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Agree. What are you going to do about it?
What am I going to do about it?
My dad and Jameson are still yammering away. I dump maple syrup all over my sausages and stab one with my fork.
Hollis eyes me with amusement. I take an angry bite.
“Honey, your knife,” Dad mutters, then goes back to talking to my date about first draft picks this season. Normally I love draft talk, but right now I’m beyond frustrated. Because I’m hiding things from my dad for one, but also, the hockey player sitting across from me is the one I’d love to be on a date with, and instead Hollis’s sabotaging the one he explicitly told me to go on.
As anticipated, my dad’s and Hollis’s meals appear a minute after their beers. They’re regulars, and everyone loves them, and Rainbow ships them. Hollis digs into his poached-egg breakfast hash, while I cut my sausages into tiny bite-sized pieces and occasionally offer my thoughts when they’re asked for by my dad or Jameson.
Hollis agrees with everything I say, especially if it contradicts Jameson. It’s irksome.
I drop my shoe on the floor and slide my foot up his calf. His gaze lifts from his plate. I keep going up the inside of his thigh. And all the while, my date and my dad keep blabbering on about who knows what. Part of me wonders if Jameson actually wanted to go out with me, or if it was an excuse to meet my dad and maybe score tickets to a game. It wouldn’t be the first time.
My big toe brushes against Hollis’s jacket, which is still draped over his lap. And I keep going. I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking, but I’m committed to this stupid, dangerous course of action.
Hollis’s gaze shifts to my dad and Jameson—neither of them is paying attention to us—and moves back to me as his hand disappears under the table. I fully expect him to shove my foot away, but that’s not what happens. At all. Instead, he moves it between his very warm, very thick, very strong thighs and presses it against the exceptionally prominent bulge behind his fly.
His coat covers his lap. We’re tucked into a booth in the very back corner of the diner. No one can see what’s happening under the table.
I can’t believe what’s happening under the table.
Hollis better not have a foot fetish. At least I think I hope he doesn’t have a foot fetish. I mean, I’m not opposed to foot rubs, but I don’t want to give him the foot version of a handy. Or have him try to stick his foot in my lady business. That’s definitely not my kink. But having him hold my foot against his hard cock under the table with my dad and my date right beside us might very well do it for me based on the way my nipples tighten and everything clenches below the waist. Also, my toes curl.
“What do you think, Pegs?”
“Huh?” My gaze snaps to my dad.
“Bowman’s having a great season with New York, but so is Grace. Who’s a more likely trade?”
“Grace. He’s a hothead on the ice, and Bowman is methodical and levelheaded. If they’re willing to trade one player, it’ll be Grace, but only if it’s evenly matched.”
“But Grace has more years on the ice,” Jameson argues.
“That’s one factor.” Hollis gives his two cents. “But it’s about more than experience. Bowman is all about the team, and Grace has been known to pull stupid moves because his ego demands it.” Hollis’s thumb slides between my foot and his bulge, and he runs it firmly along my instep.
I cough into the crook of my elbow to cover my moan. His hands feel huge.
“Hollis makes a good point.” Dad glances at my plate. “Is your appetite still off, honey?”
I look down. All I’ve managed to eat is one maple-syrup-drenched sausage. “Oh, uh, no. Just savoring today, I guess.”
Hollis taps the top of my foot. His hand reappears as I drop my foot and slip it back into my shoe, but not before my toe lands in a wet spot on the floor.
I spend the rest of my date trying to eat while my stomach flip-flops all over the place. There is definitely a conversation coming with Hollis. My dad pays for the entire meal and, because he can’t help himself, invites Jameson to a home game. Jameson is all smiles and excitement. As we finish up, Hollis stands off to the side with his hands in his pockets, looking as annoyed as I feel.
When we get back out to the sidewalk, Jameson hugs me, but thankfully doesn’t go in for any kind of kiss on the cheek with my dad and Hollis standing guard.
“I’ll text you later, okay?” He’s all shy smiles again.
“Yeah. Sounds good.”
I wave as he disappears down the stairs to the subway.
“He’s a nice young man,” Dad says.
“Yeah, you two got along like a house on fire.” He’s oblivious to my irritation, and everything else apparently, but I have bigger issues to deal with. Namely, his best friend.
