Page 101 of Slapshot Baby

I lean down and press my mouth against her forehead.

Her eyes close. Her hand comes up and finds my jaw, holding it there for a long moment, her thumb tracing the edge of my beard.

When I pull back, she's looking at me with a terrified expression I haven't seen before.

It looks exactly the way I feel.

17

AVA

Seven Stray Cats

Kai is holding a dress against my body in the middle of a boutique on Melrose, his head tilted, studying me with the quiet intensity he usually reserves for game film.

"Too long," he says.

"It's a midi. The entire point is the length."

"The point is your legs. The dress is in the way."

I snatch it from him and hang it back.

"You told me to wear something that makes me feel good. That requires me choosing it. Not you standing here eliminating options like you're running a defensive scheme."

He ignores me, pulls out an emerald green silk with a neckline that would sit just below my collarbones.

He holds it up. Looks at me with those warm brown eyes, and my traitorous stomach does a full somersault.

Don't let a man with a broken nose and zero fashion credentials pick your outfit, Ava. That's a slippery slope that ends with matching bathrobes and a joint Instagram account.

"Try it on," he says.

I try it on.

It fits like it was cut for my body.

The silk skims the new fullness of my breasts without clinging, falls past the slight curve of my stomach in a way that conceals instead of announces.

I stare at my reflection. The green pulls the gold from my eyes and makes my skin glow.

Damn it.

I step out of the fitting room. Kai's leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed. His gaze travels from my face down to somewhere around my hips before coming back up.

A warmth I can't afford blooms behind my ribs.

"That one," he says, voice rougher than before.

“You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you? Knowing you picked the dress I’m wearing on our first date.”

“Our first real date.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “And absolutely.”

He pays before I can argue about it. I argue all the way to the car anyway.

The restaurant is small. Italian. The kind where bread arrives warm and the waiter knows which table gets the good olive oil.

Kai pulls my chair out. I sit before he can change his mind, because arguing would only delay dinner—and tonight, I’m choosing carbs over pride.