Chapter
One
Cody
Ari Meyer is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and I hate him for it. Tall, of course. I don’t know exactly how tall, but a lot taller than me. Maybe six feet—atleastsix feet. He’s a wall on the ice—muscles for days, shoulders that could damn a river. The amount of tone the man has in his biceps alone is ridiculous, but it’s not just the way he’s sculpted, he moves with the kind of sure confidence someone like me can only dream of. He’s comfortable in his skin, standing with his chest held high, his mess of tawny hair flopping away as he adjusts his ball cap. And his fingers. What would they feel like, trailing up my torso?
Meanwhile, everything about me is boring. Dull. Flat brown eyes. Lackluster dark brown hair. And I wear big nerdy glasses to boot. I work out, so I’m in shape, but they’re fairly useless gym-wrought muscles. I can lift shit and put it down, but I could never move on the ice like Ari does. I could take up yoga, maybe. Would that help? I dunno.
I slump.
Man, I wish I couldn’t see him from where I’m sitting—where I’m slumped—either. And that’s from behind the concession stand where I work, sitting on a stool, waiting for them to finish up so that I can serve them.
Five nights a week, I work at the rink’s concession stand, adding hot dogs to the roller grill, pouring beers and sodas, and ringing up candy purchases. Two times a week, Ari and his fellow hockey goons rent the rink for beer league hockey. I can’t go home until they’re done. And they are done playing, but they’ve taken their sweet-ass time getting off the ice, goofing around, talking.
Hurry up already.
Maybe if I scowl in their direction long enough, they’ll take a hint. Probably not, though. I know all about “jock” types from my days of being bullied in high school. They’re self-absorbed, highly unaware, competitive assholes.
I thought—for a minute—that Ari was different, but he isn’t. If he was, he wouldn’t be friends with an asshole like Doug.
God, they’re making a lotta fucking noise over there. If they don’t stop, I’ll kick them out. I’m not just any employee, I’m the night manager. Their voices echo through the otherwise quiet rink, disrupting the peace. Ari’s using the puck like a hacky sack off his stick. One, two, three, four, five …
He gets ten in before his idiot friend Doug knocks it away from him. I’d be pissed. Ari laughs. Mr. Carefree. Guess there isn’t much to care about when you’re that beautiful.
Finally,finally, they disappear into the locker room, and I can finally hear myself think for the thirty minutes it’ll take them to shower and change, watching the hot dogs roll, the whirr of the Slurpee machine vibrating between my ears. I rub my hands together, blowing hot air into my cupped palms. I do up the top button of my sheep’s wool mackinaw, trapping the heat against my torso, and pull my toque to cover my ears.
I hop from my stool as soon as they emerge, storming my stand. It’s a frenzy to get them fed and hydrated, but at least I’ve got an idea of them, of their likes and dislikes. I know how many hot dogs to put on the grill, and how many Red Bulls to stock the fridge with.
Ari’s last. He leans on my counter, resting on his forearms, his hair curling from under the sides of his backward hat, full lips smiling all the way to his cornflower blue eyes. Even though he’s usually fair-skinned, he’s retained some of the tan leftover from summer that only ended a couple of weeks ago.
His lips twist his smile just enough to hint at a thought that’s crossed his mind. What’s he up to?
“Hiya, Codes.”
I whip my cloth at him. “Get off my counter. I just wiped it.”
He removes himself. Why am I like this? I liked how close he was, but my skin jitters when he’s near me.
“Well, aren’t you a snappy little turtle?” he says, but he’s still smiling. Flirting. Maybe.
“What do you want?”
“Licorice and a soda.”
All sugar. I frown and shove a hot dog at him along with a bottle of water. Might not be the best thing for him, but it’s better than a bucket of sugar. “That’ll be fifteen dollars.”
“This is the strangest looking licorice I’ve ever seen,” he says, but accepts the items and pays me. The way he’s staring at me, trying to figure me out, long enough for my heart to pick up the pace. “Any chance of me gettin’ a small package of licorice? I love it so.”
“No.”
“How about a date, then?”
A date? That is so not the same as licorice.
Words catch in my throat. Ari’s a God. Gods don’t ask former science geeks out on dates with them. And sure, high school wassix years ago, but it was such a living hell for me that it might as well have been yesterday. Hell, I’m not even a former science geek. I have an undergrad degree in engineering with a physics major. I work here because Mom needed the help while Dad recovers from a minor knee surgery, and I don’t know what I want to do with my life yet. I’m taking a pause.
Ari’s fucking with me. He’s got to be fucking with me.
