. I hadn’t met many people in Chicago before the accident, other than Sena, Blake’s wife, but she hated me.

“Yeah, he is nice, but his parents are still assholes.” She glances over her shoulder back at him. “At least he’s pretty to look at.”

“He’s... attractive.” He is. It’s a lie. Not really my type, but he’s cute.

“Killer body, but his face would be better if it was framed by my thighs.”

I nearly choke on my spit. “Do you know all the players with the Blackhawks?”

“Yeah, I know the starting four lines pretty well.” She winks. “Some better than others. I know Leo, Remy, Travis, Cage and Evan. All awesome guys.”

“So what’s Evan like?” I enjoy getting this answer from different people and am relieved to know they all have the same response.

“Evan is... well, he’s an all-heart type of guy.” I knew that from his mom. “He’ll stand up for his friends, but since I’ve known him, he hasn’t really been outgoing like Leo. He’s much quieter and content with keeping to himself, eerie quiet sometimes. You’ll never see him offering up interviews, and the media is lucky if they can get him to talk. He’s a homebody. His first season in the NHL he spent a lot of time flying home to see his family. His only problem is women these days.” She eyes me carefully and I wonder if she’s talking about me. “They see him like a shiny prize, but he’s far from that. He’d rather stay in the shadows.”

That I can understand. Hell, I didn’t even know he was a hockey player for the longest time. “That makes sense. Are you friends with Leo?”

“Yeah, and Remy too. We all hang sometimes. I’ve been with both on a few drunken occasions,” she adds with a whisper, chewing on her lip. “It’s not like I had a relationship with either though. Remy isn’t that type of guy, and Leo, well, we’re too much alike. He’s my best friend and I’m afraid if I dated him, I’d kill him.”

The screams of those around us intensify as the players come on to the ice forming two circles on either side of the rink, one a mass of red, black, and white, the other white and blue. Players are taking turns shooting pucks at the net. It isn’t easy to tell who is who but their jerseys have their names on the back in black letters.

“The size of the skate doesn’t match up with that one,” Callie notes, as if there is nothing wrong with dishing details on the team. She points out a guy skating past the glass with his stick raised over his head in what appears to be some sort of stretch. “And that one”—she points to number twenty-two with the name Gains on his jersey—“he’s a biter.”

“A biter?”

“Yeah, little fucker bit the inside of my thigh one night, and it looked like someone had suction cupped my thigh.” Her eyes lift from the action on the ice to mine. “The worst part was I had a vag appointment the next day. My gyno got a good look at the bite mark on the inside of my thigh.” She shakes her head, as if she’s disappointed in herself. “I’ll never touch Tyler again.”

“What did your doctor say?” I whisper, amused she’s talking about this with me.

“Oh, she’s been my coochie doc for years.” Callie waves her hand around, spilling her drink on the kid in front of us, as if this isn’t embarrassing to talk about. “She doesn’t judge me.”

I burst out laughing, barely able to breathe.

“Mase has been distracted lately,” a man in front of us says. “His head isn’t in it.”

Callie shifts in her seat, her hips pushed forward, and she knees the man in the back. “Oh, sorry,” she mumbles, clearly not sorry. “Didn’t see ya there.”

The man twists and glares at her. “Sure.”

Looking at the rink again, I finally find number five with MASEN written on the back. His back is to me, passing the puck back and forth between his stick and his skate. When his turn comes, he takes off like a flash, crossing the ice smoothly, passing the puck from one side of his stick to the other, before launching it at the goalie. When he circles around the back of the net, he glances in my direction, winking as he skates lazily back to the line.

Okay, live hockey is way better than seeing it on television.

Skating by again, to tease me I assume, Evan comes to a sudden halt near the glass and taps his stick against it just before bumping his shoulder into the boards. Is he flirting?

I smile and gasp as our eyes connect through the glass of the boards. I wave, unsure what else to do. What am I going to do? Blow him a kiss? No, no. Then I’ll look like those… what are they again? Puck bunnies? I definitely don’t want to be one of those girls. I need to keep my composure even though I’m dying to throw myself at the glass and say take me now.

