Early Thursday morning, we arrived in Pittsburgh. We checked in to the William Penn (one that I had only entered to escape the throng of the cold every so often), and dropped our stuff, heading off to practice in my domain, the Consol Energy Center.
I had to admit it: I had an emotional connection with this place. I remembered the day we got the Stanley Cup and how excited the entire city of Pittsburgh was. I attended the first game in this arena. I had witness all sorts of stuff that may one day be put into the history books. Due to my late admittance after the trail round on for the ‘Canes, I was there when Sid came back.
And now, I was playing on the very ice that I had dreamed of since I was fifteen years old and actually really got into the game.
Embarrassingly enough, I had a moment.
Naturally, Eric was the first to suffocate me with a hug. I turned to his chest and his hug tightened.
”Tsk, tsk, tsk,” came a voice from behind him.
“Asshole,” said Eric instantly, not even letting me go.
“You do know he’s married, right?” I turned around and saw a more muscular version of the blond god that stood behind me. I knew instantly who it was once I had my eye on him. I began to shiver, which is what I do when I get extremely nervous, excited, or shell-shocked. I was currently all of the above.
“Emily LaRue, meet my ever-charming brother, Mr. Jordan Staal.” Our eyes met. My soul gently cried to itself as it wore away and if you had an object narrow enough, you could poke that deep, fuzzy feeling that is felt when people theoretically fall in love. Now, I wasn’t thinking that far into it at the time, but as our hands met in a handshake, I managed to find myself diving deeper and deeper into those sea-green eyes. Must I be so cliche?
I quickly resurfaced from my melodrama and gave him a massive shit-eating grin. I felt like a dork, meeting the very person that was my personal favorite and the very man that I emulated from age fifteen to the current age of twenty-two. Needless to say, I was a big fan.
“Hey, Jordy.”
“Wonder Woman.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, yet.”
Keeping calm was almost impossible, considering the fact that I was still locking hands with my favorite person in the entire NHL.
“You want to not crush my hand, please?” His eyebrows were raised and I found myself blushing deeply.
“Sorry.”
“See you tonight, Wonder Woman.”
“See ya, Jordan.” I headed back toward the locker room.
When I checked behind my shoulder, the Staal brothers were conversing, but I expected nothing out of it.
The night finally came. It was a historic day in the world, if not in hockey. Phil announced the lines. Eric would be on the first, and I would play on the second line with Sutter. Peters would be between the pipes, and Phil looked around the room.
“Alright, gentleman,” he gave me an appreciative nod. “Do what you have to do tonight. Let’s get this win.”
We all cheered and stood to get in our line. I clenched my stick nervously and popped some tums before I heard the crowd get hushed.
“And now, Pittsburgh welcomes, from Raleigh, the Carolina Hurricanes!” That voice. I shuddered. That was me. This was my team. I heard an appreciative cheer from the crowd. A few tears pricked my eyes. All of it felt like a dream to me. I was playing with the best. I had to be the best. I wiped the tears away and bowed my head, reciting the words that I had been praying since I joined my high school’s team:
I thank you, O God, for giving me a body
which is specially fit and strong, and for
making me able to use it well.
In my training, help me never to shirk the
discipline which I know that I need and that I
ought to accept.
In my leisure and in my pleasure, help me
never to allow myself any indulgence which
would make me less fit than I ought to be.
When I compete with others, help me, win or lose,
to play fair. When I win, keep me from
boasting. When I lose, keep me from making excuses.
And help me always with good will to congratulate a
better player who beat me.
Help me so to live that I will always have a healthy
body and a healthy mind
This I ask for your love’s
sake.
Amen
I quickly crossed myself as the line began. I jumped nervously on my skates and ran out with the rest of the team. When the announcer said my name, I watched the crowd stand and scream and applaud. I raised my stick to them and grabbed a puck, skating around the rest of my team. I glanced over at our goalie. He was turned the other way, reaching for a shot. I flicked my puck his way and it slid right between his pads. I grinned, and my eyes immediately found Eric’s. He grinned widely at me.
The ref blew the whistle and we lined up for the national anthem. My voice was in my throat, or else I would have sung along. I smacked my stick against the ice like the rest of the guys and we skated our respective ways to get instructions. Eric would be taking the first face-off. I felt my whole body shake and shiver with the deepest amount of feeling I’ve ever possessed, even more than when I was called for the draft.
The refs blew their whistles to have their first lines line up, and I sat down on the bench, watching Eric skate away from me. He bent over the center line and eyed up Malkin, who was facing off against him.
