“Leave it, Ari.”
“Okay, but I need to know this kind of information. What if I’d chosen the rink for our date? That would have been embarrassing.”
“Just because I’m not dating anyone, doesn’t mean I’m dating you.” We pause by his car and have a stare-off.
“Alright, fine, but will you at least tell me why I’m not good enough for you?”
“It’s not that … it’s … look, I’ve gotta go. Thanks for escorting me.” He’s in his car so fast, and I’m left with nothing but his taillights.
My first week at the arena passes quickly. Cody still hates me, or he at least pretends to hate me. I don’t want to be that guy, the one making creepy assumptions, but he’s too obvious. His gaze is forever searching for me, needing to know where I am. Sometimes I wave, one hand on the mop, chin rested on that hand. Other times I let him stare without interruption.
I always walk him to his car at the end of the night.
I’d ask him out again, but I already have so many times that doing it anymore feels wrong. If I’m going to ask him out, it’s got to be when I’m sure he’ll say yes, so I shelve that and settle for his company, giving myself the end date of Canadian Thanksgiving. If my charm doesn’t work on him by then, it’s never going to work, and I’ll have to accept that he’s not into me past mild flirtation.
Monday night is the arena’s fall grand opening. Even though the small rink’s been around for over two decades, they do a grand opening for fall every year to celebrate the start of the hockey season. It’s a lot quieter around the rink in the summertime.
We get slammed, and Cody needs me behind the counter with him.
“Tell me what you need. I’ll do whatever you say, Codes.”
He almost breaks his vow of not smiling—a vow that wasn’t said aloud, but I know he must have taken one with how stringently he refuses to smile in my presence—at the nickname and maybe because he gets to boss me around. He can boss mearound behind the counter all he wants. When he’s in my bed—if he ever gives me that honor—I’ll be the one in charge.
Cody puts me on the till, claiming that only he knows how to properly run and stock the concession stand. I do my best, and whoa! People are generous with the tips around here. I haven’t been paying attention to things like that. My attention’s always on Cody.
“So, hot stuff, you get off soon?” one of the pretty ladies says as I’m handing her the bag of chips she asked for.
I get hit on a lot, so I’ve got plenty of lines in my arsenal to turn people down nicely without making them feel like shit, but I don’t get the chance. Cody has his whippy little cloth out.
“Shoo, she-devil.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Sorry, didn’t know he was yours.”
Cody doesn’t accept her apology or forgive her ignorance. He doesn’t correct her either. All she gets is a murderous glare potent enough to send her running. Her friend is left standing there, jaw dropped.
“He bites,” I say, shrugging.
Once the rush is over, I attempt to show Cody how full the tip jar is, but he’s silent. Won’t talk to me. Barely looks at me.
“Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Then why are you pissed at me?”
Some might be annoyed by such behavior, but the pain is plain on his face. An ache freezes me, pounding into my chest—his pain is my fucking pain.
“Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”
I step toward him, and he stiffens, breathing carefully. He backs against the counter, and I use a knuckle to nudge his chin upward.
“It matters to me.”
He twists his lips but doesn’t move away. My heart’s about to explode. I want to kiss him so bad. I’m dying to suck on that sturdy jaw of his.
“She was really pretty,” is all he says.
“You’re prettier.”
