A/N: Rating is getting updated to M because I can already see where these fools are going. Mind the bad language!
I'm not religious by any stretch of the imagination - not unless you count the sheer number of for God's sakes that I utter on a daily basis - but, with a drop-dead gorgeous stranger looking at me as if I've just named him best on the ice, I'm sensing some sort of divine intervention. That, or he is in total awe of the number of pucks he managed to bruise me with.
Probably the latter.
It's his friend who speaks first - an equally gigantic linebacker-type on blades. "Nice lockout," he says, tipping his chin. "You play much?"
I'm smiling back at the pair before I even realise it - a far cry from my usual scowl, which is typically proffered to any male on two legs. "Not at all. Maybe a joy lap or two after close," I say, shrugging.
"Oh?" the stranger says, smirking mischievously. "What did you do to get that perk?"
"Aside from a daily clopen?"
The man blinks back at me, mystified. "The fuck is a clopen?"
"Ah," I say, laughing at my own private joke. "Only the best part about being the owner's daughter - closing this joint, then being here at the ass-crack of dawn for round two."
"Christ," he says, punctuating his statement with a low whistle. "That's rough." He stops short. "Jeez, where're my manners. I'm Brady. This is my buddy, Seth."
Seth, straightening as if he has been rejuvenated with a cattle prod, smiles sheepishly. "Sorry 'bout all the hits. You're an awesome goalie, y'know."
The snort that escapes me is positively unladylike. "Call me anytime for target practice."
"You know," Seth says slowly, his lips quirking into a teasing expression that sends scores of butterflies shooting through my belly, "maybe I will."
Before I can even attempt to charm the pants off of him - something that I'm pretty sure I could pull off, judging by the teasing slant of his lips - I hear an all-too-familiar bellow over the grimy plexiglass.
"If you're done, the ice needs surfacing," Paige hollers pointedly, signalling to the overhead clock.
"I'm not done," I yell back, intent on making her suffer.
Still, I'd rather walk backwards into hell than let anyone else drive the Zamboni.
I shoot the guys an apologetic look. "Sorry. Duty calls."
"Easy," Seth says, with the sort of voice that'd typically send me reaching for something battery-operated. "You here next week?"
"Rain, hail, or shine," I call, skating backwards to keep my gaze on him. "See 'ya round."
The last thing I see before I slip through the maintenance gate is Brady wrapping Seth into a headlock, tugging him off the ice like a badly behaved puppy. I linger for a moment to watch them leave, pushing and shoving each other into the boards with raucous laughter that echoes across the rink. They're loud and brash and bold, and yet, for the first time in a long while, I find myself hoping that I will see him around. Seth and Brady are long gone by the time I power up the Zamboni, but Seth's goofy grin stays fresh in my mind all night long.
I circle his team's next game three times in pink highlighter, sticking it to my pinboard with a star-shaped thumbtack.
With nothing but kids' skate lessons to look forward to, my week passes by at a snail's pace.
Monday, I deep clean the walk-in, resetting my days since microbiological disaster sign to zero for the second time this month. Lauren avoids my eye as I draw a slow, purposeful naught, busying herself by pointedly sanitising the line, spraying double the cleaning solution for good measure.
No matter.
She knows. I know. And that's enough.
Tuesday, I spend a good chunk of the morning shift repainting the women's bathroom, carefully daubing on buttery yellow paint until all traces of the gaudy fuschia walls are well and truly concealed. Then, I contentedly watch paint dry, whiling away a good portion of my day before Ang blows my cover.
Wednesday is eventful by comparison. My eleven o'clock session ends with a kid-on-kid brawl to rival the work of professional goons. Though technically in the spirit of the game, I am contractually obliged to sequester any and all aggressors, and Paige has counselled me twice to forbid me from cheering. My gut says complimentary season pass, but my mouth, reluctantly, orders an early finish.
Heartbreaking stuff.
I add the 2004 Senators versus Flyers game to my YouTube queue.
By Thursday, I am reconsidering my allegiance to the concession stand. Between the ossified mouse I extracted from the butter vat, and the mother who vehemently demands unlimited soda refills on the basis of a completely ill-construed technicality, I'm starting to think that full-time maintenance is the way to go. After all, who can argue with a million-ton ice scraping beast that is almost as loud as it is gigantic? I rest my forehead atop my folded arms for a long while, contemplating whether I can totally avoid customer service for the remainder of the week, when I hear a soft rap on the counter.