Evan shakes his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lips before lifting his gloved hand in a wave. Biting my lip as a sigh leaves my lips, I realize how wide I’m grinning. I’m a puck bunny. Well, for tonight anyway.

The buzzer sounds through the arena, and Evan skates off the ice with the rest of his teammates to the left of us, glancing back at me once.

My gaze follows until I can no longer see him.

Callie clears her throat. “You should take a drink now.” Once again, she sends the flask my direction.

“No.” I push it back with a smile. I’m trying to sound as cool and collected as she is, but the butterflies in my stomach from seeing Evan on the ice are doing a lot of flapping. “I’m actually on a lot of medications right now from an infection I got. Probably not wise to drink.”

“Oh shit. Sorry.” She draws the flask back and tucks it inside her jacket. “That sucks.”

The Zamboni circles the ice while Callie as I make conversation. She tells me all the hockey terms and player stats and it’s evident she’s been around hockey her entire life.

Soon enough, the lights fade and the entire arena goes completely dark. A loud rock song comes on over the speakers as video clips, showing highlights from previous games, play on the screen of the jumbotron.

“Chicago... on your feet! Here they come! Your Chicago Blackhawks!”

Spotlights suddenly circle the ice and the crowd begins screaming as the lights in the United Center go down. With the foghorns and screams steady in the air, the lights stay low as players skate in to the tune of “Stranglehold.”

Yep. I’m totally a hockey fan for life.

They circle the ice counterclockwise, scattering in every direction, with the opposing team to the right of the rink. Green, yellow, red, and blue spotlights are on center ice as the announcer comes on again.

“Your starting lineup for the Chicago Blackhawks. On defense, number thirteen, Dave Keller. On right wing, number six, Travis Sono. On center, number eight, Leo Orting. On defense, number five, Evan Masen. On left wing, number forty-two, Remy Carson. Your goalie, number sixty-six, Cage Breezin.” More screams follow as the twenty thousand fans in attendance are on their feet, including me. “And now... your national anthem.”

I follow the line of players until I see the number five on his jersey and notice Evan is looking over at me again. I can’t look away.

After the national anthem, the players take their positions. Leo is center ice with Evan farther down on the line, next to one of the Canucks players who appears to be the same height and build as him.

Leo waits, the ref poised between him and the Canucks center as they await the drop of the puck to put the game into play. I hold my breath when the puck falls and I’m instantly impressed by the speed and aggression of professional hockey. Watching on TV does not compare. Not even close.

Something else I learn quickly. Callie is intense to sit next to. She’s shouting and cheering them on, especially when they’re in control of the puck. Every word she says is laced with so much sass, she reminds me of a chihuahua taking on a bull mastiff.

Play comes to a halt at center ice when the number forty-two Blackhawk gets into it with one of the Canucks. Evan is on the bench, his face red, shouting his own spew of words at the two, apparently upset.

“Those two are always at it,” Callie says, motioning to Remy Carson, left wingman for our team.

Look at me. Our team?

“Who?”

“Remy… and pretty much every other player.”

Evan jumps over the boards and back on the ice and my eyes are glued to him. He circles around a player center ice, apparently saying something to him that’s offensive because the guy shoves Evan away.

“Ahem...” Callie clears her throat, and I glance over at her sheepishly. “You’re watching his hips, aren’t you?”

Turning my head, I try to focus back on the game. I can feel her staring at me. “What? No... yes... is that bad?”

“No.” She smirks, bringing her drink to her lips. “Evan’s got moves,” she notes flippantly, shrugging as if she hasn’t said the one thing that will make me blush.

Okay, so she has slept with him, don’t you think?”

There’s a lot to be said about attending a live hockey game. The sights and sounds are amazing, but you can also feel the skates grating against the ice, the sticks hacking at the puck, the hard checks into the boards, the grunts from the players, whistles, yelling, shoving, and chirping—all part of the game experience.

