Eight
Asher
That was almost one of the most awkward moments of my life.
One moment, we’re talking about tattoos, and the very next, Porter was up and walking out of the room. What in the hell just happened?
Was he looking to be my hero? Because yeah, not happening.
I mean, I really thought I could maybe learn to trust the guy.
Shit.
I slept in his bed. I fell asleep willingly and comfortably.
I trust the guy.
But it was what came after that initial trust in the whole…guy-girl scenario.
So no, I wasn’t looking for a hero. I didn’t need a guy to save me, because quite frankly, in my experience? It was the guy who brought the castle crashing to the ground.
I pulled my hoodie on roughly with a heavy sigh. I was so confused.
I liked him. I really, honestly did. He was a good guy and seemed to do the whole damsel-in-distress thing well—again, not that I was looking for a savior. But he had saved me on more than one occasion the last weekend I spent in his company, and he was proving to be…comfortable now.
I was comfortable here.
He made me comfortable.
I crawled off his bed, pulling the comforter up to the pillows, making it semi-presentable, and moved to my suitcase, pulling out a pair of well-worn jeans with store-bought holes in them.
The holey knees may have been on the designer’s end of things, but the thinning denim and frayed cuffs was very much because I wore the life out of these jeans over the last three months. I had a feeling I only had another two months, tops, with them before I started finding holes in the back pockets, or worse, in the crotch.
It was always the good jeans that ended up with crotch holes.
I pulled them on and found a hair-tie in a zipper compartment of my suitcase. I flipped my head upside down to make a high messy knot, standing upright again as I secured the mess. I’d have to take a shower, but I could wait.
Barefoot, I walked out of his room with my hands in the large front pocket of my hoodie. As I neared the bathroom, the door opened and Porter walked out, wiping his hands on his track pants.
I didn’t know how I was supposed to act, not after how he left the room.
“You didn’t answer. You a breakfast person?” he asked, spotting me, as if nothing awkward had just transpired between us. He waited for me to close the short distance before walking down the hall by my side.
“You didn’t really give me a chance to answer,” I replied, shocking myself at my snappy attitude. Did I really just…?
Porter let out a chuckle. “No. No, I don’t suppose I did. Sorry.”
I just shrugged. “No big deal. And in answer of your question, yeah, I do breakfast. If you count Cheerios.”
“I do, usually yeah, but today, I’m talking protein.”
I shrugged again, trying hard to lose the weird tension but failing miserably. If Porter noticed, he didn’t call me out on it.
In the kitchen, he immediately started pulling things out of the fridge—eggs, cheese, ham, peppers, onions. I moved to sit at the counter, not wanting to be in the way.
Wordlessly, I watched as Porter cracked eggs—not all the yolks making it into the bowl—and added cut veggies and ham. He worked in silence, but was incredibly efficient. He worked like a well-oiled machine—one with incredible forearm muscles.
What was it about this guy that I couldn’t shake?
He was attractive.
Good. Great. Woo-hoo.
He was nice.
Ok, yeah, now that was good.
He also lived thousands of miles away, and I was not having sex for at least the next fifty years so, ding-ding-ding, shut that down, Asher.
“You want something to drink?” he asked, finally looking up from the pan he was scrambling his concoction in. The way the kitchen was set up had the burners in the island, with the island having a higher bar for sitting. If he weren’t six feet tall—at least—I’d be looking down at him from my perch on this seat but as it was, we were eye to eye. “You’re welcome to rummage through the fridge,” he said, holding my gaze, never once blinking.
So I blinked.
“Ok.” Moving to the fridge, I saw in my peripheral that Porter’s attention was on his eggs, but I could feel him watching me.
What was he thinking?
Was he truly okay with my being here?
Should I reschedule my flight?
I pulled open the fridge door, hoping to find a water or something. Inside was very much what I figured an athlete’s fridge to be—veggies, fruits, chicken, eggs…beer.
I scrunched my nose in distaste.
The smell of stale beer filled the air, the dark bedroom seeming so much smaller with his stale, thick breath.
I shook my head free of the memory, forcing my eyes to move past the cans sitting on the bottom shelf.
Coke, Pepsi—because there was a difference, you know—water.
Bingo.
I reached for a bottle and my eyes caught sight of a container with yellow fish egg-looking things in it.