The puck dropped.
I had been in tons of hockey games. I had watched bunches of them in the Consol Energy Center, but nothing was as fast as witnessing professional hockey right there on the bench as you watched your friends skate around and yell at each other and all of your senses sharpen at once when someone got close to the goal or slammed into the boards. Eventually, the massive grin fell from my face and was replaced with pure adrenaline. I was totally absorbed in the new experience.
“Hey, LaRue?” Came Phil’s voice. I jumped about three feet in the air, startled. “Easy there,” he said relatively quietly.
“Sorry. What’s up?”
“Are you ready to go out there?”
I got the most massive grin I’ve ever had on my face and I nodded. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Alright-y, then.” A few very short moments passed. Then, it was my time. “First line, back here! Go, second!”
It was a mad scramble over the boards and onto the ice, or to the bench. I powered out of there like a canon ball. I immediately found the puck and was blitzing down to the Penguin’s end. I flicked it back to Sutter, to Nodl, me, and then came the nerves part. I was swarmed by a sea of black. Staal (Jordan), Orpik, and Niskanen were shoving their sticks every which way to take the puck from me. I rammed into Jordan and took a shot on goal. It was easily deflected by Fleury and TK picked it up. I followed Jordan down the ice and stood in front of him. Kennedy tried to hit up Peters, but he made a pad save and deflected it to the right side.
Staal moved to get the puck and I went right after him. He had just turned around when I slammed into him and got the puck from him. I skated down the ice, aware of everyone around me. Nodl was open, so I flicked it to him. He took a quick shot that pinged off the pipes and into Fleury’s paw.
The ref’s blew the whistle and we lined up for a face-off. I took it against Tyler Kennedy. We stared at each other for a second before the ref bent over to drop the puck. Tyler neatly beat me to the puck and moved it over to Dupius, who made a move toward center ice. McBain caught him unaware and stripped him of the puck, hammering down the left side. He flicked it my way and I took my hardest slap-shot onto it, but just missed the goal. Fleury made a dive for it, and Sutter tried to stuff it in, but Orpik managed to get it out of there.
The third line hopped on and we were allowed a break. I sat down, and only then did I realize I was panting. The fans sitting behind us were slapping on the glass. I turned around and they smiled at me, putting a sign up to the glass. While they wore Penguins gear, the sign said “We believe in Wonder Woman #32 Go LaRue!” The thirty-two was in a Superman logo. I smiled and gave them a thumbs up and mouthed “Thank you.”
Just as I turned around, we scored. I cheered and fist-bumped with the rest of the guys.
I went on for another shift in a few minutes, but nothing came for it. Toward the end, I realized the guys were feeding me the puck and were yelling at me to shoot. They wanted me to get a point; if not a goal, then an assist.
The buzzer rang for the end of the first period. We headed back to the locker room for a break. The energy was pretty high, and it seemed like the break went too fast. In no time, we were back on the ice, ready to go.
Something inside of me was working like a demon. After a few minutes, I was comfortable around all of these superstars. I felt like I could read them. I knew where they were going and it was almost as if I knew who would be getting the puck next, maybe even before the person who was going to give it to them got it himself. I felt super-human. I intercepted what should have been Malkin’s puck, (wait, that was Evgeni Malkin?) and skated right past him and down the ice, all by myself. The players behind me were racing after me. I was even beating Despres and Michalek, the Pen’s D-men. It was me and the man that I had come to love for the longest time. I watched his eyes as I came in closer and closer. I would take this short-handed, maybe a nice wrist--yes. Right now, he’s going right in front of me. His reflexes are fast enough to go the other way. Better head down.
A snap of the wrist was all it took.
It felt like the moment was going in slow motion. Fleury’s pads slapped together, but I saw the little black disk already in the back of the net.
All of a sudden, a swarm of people came at me. Half of them were half-dejected Penguins, but the rest of them were my very own friends and teammates. I was smothered with hugs. I looked up at the crowd, tears in my eyes. The grin on my face could have lit the entire arena no problem. People were tugging at my braids, which were a tradition of mine even when I just began watching hockey. During the playoffs when the Penguins had last won the cup, I had my hair braided on the day their series started. I kept it from there, figuring it was good luck. I now realize that my hair style has nothing to do with the Penguins, but that was fine.
I had just tied the game at 1-1 only a few minutes into the second period.