My favorite part?

I love watching Evan.

He’s quick, but any time I catch a glimpse of him with his hair wildly sticking out past his helmet, wet from the exertion, and his cheeks flushed, I stare. I will be a hockey fan for life now.

“Fuck!” Callie shakes her head, raising her drink. “He’s not watching Kolten.”

I look up to see Evan pause across the ice, up against the boards, the puck on his stick, watching Remy to his right. A player on the Canucks is coming right at him. I cringe when Evan is checked hard against the board and knocked off his feet.

“Holy crap!” I yell over the fans screaming, and Callie. “Was that necessary?”

“It’s part of the game. Mase does it harder.”

I can’t tell, but is that a sexual reference? And why do I want to find out so badly? I think of him pushing me up against the boards.

Callie shouts something at them, what I don’t know because I’m too focused on making sure Evan gets up after that hit.

Leo skates by as Evan finds his footing again. They exchange a few words, but I can’t tell exactly what is said between the two of them. I can tell he’s not happy. With a glare, he shoots up the ice again. I get a small glimpse of the determination and will inside him.

Leo has the puck again, tearing up the right side of the ice before faking left and firing a shot at the upper left of the net. Goal! With a grin, Leo brings his hand to the sky, pumping the air twice, before his team is all over him.

The foghorn goes off, the crowd shouts, and I can’t stop myself from cheering when Evan, Leo, and Remy get together, hugging as the stadium blares with “Chelsea Dagger.”

“This is so amazing!” I tell Callie. “So much better than baseball.”

“Oh yeah, no comparison to any other sport for sure,” she agrees, dancing around beside me.

The game is close the rest of that period when the Canucks score to tie it.

As they come out for the second period, it’s clear the guys are getting more and more aggressive. The occasional hand in the face or slamming against the boards is no longer tolerated and answered with an even harder hit down ice or the occasional brawl.

Having never been to a game, I have no idea what to expect, but Callie is there to walk me through it all. “Evan is usually pretty aggressive out there. Leo is the instigator, along with Remy, but Evan cleans up their messes. But—” She holds up her drink. “—if they get personal with Evan, Leo will get physical. They protect each other like brothers.”

I hear what she tells me and watch with just as much attention. Sure enough, when that same Canucks player who boarded Evan gets chirpy again and bumps Evan, muttering a string of what looks like lewd remarks, Leo shoves him hard into one of his teammates.

When the linesman calls him on it, Leo grins. “What? He tripped.”

The guy tries to land a punch on Leo, only to be shoved back by Evan.

I’m not sure what he says back to Leo, but Leo sticks his gloved hand in the guy’s face. “You think I meant to hit you?” Leo laughs. “Fuck you. You’d know if I fucking hit you.” Evan, who is still beside Leo, gives the guy a face full of his glove and is called for roughing.

Callie and I both laugh, having heard that over the screaming fans. She then has a full ten-minute conversation with me about what icing means. I had no idea.

“Evan’s hand-eye coordination is impressive for a defenseman,” Callie notes, motioning to Evan to our left, balancing a puck on the end of his stick. “Sam was always working with him on that when he was a kid.”

“Did you know Evan when he was a kid?”

“No. I met him last year, but he’s told me a lot about his dad. I’ve met his whole family before.”

The screaming around me brings us back to the game as the Blackhawks score again. This time it’s Remy with an assist from Leo.

The entire display of athleticism is quick, fast, and even brutal at times. It’s an entirely different side to Evan. I watch in awe as he pokes at the puck and other players’ sticks, trying to gain control. He’s pushing and bumping into other players, slamming them against the boards.

It’s so freaking sexy I can’t even think straight.

During the intermission between the second and third periods, Callie is trying to figure out how to get me into the bar later. Evan briefly mentioned they usually head to a bar called The Fifty/50. “I’m only eighteen,” I tell her, making a disappointed face.

Callie must already know because she’s quick to wave me off. “It doesn’t matter when you show up with the Blackhawks. No bar in this city will question it.”