“Are those…fish eggs?” I asked, knowing it sounded incredibly stupid the moment the words left my mouth. “I mean, surely they’re not, but what do you have in your fridge?”
I poked at the container as if it was going to jump out at me.
Suddenly Porter was behind me—like right behind me; I could feel the heat of him on my back, through my hoodie—and he chuckled, reaching past me for the container.
“No. Mango Boba Balls.” He popped off the lid and, with his bare hand, scooped out a small handful and put them in his mouth. I looked over my shoulder at him and he grinned down at me, but his jaw didn’t move, no muscles bunching either, as he did…something with those things. What in the world was he doing with them? How did you eat them? I remembered Nico mentioning Porter’s unhealthy addiction to them, but…
What were they?
I watched his Adam’s apple bob, as he must have swallowed whatever these Boba Balls were.
“Never heard of them? They’re like…at frozen yogurt places.”
I shook my head and he held the container closer to my face. “Try ‘em. They’re like Gushers, but not.”
I frowned, my nose crinkling at the container. “I think I’ll pass.”
“You gotta try one. They’re the best.”
My nose still scrunched, I shook my head. “Thanks, but no thank you.”
“So polite,” he chuckled quietly, digging in again for a much smaller handful. “Open.”
My frown deepened. He was not…
His own brows rose. “Open your mouth, Asher. Try ‘em.”
Surely he didn’t intend to…
“No?” His eyes held a playful glint. Whatever happened this morning in his bedroom must have been far from his mind because this was the Porter I met in September, walking around IKEA with a container of meatballs and teasing his sister.
He cupped his fingers around his palm, tossing back his head and dropping some of the “gushers” into his mouth and doing…whatever it was he did with them in his mouth.
“Please?” he asked, holding his fisted palm in front of me.
With what I was sure was a weary look on my face, I slowly said, “Alright.”
I held out my hand for him to transfer them and he shook his head. “They’re fragile. Just open your mouth.” When I didn’t, he laughed. “C’mon, Ash, my eggs are gonna burn. Open up. They won’t bite.”
This was so…weird. But I did what he asked and opened my mouth. He dropped one, two, three of those yellow balls into my mouth, moving his hand and depositing what was left in his own mouth.
They were odd, rolling over my tongue with what felt like a gelatin texture but the moment my tongue moved one closer to my teeth, it exploded in my mouth into juicy nothing.
And it might have startled me for the briefest of seconds.
Super brief.
With a grimace as I swallowed, I nodded. “They’re ok.”
“They’re fucking amazing,” Porter said with a crooked grin, putting the lid back on the container and reaching around me once again to place it back in its spot in the fridge.
“Oh-kay.” I drew out the word, yet refrained from rolling my eyes at him. “You eat those and look like that?” The moment the words left my mouth, I felt my face flush. I nodded once and looked away, trying to find an escape. “Yep, totally just said that.”
I turned to move past Porter, but he sidestepped until he was directly in front of me, my back to the fridge.
I should have felt trapped.
He wasn’t caging me in, no, but I was certainly stuck.
I bit my lip, unsure of how he would respond to what I said, and kept my eyes locked on his Adam’s apple.
He was an athlete, so surely he wouldn’t take it personally. He was meant to have a good body. He needed the muscles for speed, agility—all those athletic terms.
“You want to come to the game this afternoon?” he asked instead.
So not what I was expecting.
Frowning, I finally met his eyes. His face looked…
Perplexed?
No, not like he was confused, but more serious and open and maybe a little bit hopeful.
It was that last part that had me feeling perplexed.
“Sure?” I answered, shaking my head side to side.
“If you said sure with a nod, I’d be more inclined to believe you,” he retorted, that damn dimple of his making a show in his right cheek.
“No, yeah.” I nodded now. “No, I’d like to come to the game.”
His smile filled out as he chuckled. “Yes or no, Asher?”
I stopped moving my head. “Yes.”
“Dinner after?” Now his face truly did look hopeful.
And truth be told, I was a little hopeful too.
I found myself really wanting to know who exactly Porter Prescott was.
“Your eggs are burning.”
He took a step forward, causing me to step back into the fridge. He kept his arms to his sides. but if I were to take a deep breath, I would certainly be chest to chest with him.
The nerves fluttering in my stomach and chest were most definitely butterflies, and not fear.
I did not have an iota of fear in me around this guy.