Unfortunately, the Pens responded, and quickly. Before anyone knew it, it was 3-1 Pens. It stayed that way as we ended the second period for another intermission.
When I entered the locker room for a second time, I was swamped once more. Eric planted a kiss into my sweaty, gross hair, and everyone was grinning ear to ear. I was so happy and excited. I tried to control some of my energy within the next twenty minutes, and by the time we returned to the ice, hopefully to rally, I was one hundred percent focused.
There was about five minutes left in the game now, and Pittsburgh was up 4-1. It would be nearly impossible for us to win, but I wasn’t out of gas, yet. I skated right past Jordan Staal and his brother, Eric, and straight up to Malkin. Jordan was out due to his defensive ability to ensure that his brother would not improve his chance of scoring.
The only problem with a defensive player is that he is, well, defensive.
I checked Geno. Hard. It was a clean hit, but he fell flat on his butt and lost the puck entirely. Eric picked it up and began skating up toward Fleury, and that was when I felt the tug at my jersey.
I turned around and my eyes met the un-seeing ones of Jordan Staal. His gloves were off and I only had enough time to take mine off, too before he grabbed my shoulders and tried to tear me to the ground. I shoved him back and he punched me. Alright. So this was how he was going to play it. I took off my helmet and threw it to the ice. He removed his, too, and I punched him back firmly with my left hand. Most people, including Jordan, did not know that I was left-handed. He retaliated nicely, hitting me on the cheekbone. It took me a moment to come back with that one, but he was on a roll. He punched me again and again in the temple until I collapsed on the ice, bleeding and exhausted. The refs pulled me up and Eric was the first to help me off the ice, a trail of blood showing my path. My nose was bleeding, but I felt no pain because of it. It was probably due to the adrenaline and simulated pain on my cheek and temple, which was throbbing.
I turned back and looked at Jordan, who was looking after me. He was out of sight when I turned the corner to go to the locker room. Ice and towels were waiting for me. They had an ImPACT test waiting for me, which I passed with flying colors. I assured them that the pain in my head was from bare knuckles and a God-knows-how-many-pound fist flying at my face. My brain wasn’t swelling, or anything. They just nodded stubbornly and let me ice my cheekbone and temple. I asked them if I should be going back soon, to which they replied that I would be out for at least for the rest of the game.
“Can I take a shower?”
“Yeah, go ahead. Did you bring a ‘Canes shirt? The media will probably want to ask you some questions.”
“Yes, I think I have a spare one. If not, they can get stunk out.”
The doctors chuckled at my retreating back.
As always, the shower felt divine. As the water steamed off my skin, the pressure from the game did, too. I didn’t bother thinking about my goal or the fact that we were going to loose, which was confirmed by the massive cheer that came from down the hall, and the steady thump of skates that ensued a few moments later.
I heard Eric call from down the hall of showers. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. How’s Jordan?”
“I talked some sense into him. He’s coming to apologize.”
“Why?” I yelled back, shutting off the water. The air felt cold against my skin.
“He hit a girl.”
“I’m going to have to talk to him. He shouldn’t feel that way.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll tell you when I’m done talking to your little brother.” I dried off and put on my ‘Canes shirt and red sweatpants. I didn’t care what the fashion police said. I had just gotten through my first NHL game, scored my first goal and simultaneous point, and gotten into a fight with one of the biggest hockey stars in the division. I think that constituted as a pretty good way to spend an evening.
I had let my hair down and it was dripping onto my shirt. I shook my head, but that hurt like hell. When I had gotten back to the rest of the team, they managed to look dejected and excited at the same time.
“Hey, it’s alright, guys. We didn’t play as well as we should have, but we still did alright.” They looked up at me and tried a half-smile that died at each of their eyes. I sighed. Eric was off somewhere getting interviewed.
“Emily LaRue!” Called the reporters. I sighed and found a bench to sit down at.
“What did you think of your first game in the NHL?”
This was going to be horrible. I remembered watching interviews, especially with hockey stars. It seemed like they were being asked the same questions all the time. “Well,” I began, “naturally I wanted to win, but I think it was pretty great that the first game I ever played was against my hometown team. I mean, I grew up with these guys, so it was almost like coming to a team that I knew already. I knew who I needed to watch out for and even some of the weaknesses of some of the players. All in all, it was really great.”
“What do you think of being the first female in the NHL?”