At the start of the third period, Callie explains a few plays I don’t understand.

“Watch, O’Brien will put in Mase. He knows how to work guys like Ressen back in the crease and make ’em play the pipes.”

Ah yes, more hockey lingo.

Sure enough, they put Evan in, and he scores within a minute for the Hawks. Callie high-fives me. “Told ya.”

Watching him celebrate the goal is freaking adorable. The horn sounds, the same goal song plays, and Evan leans back, his weight all on his left foot, and he raises his right knee, bending his arm at the elbow and pulling it toward his body in a celebratory move, his stick raised in the air.

Much of the third period is spent with Evan in the penalty box from either roughing or boarding, and then finally a ten-minute major for fighting that Kolten player near the board on the opposite side of us. I can’t see much of the fight, but I hear the screaming and know what’s happening.

A few fans shift, and I’m able to get a better view of them fighting. Seeing Evan so wild and aggressive is not what I expect. Believe me, I’m turned on. Practically panting even.

Nice. He’s fighting and you’re turned on.

Evan springs forward again after violent jabs fly back and forth between the two of them when Evan catches a hold of Kolten’s jersey, and his next blow lands solidly on his face, snapping his face back and drawing blood. It isn’t long before the refs finally step in, pulling them apart. Evan isn’t backing down though. Still simmering, he fights against the refs as they restrain his hands, leading him to the penalty box.

“Wow. Is that normal?”

Callie keeps an eye on Evan. “Yes and no. Kolten probably said something to piss him off.”

Evan throws himself into the penalty box, still yelling and screaming at the Canucks player.

The game ends in overtime with Leo capturing the final goal, extending their wins to 43-16. I only know this from Callie.

“It usually takes the boys a while to get to the bar.” Callie reaches for my hand, tugging me along. “Evan said we could meet them there.”

“Oh, but seriously, I’m not twenty-one....”

“You said that already. Doesn’t matter.” We move quickly through the crowd, my hand linked with Callie’s again. “They won’t ask.”

Thirty minutes later I’m inside my first bar, underage and freaking out that any minute some overly large bouncer is going to come kick me out.

Beside me, Callie is chatty and giving the lowdown on all the players, most of which she has slept with. “So are all the guys in here some kind of athlete?” Every guy in here looks like they have money. And not just any kind of money. It’s the kind that scream I-can-buy-this-bar-tonight money.

“Yeah.” Callie shrugs. “Mostly. But you’ll never get them to admit they are, especially the hockey players.”

“Why’s that?”

“Hockey players never admit to strangers they’re a hockey player.”

“How do you know who is then?”

Callie smiles. “Oh, well, just look for the ones who talk bullshit.”

I laugh. I’m learning hockey players are goofy, full of themselves, and secretive. So Callie tells me. “Why won’t they admit they’re hockey players?”

“They don’t want to be treated differently. No athlete does. When they’re here”—she motions around the bar—“they’re having a good time.”

As conversation continues, I find myself obsessively watching the room, waiting on Evan.

When I do see Evan come in, he’s holding back, lingering near the back door with his hands in the pockets of his suit pants, his hair wet from his post-game shower, making it slightly darker. Did I mention he’s wearing a freaking suit? I want to cling to his body and never ever let go.

Before I know it, like a magnet pulling them to us, guys surround the back table, Leo and Remy hug Callie, along with two other players I don’t know, but I remember their faces from the game. They quickly shoot off in different directions, finding privacy in the corners.

Evan steps forward, his arm moving around my shoulder as Leo and Remy talk about their recent road trip. Evan glances down at the glass in my hand, smiles, and then nods without words to the bartender who hands him what appears to be a beer.

When he lowers his head, his whispered words send my pulse beating wildly. “You look pretty.”

“You look amazing,” I whisper in his ear, curling myself into his side. His body is warm, smells amazing, and I might never let go. Beside him, I feel safe, and well, pretty, like he said.

“What did you think of the game?”

“Amazing. So much better than watching on TV.”

