Page 7 of Two days, One Pucking Night
I recall our big family dinner a few months back for Dad's birthday. Zayn had begged to use my phone to track his since he couldn’t remember where his was. And like an idiot, I handed my phone without question.
A flash, followed by a camera's shutter, catches my attention, and I tilt my head up from my phone. What the hell?
“Did you just take a picture of me?”
“Evidence,” Xavier says as his fingers type away. “I need to send your brother proof you’re still alive. Since you’re too irresponsible to answer any of his calls.”
“You know nothing about me!” I stare him down, biting back the need to call him something more colorful.
“Whatever you say, princess,” his words are cold, dismissive.
Another series of flashes and shutter sounds follow. This time, instead of the camera being aimed at me, he angles it at his crotch area.
“I might also need evidence that you assaulted me.”
“Excuse me! I was the one assaulted.”
His brows are knit in a tight frown. “And my dick says otherwise.”
I stutter, unable to fathom his audacity. Who does he think he is? My brother, dad?
Xavier places his phone in his pants pocket. “You’re excused; don’t do it again.”
My gaze automatically lowers to the spot, lingering for a few seconds too long. My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I’m certainly no virgin or a stranger to the male body, but there's something about this moment., with him that feels—
“You’re in a park with your face covered.” I quickly shift my eyes and attempt to redirect the conversation.
“So no one would recognize me!”
“I highly doubt anyone will recognize you or even care that you play stupid hockey!”
“First, people always recognize me. Have you seen me?”
I roll my eyes, finally understanding how he and my brother have remained friends for this long.
“Second, the words stupid and hockey don't belong in the same sentence.”
“It is stupid. You chase a ball over ice for the sake of entertainment.”
“I skate on a rink, and it's not a ball, it's a puck. If you’re going to downplay the sport, at least get the language right.”
“Oh my God.”
“Don’t bring God into this,” he admonishes. “And money.”
My entire face scrunches up in confusion. “What?”
“Come on, don’t forget the most important part, now. I don't chase a puck in the rink for entertainment only. I do it for the money.” His tone is cocky, almost mocking me.
“Congratulations, capitalism has you in a chokehold.” What a dick. That print in those pants agrees. My cheeks heat, and I clear my throat, afraid that the flash of that singular thought is written all over my face. I remind myself that Xavier Woods is like every athlete—a cocky, egotistical bastard. Used to people flocking to his feet and getting his way, even if his shit stinks. His dick, dick print, or anything relating to that region should not even be a thought in my head.
Xavier cocks his head to the side. “The sky must be made of rainbows and cotton candy from down there.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Your bag alone is worth more than five hundred dollars.”
Okay, fair. Point made. “And?” I bluff, knowing he already has the upper hand in this argument.
