All the Bold Moves (All The Right Moves 2)

Matthew studies me intently before slowly nodding, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his fleece vest. “Oh, sure. Yeah. Okay, that’s too bad.”

He’s rambling.

Crap. Was he going to ask me out?

Maybe if he reacted in his usual way – you know - like a dick who couldn’t care less one way or another if we hung out – I wouldn’t feel so bad lying about having plans. Instead, he looks disappointed and rather… dejected.

However, my pride won’t let me admit I have a date with the couch tonight. So I say, “Well… Thanks for inviting me today. The boys are absolutely adorable. Especially that little Mitchell. What a character.”

“Oh god, don’t ever let them hear you calling them adorable. Or cute. Boys hate that.” He winks at me. “You know, this was the first game they’ve won all season…. Who knows - maybe you’re their lucky charm.”

“Oh brother. Don’t tell me you’re superstitious.”

“Aren’t all athletes?”

I look down at his feet. “I don’t know, you tell me. How long has it been since you washed your game socks?”

Matthew scratches his head and pretends to think about it. “Hmm. A few years at least.”

I laugh, and clear my throat. “That’s what I thought: superstitious.”

“I’m just kidding – of course I wash my socks. Now, my jock on the other hand….”

Oh lord - He did not just make a reference to his jock strap.

Let me be honest here for a second: I’m a visual person. And by visual I mean…. you say a random word I haven’t heard in a while and I’m going to promptly conjure up a visual in my head of that word.

Or, depending on where I am and how much time I have, I’ll even start a daydream.

For example, I hear the word jock and immediately think “strap.” The phrase jock strap immediately makes me think of Matthew, skating towards me in the center of an ice rink wearing nothing but his white athletic supporter, tightly hugging his man bits and hard ass.

Bare thighs. Bare chest.

Bare… everything. All over.

Naked.

Speaking of bare, I bet he has just a light dusting of hair on his inner thighs. And okay, in addition to being entirely naked except for his jock, he might also be wearing skates and firmly clutching his stick. His hockey stick, not his… you know. Stick stick.

Do you see what I mean about my vivid imagination?! Are you getting the picture here? Ugh, I’m terrible…

So the last thing I need as we stand side-by-side in a virtually empty parking lot is a visual of his, um, junk swirling precariously through my head, making me hot and itchy.

And the fact that I haven’t had sex in months? Yeah, that’s totally not helping. I lick my lips, desperately trying hard not glace down and check out his denim clad, um… package.

Great. That makes like, five or six references to his penis in less then ten seconds. Oops. I just said penis.

Make that count seven.

Or eight.

Shit. I’m losing count.

Swallowing hard, I force my eyes briefly towards the ice arena as an attempt to refocus. Get your mind out of the gutter, get your mind out of the gutter, get your mind out of the gutter.

Would someone please slap me!?

I look back at Matthew, and sure enough he’s watching me, eyes wide and inquisitive with a strange expression across his face. “So, on that note… maybe I should get going? Thanks again for coming today. The guys loved it.”

He takes a step forward as if he’s about to hug me, but then halts, stopping himself short with his arms half raised (so awkwardly) before shoving them in the back pockets of his jeans.

Hello, disappointment? I’m Cece! Nice to meet you!

My lonely arms hang lifelessly at my side. Although… oh my god, can you imagine if he had hugged me? It’s entirely possible I would have not only wrapped my arms around him, but rubbed my body up and down him a bit, because I want to climb him like a tree.

Wrap myself around that hard, hot body - like a pretzel, actually. You know – act like the hussies he’s used to. Oh god. Shit. I have no idea what he just said to me.

Oh yeah, that’s right - he has to get going…

“I had a good time, too. So… I guess I’ll talk to you later?”

“I’ll be around.” He winks at me again with a rueful chuckle. “Probably just on my couch.”

Oh my god, I am such a soul crusher.

“Bye Cecelia.”

He gives a sad little wave before turning and walking across the parking lot back to his Tahoe, his confident gait slow but purposeful.

My eyes slide down to his firm ass.

Biting my lip, I rock back on my heels, debating. If I call him back, is that weak? I do not chase boys – ever. On the other hand, if I let him walk away, I’m completely denying us both what we want: to spend the rest of the afternoon together. I mean… it’s not like he was asking me to marry him. Or asking me on a date.