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Guess that answers that.
I blow out a breath. “I think we should do it.”
“What?”
“We should just do it.” I nod, trying to convince myself even as I’m speaking. “I mean, what’s it really going to mean? We hang out a little? Maybe I stand a little too close? Laugh at your dumb jokes a little too loudly?”
His eyes narrow. “I don’t have dumb jokes.”
“You barely have jokes at all anymore, from what I’ve seen,” I tease. “But when you did, I do remember them being kind of dumb.”
“Brat,” he huffs.
My stomach twists again.
You have no right to be turned on by that, I tell my nether region. Down, girl.
“I really don’t see what we have to lose,” I reason. “You get some good press, I get some buzz that will bump my views…Seems like a win-win.”
“It could work,” he muses, his gaze far away as he considers. “As long as I can manage not to do something to fuck it up.”
I do reach across the table to grab his hand then, sensing his melancholy, and the second my fingers touch his, his entire body flinches.
“You’re going to have to practice not being so jumpy, if we’re going to do this,” I chuckle. “You’re acting like you’ve never touched a girl before, Cupcake.”
I can see a spark of defiance in his eyes, an old flame of endless competitiveness that I doubt either of us ever really grew out of. He almost makes me jump when his hand grips mine tighter, his thumb making a slow sweep across my knuckles, and his teeth flash in triumph when I suck in a breath.
“Maybe you need practice,” he murmurs.
Memories of stupid dares and foot races and a dozen more childish things that used to fill our days flash through my mind, and I lean in, smirking. “You don’t want to play that game with me, Ian. You’ll lose.”
“Whatever,” he laughs, letting my hand slip from his and having no clue just how much I’m mourning the loss of it. “Nothing makes me uncomfortable. You’d tap out way before I did.”
I feel my lips curl, daydreams about paying Ian back a little for years of clueless feeding into my silly wants bouncing around in my head. Because one thing is for certain, I am not that little kid anymore. Ian has no idea who he’s dealing with.
“We’ll see,” I say with a sly grin.
He looks serious again. “So we’re really doing this?”
What the hell, I think. When will I ever have a chance to indulge in all my old fantasies like this? Maybe it will finally give teenage me some closure.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “I guess we are.”
Eight
IAN
“Kennedy, you’re lagging! Get your ass across the line! You need training wheels?”
Jankowski nudges me. “Who’s gonna be the one to remind Coach that skates don’t have training wheels?”
“Not it,” Rankin snorts. “He’s already riding me like he’s paying for it.”
“Oh?” Sanchez leans on the end of his stick as we hang back in the neutral zone, watching Coach run defense through a drill. “And how much would you charge him?”
“Fuck off,” Rankin mutters.
A chuckle escapes me, watching Sanchez give Rankin a good-natured shove. “Don’t worry, babe, you won’t be a rookie forever.”