"Sleeping on the job?"
I sit up so fast that I almost give myself whiplash. Seth is back - just Seth, no Brady - and I am acutely aware of the fact that I am sporting a two-day old braid and a (probably) butter streaked face.
Embarrassing.
"Hi," I squeak, quickly straightening up. "Uh, you know it's not Friday, right?"
Seth pauses. "Yeah. I do have a general sense of time."
My lips quirk involuntarily. "I guess that was a polite way of saying you're here, on a day you're not playing."
He crosses his arms, leaning against the counter with seemingly unshakable confidence. "Cute that you know my schedule."
"I'm adorable when I actually do my job," I comment drily, angling for a cheap laugh.
Instead, he nods, unexpectedly serious. "You're adorable in general."
I resign myself to the fact that I may just be in love.
"So, to what do I owe the pleasure," I say, feeling my face heat at my choice of words the moment they leave my mouth. Still, I feign nonchalance, trying to disguise my attempt at committing every inch of this man to memory as a polite curiosity.
It's a bit of a mission, given that the man is six-foot-four, easy, and I can hardly decide where to look.
"Well, I kinda thought a welfare check was past due. How's the bruises?" Seth asks, eyebrows knitting together in concern.
"Not too bad. I could probably pass for the one-hundred-and-second dalmatian, if you're into that."
He shakes his head, momentarily sucking on his bottom lip.
Instantly, my head is empty.
No thoughts. At least, none that could be spoken aloud in polite society.
It takes me a moment to parse the words that are being formed by that perfect mouth.
"How about I take you out for dinner, and we can call it even," Seth says, donning that all-too-charming lazy smile.
My heart is practically beating in my throat, thrumming so violently that anyone in a five-mile radius is sure to overhear. Then, it hits me.
"I'm here until ten," I wince, trying not to let my disappointment colour my expression too drastically. I get the sense that this is one of those spontaneous things - act now or miss out! - and my shitty work-life balance doesn't really cater for those sort of shenanigans.
Seth nods, unruffled as ever. "Should've guessed you'd be here. Another time?"
The words are out of my mouth before I can second-guess myself. "Depends. You got plans tonight?"
He blinks. "No?"
I grin. "Good. Pick me up out back at ten," I say, scribbling my cell onto a lightly butter-stained napkin.
Seth folds it carefully, slipping it into his wallet. "See you then, Stanley," he says, mock-saluting as he lopes out of the lobby, eternally calm and collected.
I watch as he goes, absentmindedly staring after him. The fact that he paid for entry, only to swing by for a chat, hardly registers - all I can think about is that I didn't expect him to take see 'ya round so literally, and now I'm four hours out from a first date with nothing but my grease-stained polo and torn jeans to wear.
Fuck.
I have to promise Paige that I'll run a month of extra skate lessons before she agrees to swap outfits, begrudgingly passing her hoodie and yoga pants over the side of the bathroom stall. I feel like a total greaseball, washing my face with the frangipani scented handwash from the pump dispenser, then swiping Ang's dried-out mascara over my stubby lashes. A quick appraisal in the mirror confirms my assumptions: it's a helluva look, that's for sure. I can only hope that Seth is a fan of the Washington Capitals - the only point of interest in my otherwise underwhelming get-up - or my outfit is sure to leave a sour taste in his mouth.
Scratch that. It would be a buttery taste, given that practically every moment of my life is dedicated to this god-forsaken hole in the wall.
Still, I can't resist dwelling on the idea of Seth's mouth, the very lips whose taste I cannot resist wondering about; the image of him sucking his bottom lip will play ad infinitum in my brain.
In total frankness, it's been far too long since my last date, and even longer since I actually gave a shit about the man on the other side of the table. The last serious thing that I honestly put my heart behind was Mike Newton, way back in high school, and aside from popping my cherry, I'm hard-pressed to recall anything particularly memorable about him.
Aside from the fact he fucked Lauren Mallory at Bella Swan's wedding reception, right in that stupid fancy bathroom with the beautiful, flashy flower arrangements that I'd lusted over so enthusiastically, even having gushed to Mike about how we'd need them at our wedding.