“Dinner?” he asked again, his voice low, but not the same quiet and low we spoke, in hushed tones, earlier this morning in the dark.
No, this was that husky low that you saw in movies, when the good guy was finally going for the girl.
This year was about change. This year was about leaving Genevieve Asher Spencer firmly in the past and truly, fully becoming Asher Spence.
I was my own person.
I wanted change.
I wanted to own Asher Spence.
And I found myself absolutely wanting the guy in front of me, the one who seemed to know that putting his hands on me, or around me, may be a touch too much, but still didn’t let me move an inch, still held me captive by something as little as his eyes.
So, with my eyes locked on his, I gave way to the answer I wanted so badly to say, but was still semi-afraid of the consequences.
“Yes.”
Porter
Turned out Asher did have more in her suitcase than long-sleeved shirts and well-worn jeans.
Which I think was as much of a surprise to her as it was to me.
Thank you, Avery.
And I was going to have a really fucking hard time playing with her right behind the bench, in the get-up Avery hid for her.
It wasn’t anything fancy.
Just more of those leggings she liked to wear, but with a skimpy tank top that was loose and had a single thin braid running between her shoulder blades. Thankfully, my sister was also sensible and packed a short blazer for Asher to wear over it.
And heels.
Shit, she was wearing heels, and I don’t think I would ever forget the look on her face when she pulled them out of the bottom of her suitcase.
“What was she fucking thinking!” Asher exclaimed, before turning red and looking up at me from her kneel on the floor. “Sorry.”
I chuckled. “No need to apologize.” During my pre-game nap, Asher had stayed in the living room. She should have just stayed in my room with me; it wasn’t like I actually slept much. Not while knowing she was in my place, just a few walls away.
After I got up, I went to find her; she was playing on her phone. She must have showered at some point during my nap, because her hair was damp.
I briefly wondered if she asked Nico for a towel, or if she used mine…
Hell, maybe she used Nico’s, but that thought just ruined the fantasy.
Now though, I had just walked back into my room after changing into slacks and a dress shirt in the bathroom so she could pull out clothes. All around her were folded jeans, leggings, and sweatshirts, and in the very middle of her suitcase, having been buried beneath everything else, was what had promise to be a hot as fuck outfit on Asher.
“I don’t wear heels.”
“Ever?” I cocked a brow, moving closer and sitting on the edge of my bed so I could pull on my dress shoes.
“Never.”
I shrugged. “You can wear your boots.” I really wanted her to wear the heels.
The look Asher gave me was comical, as her brows furrowed and she dropped her chin toward her chest. “Not with the rest of this effing outfit. God, I hate your sister right now.”
Couldn’t say that I did. “Just wear the boots.”
“I should just stay here.”
I dropped my foot to the ground, both feet in their shoes now, and leaned forward, my forearms dangling between my knees. “Asher, it’s just a few hours. You know what? Maybe just bring your boots and a hoodie. That way you have an option.”
She finally agreed, and left my room with her clothes and heels in hand.
When she walked back into my room…
Fuck.
She insisted on practice-walking around the townhouse in her heels and I swore Nico was going to die of laughter at the pained expression on my face.
Under that blazer, she was braless. It wasn’t possible to wear one with how low the braid dropped at her back. Needless to say, the blazer did nothing for my imagination.
Maybe some other sick soul at the game would think differently, but I knew better.
And if it was cold in the rink today…
Fuck me.
I knocked on my cup. Being hard in this gear was not the most comfortable.
I was waiting for Nico before heading out to the ice, our pre-game ritual we started with game four this season.
That particular game, we went out at the same time, and our line scored three times.
You didn’t mess with things that proved to be good.
“You uncomfortable there, Portsy?” Nico asked, chuckling, as he walked up to me, stick in hand. Most guys ended up with nicknames derived from their last names, but due to my family being…well, my family, I was lucky enough to get my first name transformed.
“Fuck you.”
“I really enjoy seeing this side of you. I was starting to wonder if maybe Asher was fictional and you were really into guys. Which would be no big.”
“Fuck. You,” I repeated, tapping the blade of my stick against my toe.
“In case I forget to tell you after the game, have fun tonight. The keys are in the visor. And be sure to wrap it.”
The fucker was grinning. He thought he was funny.
