“Did you not see him drop down and scoot toward it, hoping I wouldn’t notice?”
“Coincidence.” I snorted.
Harlow shook her head in mock disgust and went back to eating and babbling about Brooks. I dropped my hand down below the table and gave Odin a thumbs-up. Maybe we could be friends.
I hope we can be friends, because I know that I will be friends with Harlow forever. I’ve figured that much out in the last two weeks.
There’s a knock on my door, and I know it’s Harlow. I rise and head toward the foyer, grabbing my wool coat. It’s the first full week of April, and although we’re seeing temps in the sixties during the day, it’s still nippy at night.
When I open the door, it happens again. Same as every time I see Harlow. Something zings through my body, fueled not just by how beautiful she is but by how much I enjoy being around her. Harlow is something that Brooks and I have in common, and I understand why he fostered a deep friendship with her.
She’s stunning tonight, dressed all in black—black turtleneck, black pants that mold a little too well to her body, and knee-high black boots. She’s got a black puffer jacket on with her long, red hair streaming in shiny ribbons over her shoulders and down her back. Her makeup is subtle, and I like she doesn’t go heavy to hide the freckles across her nose. Her green eyes sparkle with intelligence and always a dash of mischief.
I’m totally fucking enamored, and I’ve never known a woman for whom I have an initial attraction that only builds the more I get to know her. The more I learn, the more beautiful she becomes. Sometimes, she’s so radiant, it almost hurts to look at her—metaphorically, of course. I tasted her two weeks ago, and it was the best kiss of my life.
But I won’t do that again. I fucked up when I made that move, and now we are firmly in the friend zone. Harlow put me there, and I’m not taking a step out.
“It’s raining a little,” Harlow says, holding up an umbrella.
“Won’t kill us,” I say and take the umbrella from her.
Outside, I open it up, and she moves in close to me. It’s only misting, but it’s enough that we’d get pretty wet by the time we reach the restaurant. I don’t mind in the slightest when she slips her arm through mine and our hips press against each other as we traverse the sidewalk, talking about tomorrow’s game.
When we arrive at the restaurant, I give them my name, as I’d made the reservation, and we’re led to a table right in the middle of the seating area. I feel the weight of stares as we walk, and I’d forgotten what it felt like to have notoriety. I’m becoming well known in Pittsburgh. Callum Derringer even told me that my jersey is currently the number one seller in their merchandising division, and my agent has been calling with endorsement offers trickling in.
It feels great—I can’t lie about that.
But the pressure is on for me to continue to perform at this level.
I know this is going to become commonplace… no privacy. I remember it well when I was with the Eagles.
Not so much with the Badgers. No one recognizes minor league players in their city, and I could roam about Cleveland without anyone doing a double take.
Except for puck bunnies.
They somehow were always at our team hangouts, serving themselves up like platters on a buffet table.
I’m seeing it here, too, when I go out after games with my teammates. I’ve gotten a few solicitations since coming to Pittsburgh. Beautiful women willing to spread their legs for the bragging rights that come with sleeping with a professional hockey player.
And I haven’t taken a single one up on an offer since moving here.
I’d like to say they were all wart-covered hags, but they weren’t. They were beautiful and sexy and promised a good time.
But I said no because of Harlow, and for no other reason.
Which is completely fucked up as I owe her no amount of monogamy, seeing as how we’re only friends.
Once we’re seated, we’re handed menus and a wine list, which I decline. We’re offered drinks, which I also decline, instead ordering water for us both. The first time we had dinner at a restaurant, Harlow made it clear she didn’t mind if I wanted an alcoholic drink, but I really didn’t. I’ve never had a drink because I savored the taste with a meal. When I drank, it was because I was with friends having a good time, seeking a buzz to heighten it.
None of that matters when I’m with Harlow.
Once the waiter leaves, I ask, “How was your day?”
“I was in court this morning.” She grimaces slightly. “Had to wear a suit and heels.”