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I should’ve waited in the car. Most guys drive themselves or have a driver. There’s only one other middle-aged man waiting. He’s handsome in a rugged sort of way.
Mr. Dimon gets off first, and since there’s no way he won’t see me, I wave. The idiot welcoming committee. He gives me a curt nod in return.
The coaches and veteran players exit next. I stand on my toes to see if I can glimpse Mav when Caleb Benz barrels through the door yelling, “Leo!” and throws himself into the older man’s arms. Not a dad. Got it. The boyfriend, Leo.
“Sky,” Mav calls, and I restrain myself from jumping into his arms. It’s hardly my fault his arms are so strong and comfortable.
“Hey you.” I wave again, acting the part of an awkward teen.
He has his bag over one shoulder, so I get a one-armed hug and I inhale his sunny, earthy vanilla scent. Mav follows me out to Lo’s car.
“Nice ride.” He whistles.
“Thanks, it’s my friend Logan’s.” I slide into the pretentious silver BMW and turn on the seat heaters. Lo would cuss me out for not remembering the class of his car.
“Angel, you didn’t have to borrow a car to pick me up. I can get a rideshare to you next time.” It’s the second time he’s called me by my old nickname, and I break out in a sweat and wipe my hands on my jeans before I reverse out of the parking spot.
“I don’t mind,” I say, but Lo might if this becomes a regular thing.
I pull out in comfortable silence. There’s snow on the ground, but everything is plowed and traffic should be light.
“You’re still coming to my place?” I ask stupidly, even though we’ve confirmed our plan, and tap the steering wheel like I’ll win money for being the fastest tapper. Guys expect more from me because I’m a camboy, and Mav and I have history. It’s not a leap that he expects sex.
“Can I hold your hand?” Mav holds his palm up.
“You don’t need permission.” I side-eye him and slip my hand into his.
“I do.” He intertwines our fingers and uses his other hand to trace my knuckles and veins. It’s such a sweet gesture that my pulse speeds up and a flock of butterflies gets loose in my stomach. Pack of butterflies? Horde of butterflies. Focus!
“I’m going to apologize in advance because I’m beat and sore and might start snoring as soon as we get to your place.” His fingers tighten around mine.
“You didn’t snore last time,” I say, reluctantly disconnecting our hands to make a turn. I miss the emotional connection through physical touch. It’s a luxury I haven’t allowed myself in years.
“I’m setting the bar low so I can exceed it.” Mav picks up my hand again. “Thanks for coming to get me.” He kisses my knuckles.
The truth spills out. “I didn’t want to waste the opportunity to see you.” Between his home game, my schedule, and his away games, it might be another week.
Mav’s face splits into a grin, as though I’ve said something fabulous. “I have a question to ask you. Don’t let me fall asleep before I do.”
“Ask me now,” I say harshly. It’s never good when someone has to announce a question or an impending conversation.
“You might require additional information and pictures, so…can you wait a little longer?”
“That’s not creepy at all.” I throw him an irritated glance.
He chuckles. “It’s not creepy, or a sex thing, but if you don’t enjoy crowds, it could be scary.”
“I’ll be breaking the speed limit to get home now,” I deadpan, but seriously can’t wait, so I change the subject. “According to ESPC, your team is on fire this year.”
“Are you checking out my highlights?” He kisses my hand again, and it relaxes the stiffness in my shoulders.
“No, ESPC is my favorite sportsball channel,” I lie.
“What is your favorite sportsball? I forced you to watch hockey, so what are your favorite types of balls?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Balls are kinda my thing: basketballs, footballs, tennis balls,” I say proudly, delusional that naming sports is an accomplishment.
“Who do you think will make the basketball playoffs this year?” He calls me on my shit.