His smile widens. “It’s a lot different, huh?”

I nod. “So much more aggressive than I thought.”

He searches my eyes. “Did it scare you?”

“No,” I’m quick to say. “I loved every minute of it.”

Laughter from behind draws me to look back at the boys. Evan stays beside me, the warmth of his body comforting as it always does.

“Her neighbors know my name,” Remy tells them, winking at me. I notice his tattoos right away. His forearms are covered in black markings I find incredibly interesting. Evan has some of the same markings on his own forearms, as does Leo. I have a feeling it’s another one of their bonds.

Evan scrunches his eyebrows at Remy, trying not to laugh at his teammates, but you can tell his friendly banter is normal behavior. “Her neighbors probably heard her telling you to get the fuck out,” Evan teases, taking a drink of his beer.

“Nice,” Leo said, looking for details and taking Callie’s beer from her. “Was she hot?”

Remy grins at me and shoves Evan. “Don’t be a dick. Introduce us.”

“I’d rather not.” Evan lets out a sigh and motions to Remy. “Ami, this is Remy Carson, left wing for the Chicago Blackhawks.” Remy has to be at least six foot four and is a wall of pure muscle. I probably would have found him intimidating if not for his flirty grin, complete with dimples. His eyes are a syrup color and filled with more mischief than someone his age needs to have. His hair is dark, shaved to almost a buzz cut that blends into a scruff that’s neatly groomed.

“Remy.” Evan knocks his fist against his shoulder. “This is Ami.”

“Oh, Ami! I’ve heard about you,” Remy teases, ruffling Evan’s hair. Though he tries to glare at him, I can tell their banter is friendly. They might be his teammates, but these guys are all his friends. “So you’re the girl who’s got Mase staying away from the puck bunnies, eh?”

What? Heat licks my face immediately. “Yeah, I guess.” I don’t even know what I’m replying to, but I do notice Evan’s entire body tenses beside me.

“Dude, come on.” Evan swats at Remy. The guys standing behind us start laughing. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Oh relax.” Remy offers a lighthearted smirk. “I was only teasing.”

“You want my dick, don’t you?” Leo says across from us, licking the side of Callie’s face.

Callie rolls her eyes and turns the other way. “Yes, because you’re so fucking romantic.”

“And that’s Leo... your texting buddy.”

Instead of saying hello from a distance, Leo wraps his arms around me in a big bear hug. “Nice to finally meet you in person,” he says as though he’s trying to be polite, but wants to say something so much worse. I think Evan’s glare and lack of room between the two of us keeps Leo in check.

He backs up from me, holding his hands up to Evan. “See? I can be nice.”

“Yeah right,” Callie mumbles from her place at the table. “In what world?”

Leo turns to her and practically mauls her with kisses all over her face.

The next few hours are filled with laughter and the behavior of a close-knit group of guys who truly love to pick on each other. “What do you usually drink?” I ask Evan.

“Beer,” he answers, only to have Leo shout, “Sex on the beach!” throughout the bar.

Evan hangs his head. “One fucking time I ordered that. One time.” He takes a drink of his beer, and I watch him. Even him drinking beer is sexy. Playing hockey, flirting, stealthy stares, this guy has it all down. Imagine what else he could do, because I do. Frequently.

“And you’ll never live it down,” Remy reminds him, his eyes wandering toward a blonde in tight jeans who passes by.

The conversation shifts to the game, energized by their win. It’s interesting to hear about the other side of the game, what the guys went through.

Evan has his arm slung over the back of my chair, relaxing, and I can’t help but feel like I’m here with him, as his girlfriend, even though I know that’s not a title I hold, or am likely to ever hold. Regardless, I’m at ease with him and I can’t remember the last time I had this feeling.

Callie notices and winks as she sits on Leo’s lap. I asked her earlier if her and Leo were dating, but she said no; they occasionally fuck and are best friends—her words not mine—but she isn’t dating any one person. I have a feeling she’s just as much a player as the rest of the guys on the team.

