Page 39 of Hard to Get

“Hi.” He takes off his glasses and his dimples appear as he smiles, his eyes warm and crinkled at the corners. “You look great.”

Oh dear gods in all the heavens. His smile lights up my insides and obliterates my resolve to end things. “Thanks. I feel very athletic.”

He laughs. “Good, ’cause we’re gonna have a workout.”

“Oh no. I don’t know if I can handle it.” I’m kidding. I work out enough to contend with a bike ride. “I’m mostly worried about my butt.” I pat my behind. “I haven’t ridden a bike for a while.”

“I’m deeply concerned about your butt, too,” he says solemnly. “It’s too pretty to be mistreated.”

I press my lips inward. “Um. Thank you?”

“If you need a massage later, we can discuss. I’m told I have good hands.” He holds up both appendages.

“I’ve heard that about you.”

Oh my God. I’m flirting with him.

His eyes light up with delighted amusement. “Excellent. Okay, let’s go.”

Should we talk now? Or later? “Where are we going?”

“Stanley Park. We’ll see how far we go. Totally dependent on your butt.”

Later it is.

And we’re off, down toward the water first then following the bike path along False Creek, past boats docked and ones sailing, beneath bridges, past the dog park at Sunset Beach. We can’t talk much like this, but Jayden waves and calls to me we’ll stop at the beach. It’s Saturday, so there are lots of people on the sand and walking the path. We hop off our bikes and wheel them over to a big log on the sand, then sit there.

Sand stretches on either side of us and down to the water. Some kids are kicking a soccer ball around. A man is throwing a stick for his dog to retrieve from the water. Closer to us, a slender man with dark hair in a bun is shirtless, sitting in a squat position in the sand, hands in Añjali Mudrā.

“Do you like living here?” I ask him, pulling off my helmet.

“I love it.” He looks around. “It’s a big city but there’s such a laidback vibe. I love the water and the mountains. I feel lucky to be here.” Then he makes a face.

“What?” I ask.

“Other than the fact that our team sucks.”

“Oh. Yeah. But the whole team doesn’t suck.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ve got a few good players, but if we can’t play together and win games, we suck. Ah, I shouldn’t talk like that. I’m trying to be more positive this year.”

“You won last night in Chicago.”

He glances at me as if surprised I knew that. “Yeah.”

“It looked like you were playing well.”

“You watched?”

“Just some of the game, in the airport lounge.”

“Ah. We did okay last night,” he agrees. “Frosty was hot.”

The nicknames for all the players amuse me. The goalie is Oliver Frost. “He made a lot of great saves. You did great, too. Breaking up that rush in the third period when they were coming hard to tie it up. You stole the puck. And that shot you blocked, oh my God, I was worried you were really hurt.”

“That was a stinger.” He makes a face. “I had to walk it off for a few minutes, but I’m okay.”

“Thank God.” I bite my lip, not liking the thought of him being even bruised.