No answer.
I glance over and see that she’s glowering even harder now, but even with that forbidding expression, she still looks hot. She’s got one of the most interesting faces I’ve ever seen—her cheeks are a little too round, her mouth a little too pouty, but combined with her smooth olive skin, vivid green eyes, and the tiny beauty mark over her top lip, she looks almost exotic. And that body…man, now that I’ve noticed it, I can’t un-notice it.
But I remind myself that I’m not driving her home in the hopes of scoring. I need Hannah too much to screw it up by sleeping with her.
After practice today, Coach pulled me aside and gave me a ten-minute lecture about the importance of keeping my grades up. Well, lecture is too generous a description—his exact words had been “maintain your average or I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll be able to taste my shoe polish in your mouth for years to come.”
Like the smartass I am, I asked if people actually still use shoe polish, and he responded with a string of colorful expletives before storming off.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that hockey is my entire life, but I guess that’s bound to happen when your father is a fucking superstar. The old man had my future planned out when I was still in the womb—learn to skate, learn to shoot, make it to the pros, the end. Phil Graham has a reputation to uphold, after all. I mean, just think about how badly it’d reflect on him if his only son didn’t grow up to be a professional hockey player.
Yes, that’s sarcasm you’re detecting. And here’s a confession: I hate my father. No, I despise him. The irony is, the bastard thinks everything I’ve done has been for him. The intense training, the full-body bruises, killing myself twenty hours a week in order to better my game. He’s arrogant enough to believe that I put myself through all that for him.
But he’s wrong. I do it for me. And to a lesser extent, I do it to beat him. To be better than him.
Don’t get me wrong—I love the game. I live for the roar of the crowd, the crisp air chilling my face as I hurtle down the ice, the hiss of the puck as I release a slap shot that lights the lamp. Hockey is adrenaline. It’s excitement. It’s…soothing, even.
I look at Hannah again, wondering what it’ll take to persuade her, and it suddenly occurs to me I’ve been thinking about this Kohl thing the wrong way. Because yeah, I don’t think she’s his type, but how is he hers?
Kohl plays it off like he’s the strong, silent type, but I’ve hung out with him enough times to see through the act. He uses that man of mystery bullshit to draw girls in, and once they bite, he turns on the charm and lures them right into his pants.
So why the hell is a levelheaded girl like Hannah Wells salivating over a bigshot like Kohl?
“Is this just a physical thing or do you actually want to date him?” I ask curiously.
Her exasperated sigh echoes in the car. “Can we please not talk about this?”
I flick the right turn signal and drive away from Greek Row, heading for the road that leads back to campus.
“I was wrong about you,” I tell her in a frank tone.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I thought you were upfront. Ballsy. Not someone who’s too much of a pussy to admit she’s into a guy.”
I hide a grin when I see her jaw harden. I’m not surprised that I hit a nerve. I’m pretty good at reading people, and I know without a shred of doubt that Hannah Wells isn’t the kind of woman who backs down from a challenge, not even a veiled one.
“Fine. You win.” She sounds like she’s speaking through clenched teeth. “Maybe I’m into him. A teeny, tiny bit.”
My grin breaks free. “Gee, was that so hard?” I ease my foot off the gas as we approach a stop sign. “Why haven’t you asked him out then?”
Alarm ripples through her voice. “Why would I do that?”
“Uh, because you just said you’re into him?”
“I don’t even know him.”
“How else are you going to get to know him if you don’t ask him out?”
She shifts in her seat, looking so uncomfortable I can’t help but laugh.
“You’re scared,” I tease her, unable to keep the delight out of my voice.
“I am not,” she says instantly. Then she pauses. “Well, maybe a little. He…he makes me nervous, okay?”
It takes some effort to mask my surprise. I hadn’t expected her to be so…honest, I guess. And the vulnerability she’s radiating is slightly unsettling. I haven’t known her long, but I’ve gotten used to her sarcasm and confidence. The uncertainty on her face seems out of place.
“So you’re going to wait around for him to ask you?”
She scowls at me. “Let me guess—you think he won’t.”
“I know he won’t.” I give a little shrug. “Men are all about the chase, Wellsy. You’re making it too easy for him.”
“Hardly,” she says dryly. “Considering I haven’t even told him I’m interested.”
“Oh, he knows.”
That startles her. “No, he doesn’t.”
“A man always knows when a woman wants him. Believe me, you don’t have to say it out loud for him to pick up on the vibes you’re sending out.” I grin. “Hell, it only took five seconds for me to figure it out.”
“And you think if I go out with you, he’ll magically be interested in me?” She sounds skeptical, but no longer hostile, which is a promising sign.