“Who are those guys?” I ask, motioning to the crowd surrounding two of the players on his team. The taller one with dark hair has two or three girls on his arms and smiles at us.

Evan glances over his shoulder at them and rolls his eyes. “Taller one is Dave Keller and the shorter one with the stupid grin is Jimmy Null.”

“They seem to attract quite the crowd.”

“Yeah, they do,” Evan mumbles, finding my hand under the table. “They also find trouble everywhere they go.”

“You’re not friends with them?”

“I’m friends with them, but it’s disgusting the way they treat some of those girls,” Evan mutters, watching Leo who is now strangely crawling across the bar on his hands and knees, knocking over drinks. “It’s disrespectful. You remember me telling you about Dave, right? The guy I lived with last year?” I nod. Evan tips his head to the guy. “That’s him.”

I smile at the tone in Evan’s voice, clearly displaying his distaste for treating girls that way. I sneak another side-eye over to Dave again.

Evan leans in, his lips at my ear. “Everyone has this image of a professional athlete, that we’re all a bunch of womanizing bastards. Not all of us are. Some are good.”

“Leo seems like a great guy,” I tease, knowing he’ll react.

He raises his eyebrows. “Don’t let him brainwash you. And he’s ’bout ready to get himself kicked out of here,” he notes when a few bouncers notice Leo is on the bar.

Dave approaches the table sometime after that.

Evan smiles up at Dave and tips his head in my direction. “Dave, this is Ami.”

Callie, who’s still seated across from us, gets up and walks away the second Dave is at the table. Dave rolls his eyes at her but then turns his attention back on me. “Hey, glad you’re okay there, eh. Evan was pretty worried about you.”

My heart beats a little faster at the reminder and the man next to me who I have to thank for saving me. “Thanks,” I mumble, the first feelings of unease working through me.

Evan shakes his head. “Come on, man, lay off.”

Dave laughs, pushing against his shoulder playfully. “I’m teasing, buddy.”

I’m beginning to understand Evan doesn’t like his boys teasing him in front of me. It’s not out of fear for his ego either. Any time they cuss around me, he looks like he wants to knock their teeth out, as if it’s disrespectful or something. I think he knows better, though, because it’s rare that Evan doesn’t slip fuck into every sentence he speaks. His boys are no different.

Dave and Evan talk about the game and a penalty they’re still upset about being overturned. Callie returns, but when she notices Dave is still there, she immediately turns and walks away.

I want to ask her if she doesn’t like him, but I’m not sure if I should. Her reaction puzzles me. Dave looks like a nice guy, not one I would ever want to date or even hang out with, but nice nonetheless. There are a couple of Evan’s teammates who don’t even say hello, let alone look in our direction. Maybe it’s because I’m sitting here with him or maybe they don’t get along. I remember Callie telling me there’s lines in hockey and the starting line with Evan, Leo, Remy, Travis, Dave and Cage is the tightest.

Dave leaves minutes later when a girl catches his attention. “See what I mean?” Evan gestures to the girl on his arm. “He might not leave with that one either, but it won’t stop him from taking her into the bathroom.”

“Really? Wow.”

“I’m tellin’ ya. He’s a dog. Most hockey players are,” he teases, a new flush to his cheeks after finishing his second beer.

I smile at him, watching his eyes glow in the low lighting, our faces inches apart. “Except for you.”

He watches my lips when he says, “I am a pretty good exception to the rule.”

Sure enough, Dave and the blonde disappear down the hall. I don’t pay much attention to it but I do think maybe at one time, Evan had his fair share of one-night stands. Ones I don’t even want to think about.

He’s seated right next to me, his hands never far from mine, which I enjoy. Let’s me know he wants me here.

At some point Callie returns and whispers in my ear over my shoulder, “Now I know you were thinking about the way his hips moved.”

I was before tonight.

I play it off with a laugh, but I can’t deny it. Yes, I have that thought about them a time or two, especially when he was on top of me last night and I felt him there for the first time. Believe me, I didn’t get much sleep last night obsessing about it.