However—good guy that he was—he was riding home with Jonas, so that me and Ash could take his car to dinner. So, I couldn’t be too pissed at him.
“Yeah, yeah, sure thing, dad.”
Nico walked past me, tapping the back of my helmet three times—again, another ritual—and headed toward the tunnel. I was close behind.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could compare to the high I felt nearing the ice. The music was blasting, the sound of skates cutting through the ice was already echoing around the arena, and pucks pinged off posts.
This was the life.
And then add to that, a certain brunette sitting just beyond my current position…
Definitely the life.
We exited the tunnel and as I reached the bars separating the walkway from the seats, I tapped on the metal with my stick two times, looking up in Asher’s direction. She was sitting right on the bars, behind the bench.
She looked down at me, startled I think, but offered me a smile. I winked at her as I moved past, passing through the bench and finally, onto the ice.
Warm-ups and stretching ensued. Nico and I stretched near the penalty box—great viewing spot of Asher, not that that was why we were stretching there, of course. We always stretched in that very spot.
Down in a butterfly stretch, stretching out my groin, I was able to spy on Asher across the way, even with my head turned toward Nico.
She sat there with one leg crossed over the other, leaning into her raised knee. With her elbow resting on her thigh, her hand fiddled with her Monroe piercing but I could see her eyes tracking everything going on, on the ice. When her eyes landed on me, she kept them there.
I moved my stretch so one leg was straight out behind me, stretching out my glutes now. Nico nodded his head in Asher’s direction.
“She’s watching you.”
I grinned. Couldn’t help it. “Yeah.”
“Gotta tell you, man. She seems skittish.”
I shrugged. “I think maybe she’s shy.”
Nico barked out a laugh. “Looking like she does? Shit, Ports.”
I shrugged again and turned my head so I could look directly at her. Caught, she blushed bright red.
In all honesty, I thought her tattoos and piercings were to hide who she really was, but I wasn’t about to share that with Nico. Besides, I could be very wrong. Like she said, she liked art and, heck, lots of artists got tattoos as an expression of self.
“Where you taking her?” Nico asked as we both stood and skated toward the center, where we would start drive drills.
“Probably just Maggiano’s.”
Nico lifted a brow. “Seriously? Take her somewhere nice.”
“That is nice. But it’s not so nice it’ll, I don’t know, scare her or some shit,” I said, mumbling the end.
“C’mon, Cathys, let’s do this,” Ant said, pushing between Nico and me. Ant dubbed Nico and I ‘Cathys,’ for ‘Chatty Cathys,’ shortly after training camp began in the fall.
When the line in front of us shot and Armstrong saved the puck, the three of us set up. Once those three were out of the way, we ran our own drill, driving down toward Armie. The puck slapped and hit each of our blades with well-practiced precision until Nico finally netted the puck.
Ant tapped the back of Armstrong’s calf with his stick as we peeled away, going back to the group to wait for our next turn.
“The kid’s taking his girl to Maggiano’s,” Nico informed Ant.
I groaned, rolling my eyes heavenward. You didn’t tell an Italian you were going to a chain Italian place, no matter how nice it was.
“You should bring her to the house. Maria can make you real Italian.”
“Yeah. Real Italian. Not that…family-style bullshit.”
“I’ve got this, guys. Really.” I shook my head in their direction, then glanced over my shoulder toward Asher. She was fiddling with her phone but glanced up, and this time it was me fighting the heat in my face.
She smiled softly, as if she was unsure, and lifted her fingers in a wave.
“You better wrap it,” Ant said.
“What the fuck is with you two?” I blurted, turning away from Asher’s eyes.
Nico laughed and Ant just shrugged, his mouth moving as if he were digging shit out of his molars. “You’re the hotshot rookie in town who hasn’t slept with a single willing and available woman. Surely, you’ve got needs. You’ve been here, what? What’s it been, D’Amaco?” Ant turned his attention to Nico. “Three months? Four?”
Nico nodded. “Damn near.”
“Shit or get off the pot, brother. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
“I bet your wife likes that mouth,” I said, and the moment the words left—
“She sure as hell does. I won’t go into details, respect and privacy, you know, but yep. She sure does.”
My mind went to places it had no business going, not with Ant and Maria, but eventually I was thinking about my mouth, and Asher.
And damn it all to hell, I was fucking uncomfortable in my gear again.
It was going to be a long three periods.