“I think being the first woman in not only the NHL, but in wide-spread professional sports, is a really big deal. Now, if such a thing as the WNHL existed, I don’t think this would be as big of a deal, obviously. But I don’t think many people would be able to name, for example, five WNBA teams. Women’s sports aren’t that popular. In coming to the NHL, obviously the coaches and mangers think I’m good enough to make it in the league, and I’m very grateful for that.”
“As for the fight with Jordan Staal, did you expect it? What did you think of him beating up on a rookie female such as yourself?”
“I think it comes with the territory. You know, I signed up for this stuff. I expected, within health limitations, of course, to be treated just like everyone else. If that means getting in fights, fine. If that means disallowing goals, I’m all for it. Sure, most of these guys are bigger and stronger than I am, but I guess today I just reacted fast enough to make something from what I worked hard to get.”
“Thank you. Good luck with the rest of the season.”
“Thank you.”
Phew. I had a feeling there would be a lot more of those to come.
A few minutes later, as everyone was leaving and I was soaking up the atmosphere of the place, I heard footsteps in the corridor. I knew exactly who it had to be. Jordan was listening to his big brother. I sighed.
Well, it turned out that I was only 1/23 correct. The entire Penguin team (that wasn’t on IR) was parading through the locker room.
“Hey, Wonder Woman,” said the alternate Evgeni Malkin. I hated to be the girly type, but his accent was adorable in person.
“Hey Geno,” I smiled. It hurt a little to do that, so it wasn’t a full-blown grin. Behind the mass of black shirts was a little bit of red. One of my other very good friends, Drayson Bowman, was sitting on the bench opposite me and eyeing up the Penguins heavily, wondering what they were going to do to me. He peeked between James Neal’s legs and gave me a look that asked me if I needed him to stay. I shook my head. “Hey, guys.”
“We just wanted to meet the first lady on civil terms,” said Jordan. “Maybe throw a little celebration.”
I fought off the urge to blush. Nealer’s sea-blue eyes were studying me. Flower had an excited grin on his face, and Jordan was smirking vehemently.
“I’m just another hockey player, guys. And that goes for you, too, Gronk.”
“Where are you from?” Asked Despres. I smiled at him.
“I was born and raised here, in Pittsburgh. I’ve been a real fan since I was fifteen, but being born here makes you automatically a die-hard fan of the Steelers, Penguins, and Pirates. To be honest, this right here is very exciting for me.”
“Well,” said Flower, “hopefully we live up to your standard.”
“Let’s go get something to eat,” said Joe Vitale.
They all moved out of the locker room. At some point during the conversation, Drayson had snuck out of there. Jordan was the last one to leave after me.
“Hey,” he said, gently grabbing my arm. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Like I said, I’m just another hockey player. Who’s to say I can’t get in fights like the rest of you?”
“You could get hurt.”
“Jordan,” I said, almost interrupting. “It’s hockey. You’re not playing it right if you don’t get some bumps and bruises somewhere along the line.”
“I made you bleed,” he said painfully.
“So?” I didn’t see why he had to feel so guilty about it. It was only a couple of bruises. As far as I could tell, I didn’t have a concussion, so there was nothing to worry about. “You bled, Tanger bled. It happens.”
“But it hurts.”
“Of course it does. Do you think I would have worked my ass off if it meant that I would get a pillow strapped around me so that mommy’s little girl’s face didn’t get beaten to a pulp every-so-often?”
“But it was your fist game. I didn’t want you to--”
“I understand that, but I’ve seen the games before. Fights don’t happen all the time. C’mon. I’m hungry.” I turned around and headed outside. It was snowing lightly.
“Did you want to go to the ‘Canes?” He asked. I sighed and turned around to look at him. The parking lot was deserted except for our cars and the vehicles of some of the maintenance staff.
“Off the record, no. I wanted to come here. I prayed every single night that if I got in, I would go here. I guess I got in, and beggars can’t be choosers.” The snow was falling onto my half-dried hair. It was dusting Jordan’s. Only now did I notice the shiner that was on his eye.
“Did I give that to you?” I pointed at his face. He gingerly touched it, flinching.
“Ouch,” he said, quietly. “I guess so. I didn’t want to bring it up. Hurts.” He offered me a small smile. “Do you want to just go out and get something? You know, without the guys.”
“You and your brother are the exact same.”
“I’d like to think of myself as more charming, but I guess that’s your prerogative.” He was blushing. If I thought his brother was a god, Jordan was Zeus. He had the most gorgeous eyes I had ever seen, and his hair was even more fluffy than his brother’s. He was built like a tree, totally solid.