I have these thoughts. Terrifying ones that keep me grounded though. Given what happened to me, and the fact that I was a virgin before that night, I gather that I’m far from ready for any type of physical relationship for a while. Well, that may have been true if I wasn’t living with Evan Masen. And that may have been true if Evan Masen hadn’t rescued me. But unfortunately, all of that is up in the air because whether I’m ready or not, I think I’m falling for a hockey player.

And like it or not, thoughts of us naked, feelings of lust and desire, erotic images overwhelm and frustrate me. Sexual tension is something I’ve never experienced before, until Evan.

We leave the bar at three in the morning and head back to Evan’s condo.

“Are you thirsty?” Evan asks when we walk inside, setting his keys on the counter.

“Can I have some water?”

He nods and moves toward the fridge, retrieving two bottles of water. He nods toward the couch. “I wanna catch some highlights. Watch with me?”

“Gladly!” Sitting next to him on the couch, trying to casually keep my thoughts from straddling him, I pretend to be interested in the game highlights as he is. Though he’s a Chicago Blackhawk, he’s a huge fan of the sport and keeps a close eye on the Pittsburgh Penguins.

“Evan, can you do something for me?” I whisper, raising my head from his chest.

“Anything,” he says without hesitation, brushing my short hair behind my ears. This time it stays in place, having grown a little longer, and he waits for me to continue.

I open my mouth to speak and forget what I was even going to ask when I meet his eyes. “I uh…” —forget what I’m going to say and kiss him.

He curls his hand to cup my cheek and his lips give me what I want, and with a little more eagerness than I expect from him. Groaning lightly, he angles his body toward mine.

When I fist my hand in the fabric of his dress shirt, he tightens his hold on me. I need, no, I want a little more tonight, only I don’t know how to ask for it.

I move to straddle him. Evan slouches and welcomes me, curling his hands around my waist and never breaking the kiss as he greedily lowers his hands to my ass. A spike of nervousness and excitement pricks my skin and settles in my belly.

His fingers clench into tight fists around the hem of my shirt. That’s when his hard length presses against my center and his hips strain a little closer to feel the friction I can provide. But then he halts any movement I make by holding me in place against his chest.

“Ami,” he groans, his eyes squeezing closed. My heart stumbles at my name on his lips. I’m not ready to stop, but I know the look on his face. He’s about to pull away like he did the other night.

My hips fight against his hold to move.

“Jesus, Ami,” he growls softly, possessively, against my lips, his arms shaking. “Please stop. You have to stop.” Swallowing hard, he gently pushes me off his lap and next to him on the couch.

Embarrassment heats my entire face. “What’s wrong?”

He rubs his hands over his face, groaning before he drops them to his sides and looks over at me with sorrow. “I want to fuck you, so bad... and that’s a really shit thing for me to want from you right now.”

I blink rapidly. “Why?” I squeak, unprepared for him to say those words. I’ve never heard a guy tell me he wants to fuck me, and for some reason I find that strangely erotic and sexy, to be wanted like that by him.

“Because, Ami, you’re not ready for that.” He pauses, his eyes on my body and then my face again. “Someone took something very sacred from you, and if I did what I so desperately want to do right now—” He pauses again, blowing out a strangled breath. “How does that make me any different?”

I swallow over the sudden dryness in my throat. “Because this is willing.” I gesture between us trying to point out the obvious. “I want this... with you.”

He lets out a gruff laugh, a smirk on his face. “I know it sounds like I’m trying to be some kind of saint here, and take things slow, but I’m not. It’s a constant battle not to give in and see how far you’ll let me take it when you kiss me. And believe me, I wanna see how far I can push it.” His eyes dip to my chest, my lips, and then back to my eyes. “But sex…” He shakes his head and huffs a breath out as he leans back against the couch. “After what happened, it’s really important for us to slow down. I don’t want it to be something that just happens one night and it’s no big deal. With you, it’s a big deal. You’re too important,” he whispers, leaning toward me and trailing his index finger down the length of my throat, trying to comfort me, and then drifting it across my collarbone. “I’m afraid if we don’t slow down, I’ll push you before you’re ready, and I’m afraid you won’t stop me, even if you’re not ready.”

