“Goalie. Got it.” As if that bit of information matters. I’m hopeless with sports and have never watched hockey in my life.
“There’s a lot of pictures of him on Insta.”
“Eww, one of those guys?” I wince. I did not peg him for someone who obsessed over social media. I know the type, since I work with actors all day.
“Not on his account. Other peoples’ accounts, I mean.”
She shows me an entire page for #RandallHaughland. There’s a picture of him on a boat with a bunch of athletic looking guys. One at the gym and one on the beach. Exposing those wide, shapely shoulders to the unsuspecting public is a distracting safety hazard. It should be illegal.
There are posts featuring him in goalie gear, stretched out and saving the ball or whatever. My favorite posts are from @stevestonhockey, which features middle schoolers wearing Haughland jerseys and raising posters. The guy has his own fandom. There are also reels of Randall getting interviewed by a reporter. And, as expected, plenty of posts of him stepping out of cars, or leaving restaurants, or attending parties with a beautiful woman beside him.
“He’s a major player,” I state the obvious. With his blond hair, blue eyes, athletic body, and illegal shoulders, I shouldn’t besurprised. Who can resist a Ken doll with a sense of humor? But this is another level of playboy I’ve never seen up close.
Ken doll isn’t quite right, either. One striking thing about Randall, apart from the obvious attractiveness, is how young he looks. He’s almost, dare I say it,cute. Like a Disney prince in disguise, mingling with the minions before he rescues his damsel.
His age, according to the internet, is twenty-six. Three years younger than me. If Randall was an actor, he’d make a killing playing characters the age of high schoolers or star in a show about young professionals. It’s the gentle slope of his chin that projects a sweet boyishness. The expression carried by his lips, so full and yet relaxed, is of someone at the cusp of smiling. Don’t get me started on those eyes with blue irises and blond lashes. Blond lashes! Good grief.
“What did you expect? Boyfriend material?” Lily asks. “He just needs to break your dry spell, now that the play is over.”
I tilt my head in agreement. She knows me too well. When immersed in a theater production, there’s no time for extracurricular activities. And by extracurricular, I mean sex. Since I refuse to sleep with anyone involved in the show, dry spell it is.
“I don’t expect anything from him. In fact, that’s what makes Randall perfect.”
What I mean to say is, thesituationis perfect. A straightforward discussion is much easier to have when your sexual partner is experienced.
I have three unbreakable rules.
One: no strings, no commitments.
Two: no sleeping over. When we’re done, we go our separate ways. This is not the same as never seeing each other again. I’m all about the occasional fling, as long as the expiration date is clear.
Three: The expiration date is ten dates or two months, whichever comes first. Anything after that and the guy starts complaining about why he can’t stay over.
See rule number two.
I slip into my wool coat as I exit the club. It’s the last week or so of winter, and there’s a renewed warmth in the air. The chill on my face is a tickle instead of a slap.
Randall is waiting on the sidewalk, coat open and hands in the pockets of his dress pants. When he sees me, his features brighten. I’m reminded of that stupid cliché of a smile lighting up a room. Probably because a car’s headlights sweep over his face.
Turns out, that’shiscar, fetched by a valet. Smoothly, Randall opens the passenger door for me. He slips the driver some cash in exchange for the keys and strolls to the other side like the dirty sidewalk is a fashion runway. There’s even a sexy hair flip when he looks at me from the windshield. A flair for the dramatic, this one.
He pulls away from the curb. “Where to?” he asks. “Have you had dinner? We could grab something to eat.”
His capable hands work the gears, and something about the detail of him driving stick is a major turn on. I reach over and trace the knuckles over the stick shift. Languidly, my fingers explore the veins on the back of his hand, the cords of muscle on his forearm.
“If you keep doing that, we’re going to have to decide soon, Elise. Your place or mine.” His voice is ground in glass.
“About that,” I say, pulling away and looking ahead. “I have a few, um, conditions that I’d like to run by you.”
He glances at me, seeming astonished. “You sound like my family.”
That is not what I expected him to say. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Lawyers. My dad and two brothers. Anyway, proceed please. State your conditions.” His words are formal, but the tone is teasing. And that dazzling smile! Who was I kidding earlier? His vividness has nothing to do with headlights. The man’s entire face is a damn sunbeam.
Clearing my throat, I begin, “If we’re having sex tonight…” I pause to check his reaction.
“I have every intention of taking you to my bed tonight, if that’s whatyouwant.” Randall moves to rearrange his pants, which draws my eyes to their tented state. OK, good sign, that.