The smell of lillies still makes me sick.
Surprisingly, the sight of Lauren doesn't have the same effect on me - if you can ignore the simmering undercurrent of resentment at her mere existence, though that can be closely linked to her irrefutable incompetence at her job. Not that I'm any better, but I've never claimed to be good at what I do. Considering I spend much of my time at the rink counting down the hours until I can leave - especially tonight, as I practice my psychic powers by willing the wretched clock to tick faster - I'm no model employee, and if I weren't genetically privileged by being a Stanley, Paige would certainly fire me.
She definitely still should.
I rush through my closing duties, cleaning out the snow tank of the Zamboni with far less care than I normally would devote. The behemoth dumps the dregs outside, typically into a neatly-contained pile of slush, but neatness takes time and effort, which are two things I definitely do not have tonight. Instead, I unleash the sleet into the darkness, scooping quick shovelfuls of the spilled mess out of the rollerdoor until the machine whirrs cleanly and the maintenance bay is (vaguely) spotless. Quite plainly, I have little interest in the state of the outdoors, particularly in the absence of any living witnesses, and so as soon as the pipe has cleared, I jerk the shutter closed, calling out a bellowed goodbye to Paige as I punch out.
Not that she'll miss me - she's basically married to the job, as miserable as that must be.
Perhaps I should wish for similar dedication.
I take the stairs to the parking lot two at a time, running my tongue across my teeth for a final check. Mentally, I'm rehearsing the precise way I'll say hey - not too casual, not too rehearsed - when he calls out to me from across the lot, waving me over to his truck. If he wasn't entirely too adorable for his own good, I'd probably be a little annoyed at the fact that I have to jog to cross the distance - who honestly enjoys running? - when karma hits.
More precisely, karma makes me slip. The moment my converse-clad foot touches sleet, I know exactly what's coming for me - aside from embarrassment: the pavement, and hard. Between my elbow delivering a crisp Randy Savage style drop, and my hip taking the brunt of the impact, I know without a doubt that I'll be feeling the hit for days.
"Jesus, Jess," Seth yelps, throwing himself out of the cab in an instant. He's at my side before I can blink, his hands nervously hovering over me, stopping just short of touching my skin. "Can - fuck, that looks bad - can you stand?"
"Has anyone ever told you that you're excellent at being reassuring?" I laugh, ignoring the twinge in my ribs.
The comment was meant to coax a smile out of his worried frown, but he doesn't look amused. He looks anxious, and when he takes my hand to pull me up, he holds it as if I'm made of glass. I can't help but stare at his hand - he's warm beyond compare, and that should probably be alarming, but his blazing skin against my icy appendages just feels right in a way that nothing ever has.
"C'mon, hop in. I'll find you ice, or something," he mutters, chewing on his lip as he opens my door like a perfect gentleman.
Christ, could this man get any more attractive, I wonder, praying that I didn't speak the words aloud when he casts me a curious look. I blink back at him as innocently as I can muster, fastening my seatbelt around my waist. Seth looks at me for a moment longer, those gorgeous chocolate eyes studying me like he's trying to figure something out. He shakes his head a moment later, closing my door with a quiet thunk.
I shoot Angela a quick text, making her promise to look for my body in case this cute stranger turns out to be a serial killer or something, before slipping my phone safely into my pocket. Seth clambers back into the driver's seat, his large hand spanning the gear stick, and I just know how tonight is going to end up.
"I have to say, I didn't really plan this out," he says sheepishly, glancing at the radio clock. "Is anything even open this late?"
I pause for a moment, thinking. "You're from the Rez, right?"
He nods.
"Wanna get slushies from the gas station and watch the ocean? I haven't been down there in years," I say, thinking back to the last time I'd crossed the Reservation line - probably with Bella Swan in tow, maybe her first week of school - with indisputably worse company.
Seth's eyes light up. "Let's do it," he says excitedly, slipping his truck into gear. "Hey, radio's all yours. What d'you like to listen to?"
In a world without shame, I'd happily confess to adoring country music - not the cheap radio-friendly pop about bubblegum heartbreak, but the real throwback sort of stuff, about angsty folk tales and crippling alcoholism, the sort of ballad that'd put you in a funk for days.