Well Christ, he has me pegged, doesn’t he?

“What are you? Some kind of mind reader?” I fall back against his couch, huffing and a little angry that I’m so frustrated and consumed by this stupid knight-in-shining armor hockey player who took my heart and won’t let go of it.

I want to knock him in the head with a puck and tell him to stop being so nice to me.

“No, not a mind reader,” he says softly, kissing my cheek. “Just a guy looking out for a girl.”

I scrunch my nose and pretend to glare. Leaning forward, he places a kiss on my forehead. What seems playful and flirty with teasing isn’t. The kiss is intimate when his warm hands—gently resting on my thighs—move to cup my face. He presses a little harder, making the kiss a little deeper, like he wants to leave the mark on my forehead.

Sighing, he stands, pulls at the front of his slacks and then moves around the back of the couch. “I need a shower.”

And then he leaves me alone in the living room, flustered, horny, and wishing that night in December hadn’t happened. But then I think I wouldn’t have met him, right?

While he’s showering, I wander around his condo a little more. It’s far more extravagant than his parents’ home in Pittsburgh. You can tell their home is where a good family lived and well-rounded children were raised.

And Evan’s condo looks somewhat like a playboy mansion, only on a smaller scale.

Walking into the living room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Northern Chicago, the view almost looks like some kind of skyline painting. The kitchen and dining room area are to the right—dark wood matches the cupboards and met with stainless steel appliances and black granite countertops.

His furniture is sage green, a couch and a few chairs placed strategically around his large flat screen television that hangs neatly on the wall.

When I first set foot in there, judging by the arrangement and decorations, it was clear he has someone decorate it for him. Turns out his sister wants to be an interior designer and designed the layout for him.

Down the hall to the left are a few bathrooms, a spare bedroom, and then Evan’s master suite.

The bedroom is spacious with a black sleigh bed and matching dresser. The walls are a light gray tone, and a few pictures of the beaches hang above the bed. Large windows bathe the room in an airy winter frost and offer a beautiful view of downtown Chicago.

The bathroom has dark slate floors with a matching long counter. In the corner is a shower that I’m sure his whole team can fit into and a large tub that allows you to look over the city too. It’s an unnecessary indulgence I can’t wait to try out.

His closet is off the bathroom and nearly the same size as his bedroom. A few framed jerseys that appear to be from his early hockey days are framed on the walls.

The entire place is extravagant and way nicer than my parents’ house had been. And Blake’s.

When I don’t hear the shower turn off, I slip into his bed, fully intending to sleep here tonight and not alone, and hoping he won’t kick me out. I’m also telling myself I’ll keep my hands to myself.

A little while later, Evan joins me in the bed where we lie together, watching the rain sliding like a waterfall over the windows, the condo completely dark.

“Can I cuddle?” I ask, unable to stay away from him.

I see the corners of his lips rise. “Can you keep your hands to yourself?” he teases, still staring at the wall.

“I’ll try.” Without waiting, I slide over next to him and curl into his strong body.

He wraps his arm around me, holding me there before pressing another kiss to my forehead. “I was talking about me.”

I smile against his chest. “I know.”

Evan’s shirt is off, allowing me the skin-to-skin contact I crave. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him without his shirt on, but I pay more attention, wanting to burn the image in my head. His body is one of a trained athlete, big and solid. It’s apparent he spends a lot of time in the gym and uses his body as his tool. A small dusting of hair scatters over his chest and lower on his stomach, leading to where his shorts begin. The hair on his stomach is what tempts me to follow its path. Damn it if I don’t want to slip my hand inside there to where it disappears into the thin strip of black cotton sticking out from his shorts.

But none of that happens.

Just like every other time in his arms, against his bare chest, my mind empties, and I’m able to forget and drift off to sleep.