“I’m not so sure, yet,” I said, shaking my head. Eric was a hard one to beat. I was happy that the temptation of his bachelor life was gone due to his wonderful wife and kids. “Where do you want to go?”
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
I frowned, annoyed that he wasn’t going to tell me. “Just make sure you take me back here so I can go back to the hotel.”
He nodded. “Sounds good. Hop in.” We walked over to his car. Our shoes made tracks in the snow. My headache was subsiding.
When we were buckled in, Jordan turned the ignition and put on some music. It was just low enough that we could talk over it if the need presented itself.
We drove through the familiar streets in silence. When we stopped, I knew exactly where we were. We were a few blocks away from my elementary school. For eight years of my life, I drove down this road. I knew the house that we stopped at. I always wondered who lived there when I was younger. I imagined it must have been Queen Elizabeth II’s summer home when she came to Pittsburgh. That idea was dashed, so I just figured it would be a corporate junkie's pad. The athletes did not live among the common folk. That much was known to me.
“Is this...”
“Welcome to the Staal residence.” Jordan grinned and took the keys from the ignition. He was out of the car and headed up to his house. This was too weird.
I got out and followed him.
“You live here,” I said, dumbly.
“Yep. Home sweet home.”
“I passed this place every single day when I was younger, back when I was in elementary school. I thought the Queen lived here, or something.”
“Nope. Just an old couple. It was empty for a couple of years.” He unlocked the oak doors and pushed them open. Inside, it was quite modern. When you walked in, there was a small hallway with a welcome mat where Jordan kicked off his shoes. He took my coat and hung it up in the closet that was on the right side as you walked in. On the left in the middle of the wall was a table with a small pile of mail, flowers, and a huge mirror.
The hallway opened up into the living room. The brownish-red couch faced a huge flat-screen TV. There was a glass coffee table in front of the davenport. There was an empty pizza box and bottle of beer on top of it, as well as some spare change. On the hardwood floor was a red-themed oriental rug.
To the left was the dining room. It was small, with a replica of the rug under a distressed dining room table with a laundry basket and dirty clothes hanging out of it. The chairs were hardwood and had greening copper lion feet on them. Jordan went into the adjoining kitchen. It was green and with a brown granite. There was an island with black wood and cabinets at the bottom of it, and a sink was on the kitchen side of it. Directly behind the island and sink was a stove with a hood and an oven. Flanking that were two sets of counter tops, a microwave on the right and refrigerator on the left. Above that were cabinets, and on top of the cabinets was a substantial amount of alcohol.
“Nice.”
“Thank you. I picked it out myself.” He moved to the other side of the island and leaned over it. “What are you hungry for?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I’m not that bad of a cook.” He grinned at me. “I can heat up pizza just fine.”
“Sure. We can go with that.” I leaned against the island as soon as he got up to go to the freezer, which was at the bottom of the refrigerator.
“Supreme?”
“Why not?”
He pulled out a cookie sheet and slid the pizza on. He turned on the oven and shoved it in. He turned around, looking completely satisfied with himself.
“I legitimately make an amazing pizza. Have you ever been to Chicago?” The excitement was radiating off his face. He looked like a little kid.
“No.”
“Oh!” He tilted his head back and groaned. “You will. And you need to get some of the Chicago-style pizza. No one makes it quite like that. It’s so impossibly good.” He pushed himself up and sat down on the counter.
“Hey,” he said, jumping right back off. “I put the game on DVR. Do you want to see it?”
I tensed, feeling nervous again. “Sure.”
He grabbed my hand--
Wait! Pause! It hurt. The feeling of our flesh touching was painful. His skin so blatantly and energetically on mine re-birthed the feelings that I had felt when we first shook hands. Mind, those feelings had been dashed when he was smashing my face in, but right there, at that moment, I felt like all of the oxygen in my system was gone. This was more of a high than when I got the goal. Sorry for the interruption. We’ll continue, now, with the story.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the couch. We sat right next to each other as Jordan found the game and put it on for us to watch.
“I’m sorry we beat you.”
“I’m happy you won. Of course, I want my team to win, but I like you guys.” Something inside me wanted to snuggle closer to him, but I didn’t dare. However, I felt him grow closer to me.
“You played really well, LaRue.” A beat passed as he hit play. “Hey. LaRue. You know what that sounds like?”
I thought for a moment, drawing a blank.
“LaRue. Lemieux.”
