All the Right Moves (All The Right Moves 3)

Everyone looks at him, trying to determine if he’s serious.

“Did I stutter?” he asks, holding his empty cup out. “Someone top me off.”

“Man, you sure turned into an ass when you went pro,” Miles mutters, grabbing the beer pitcher off a nearby table and tipping it over Matthew’s outstretched beer cup to fill it.

Matthew Wakefield raises his eyebrows sardonically. “Since when does not wanting my girlfriend to be upset make me an ass? Grow up.” His arm goes around Cecelia when the girls join us, and he plants a kiss on her temple as they turn toward me, giving me my first real look at Abby’s best friend.

Wakefield’s girlfriend is really good-looking, but not at all what I expected the girlfriend of a professional athlete to look like. For one thing, she looks normal. Low maintenance in well-worn jeans, a threadbare gray Blackhawks sweatshirt, its sleeves pushed up to her elbows and neckline slouching across her shoulders. Her long hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and sparkly studs adorn her ears.

Cecelia extends a delicate hand toward me, the silver bangles on her wrist jingling. “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Cece.” Her pretty green eyes assess me, but not in an overly critical way, and my shoulders sag from relief, knowing I’m not about to get the third degree. At least I hope not.

Not surprisingly, Abby stands timidly behind Matthew Wakefield’s opposing form, using him as a shield and eluding my gaze.

Alrighty, then.

I clasp Cecelia’s fingers, pumping them up and down once before she releases my hand. She looks me in the eyes, unblinking, when I introduce myself. “Caleb.”

I’m expecting her to respond with a snarky quip like, Yeah, I know all about who you are, or Oh, Caleb the Liar? Or even something catty like, Trust me, she’s told me all about you, as I imagine most best friends of a slighted girl would. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she shocks the shit out of me by smiling, her bright white teeth bending into a sincere curve. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“How you been, man?” Wakefield asks. “Your stats are ri-motherfucking-diculous. Any teams trying to get you into bed yet?”

I look down into my beer cup at the white foam drifting on its surface, then glance up, shrugging. “A few, but…”

Wakefield cocks his head. “But what? What’s the hesitation?”

The hesitation is the decision I’ve never voiced out loud to any of them: that I have no plans to enter the NHL draft after graduation. That ultimately, I intend to get my law degree and become Chief Council for a mergers and acquisitions firm. A lofty position defending small companies that won’t have me standing in a courtroom.

That’s the plan, anyway.

Clearing my throat uncomfortably, I look around at the curious, watchful stares of my teammates. Everyone seems riveted, waiting for my response, and I reach my hand up to readjust my ball cap self-consciously. “I, uh…”

As if sensing my distress, Cecelia removes her intuitive gaze slowly from mine and gives her boyfriend’s meaty bicep a squeeze, leaning in to whisper in his ear. His eyes widen and shoot to mine, and he gives her a stiff, jerky nod. “Okay, okay, I’ll change the subject. Sorry,” he mumbles, both of them pasting on fake smiles.

Wakefield surges on. “So, what else is going on? How’s everyone behaving in that hockey house of yours?”

I glance behind them to catch a glimpse of Abby, her teeth biting down on the plastic rim of her cup as she tries to fade into the background and become unnoticeable and avoiding my stare. The hopes I’d been harvesting for the past few days that she and I would get the opportunity to talk tonight begin to rapidly fade before bursting into flames.

I pry my eyes away. “I’m sorry?”

Matthew Wakefield raises his eyebrow and repeats the question, glaring at me impatiently like I’m dumb as a box of rocks. “I asked how everyone is behaving at the hockey house.”

“Good.”

His dark eyebrows go higher into his hairline as he waits for me to elaborate.

I don’t.

Curling his lip, he addresses Cecelia, who is still sidled up next to him. “Wow,” he adds flatly. “I can see what the appeal here is for Abby. What a deep conversationalist.”

Heat rises from my neck, and I can feel my cheeks warming considerably. Shit, just what I need—I’m fucking blushing.

“Babe, would you do me a favor and grab me a water from the bar?” Cecelia cuts in, stroking his triceps with lazy fingers. He looks down at her hand then up into her face, the scowl on his face replaced by a relaxed, easy grin.

He leans in and kisses her on the nose. “Sure. Want lemon, too?”

“Um, sure. And take Abby with you.” Cecelia gives me a wink.

“One water with lemon coming right up,” Wakefield says, grabbing Abby by the elbow and dragging her through the crowd to the bar. I track their movement as the crowd parts to let them through.