“What? I’m not even close to that--”
“Not yet, anyway. You were amazing. You’re only going to get better. You’re going to be amazing, and that’s not just for female hockey players. I’d like to see you play with Sid.”
“Sid?”
“Yeah. I’ll be looking for updates on the ‘Canes-Caps game. I personally hope you kick Ovechkin’s ass.”
I grinned at him. “I’m sure you do.”
The cameras were focusing on my face and I was wearing a grin bigger than Miss America.
“Wow. You were really excited,” he said, moving his arm around the back of the chair. I was aware of its presence, even though he wasn’t touching me. I pressed myself deeper into the cushions.
“Weren’t you?”
“I didn’t look like I was--”
“You were what?”
“You look like you just got married, or something.” He was blushing again.
“I did,” I replied easily. “Hockey requires a lot of commitment.” He laughed, fast forwarding to the second period. There I was. I grinned, remembering what was going through my head at that point.
I stopped watching myself and listened to the announcers and the crowd. They were all going crazy. They were cheering for me, and to them, I was on the wrong team.
“They’re cheering for me.”
“We all were,” he said quietly. I looked over at him and he was staring at me. Actually, it wasn’t just me. His beautiful eyes were moving from my eyes to my lips. Every sense sharpened as I watched the muscles in his neck tense. I felt myself stay totally stationary, unsure whether or not to back away or meet him. Both of them I wanted to do, so I did nothing.
Almost on cue, when Jordan was about an inch away from my lips, the buzzer rang for the pizza.
“Seriously?” He grumbled. I stood up, his long form making the strides to take the pizza out of the oven and cut it.
“Hey Jordan?” I called casually as he brought the food back onto the coffee table.
“Yeah?” He looked sheepish, which I thought was kind of uncharacteristic.
“How am I supposed to know you’re not going to use me?”
“You’ve come this far. You don’t deserve that.” He sat down next to me and began to eat his pizza. I reached for a slice and settle back down on the couch.
Eventually, we got to our fight. As I watched myself turn around, I thought to myself that I was never allowed to look that paranoid ever again.
“You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I think for a moment I thought it was your brother.”
“I should fast-forward.” He reached for the remote. I put my hand on top of his, not tearing my eyes from the screen.
“No. I want to see this. It’s so different.” I watched him pound my head in, flinching. I touched the tender spot on my head and sighed. We watched in silence as I fell to the ice and Eric shot Jordan a death glare. I watched the trail of blood on the ice and the ice crew come out and clean it out. There were come boos coming from the crowd.
“They booed you,” I said quietly.
“I shouldn’t have fought you. It wasn’t fair.”
“Look at you. Your shoulders sagged.”
“I felt guilty.” His hands remained in his lap. We watched the game in silence for the rest of the game. We skipped the interviews, and I got up to put my plate in the sink. Jordan followed me and reached around me to put his plate in.
“Can you take me back, now?” I asked him quietly.
“Sure.”
We went out of the house and he took me back to the Consol Energy Center. He walked me over to my car.
“Shit!” I cursed.
“What’s up?” He asked.
“I forgot my stuff inside.” I made a move to the doors.
“It’s locked, isn’t it? It’s like, one AM!”
“I have a key and can turn off the security code.” He held up a key and we both ran for the visitor’s entrance. He waited outside while I ran and got my stuff.
“You’re good to go?” He asked me as I reappeared. The streetlight cast a light on him that made him look like an impossibly hot angel. The snow was falling faster, and it was embedding itself in his hair so that it was almost entirely while.
“Yes. Thank you so much.”
“Any time,” he said. He offered to take my bag, but I refused him, hoisting it over my shoulder. We walked through the parking lot and back to my car. I unlocked it and threw my stuff in the back seat. I shut the door and turned around to Jordan.
“Thank you for the great night, Mr. Staal.” I turned around and moved to the other side of the car to get into the driver’s side.
I felt a body being pressed up against me.
“Hey,” he said as I turned around. “I’m sorry for the back check, but--” He stopped mid-sentence, and I wasn’t sure what he was going to say next. There was conflict behind those eyes. I suddenly became aware of how amazing he smelled. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair around my ear. Then, he dove in, capturing my lips with his.
I stiffened so much it hurt. I inhaled quickly through my nose, feeling his lips against mine and trying to figure out, at the same time, what I was feeling. As soon as he released, I took another deep breath.
“Good-night,” he said before I could even do anything.
“Good-night,” I replied, dumbfounded.
I got in my car and pulled away, turning on the radio to drown out my over-analyzing mind.
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