I settle for the college station, tuning into the melodious indie beats that they're scheduled to play every weeknight - a fact I would never have known if not for Ben Cheney, Angela's longtime boyfriend and ardent broadcasting nerd - that set a reasonable tone for the ride. Seth taps along to the beat on the steering wheel as he drives, sneaking little glances across at me whenever he thinks I'm not looking. In all fairness, I'm doing the same, trying to appreciate every facet of his aquiline profile in the dim glow of the fleeting streetlights. His shaggy hair, despite his best efforts to keep it tucked behind his hear, keeps flopping across his cheekbone, hiding his gaze from view. I can't help but wonder what it would feel like between my fingers, if he would ever allow me to touch his hair.
Seth flips on the indicator, pulling wide into the gas station lot. "How are we doing this - are you surprising me, or did you wanna -"
"I love surprises. Gimme five," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.
"Oh, um, sure," he murmurs, rooting around his pocket until he triumphantly produces a crumpled banknote.
I let out a laugh. "No, no, keep your money! Give me five minutes," I stress, hopping out onto the pavement. "I'll be back in a sec."
It's definitely fall, I think as I wander into the store, tugging my sweater sleeves downwards until my hands are swallowed in the fabric. The warmth of the truck - combined with the radiant heat that Seth seems to naturally emit - definitely did not prepare me for the chilly night air that follows me inside like a miasma. I have to poke my fingers out a little to grab two cups, filling them to the brim with alternating layers of the technicolour flavours. It'll likely taste like crap, but I think that's part of the fun. I'm looking down when I turn around, and the little shriek that escapes me when I bump into another living, breathing person is entirely accidental.
"Sorry," I mutter, holding the cups close to my body. "Didn't see you there."
The guy grins, but it doesn't give me that same warm flip-flopping feeling that Seth's does. Instead, my skin prickles, just like when the douchebag college guys hassle me for free skates in the evening sessions.
"Don't you worry, babe. Just coming to see if you needed help," he says with a sneer, shuffling a little closer to me.
"Nope! I do need to pay, though," I say, balancing the drinks carefully in one hand so I can dig in my pocket for change. I don't like the way he's looking at me, nor the way he lingers, not when he should be making haste for the register. Instead, he stands there, thumbs hooked into his belt loops like he could do this all day, positioned right between me and the door.
Maybe I should just dump the slushies and run.
"Sweetheart, you forget your purse?" Seth says loudly, accidentally-on-purpose bumping into the cashier as he enters the store. "Oh, sorry man. Didn't see you there."
The cashier rounds on Seth, looking ready to pick a fight, but Seth simply stands there, as cool as ever. The only signs of discomfort I can pick are his crossed arms, the way his lips are set in a thin line as he sizes up the stranger. After a moment, the stranger steps back, and Seth produces a five dollar bill from his closed fist.
"Keep the change. Let's go, babe," Seth says, almost mockingly, curling an arm around my shoulder.
He keeps his hold on me until we're back at the truck, and he only lets go so I can climb inside. He's silent as he slips into his seat, speaking only when we reach the turn.
"Do you want me to take you home?" Seth asks quietly, looking straight ahead at the intersection.
"Why would I want that?"
Finally, he looks across at me, his dark eyes brooding. "For being an asshole back there."
Maybe it's the lost look in his eyes, or the way his mouth quirks downwards when he says the word asshole through gritted teeth, that emboldens me to curl a hand around his tense forearm. The muscles ripple beneath my fingers.
"You weren't. I was glad you were there," I say, surprising myself when I realise I mean every word. "Don't tell me I need to drink these alone."
He glances at the muddy-coloured beverages. "I suppose we could drink them," he declares with a dramatic sigh. "It'll be hard work, though."
Seth turns back onto the dimly lit forest road, coasting towards the beach, and it strikes me how easy things are with him - how natural our banter is, the way that my hand, still pressed against his skin, feels comfortable, like we've done this a million times over.
I vow to take on more hockey duties, if this is the reward on offer.
By the time he kills the engine, leading me to one of the logs atop the cliffs, we've fallen into a rhythm that I don't even have with Angela, and I've known her for years. Truth be told, my mind's been running on autopilot ever since he threaded his fingers through mine, rubbing little circles with his thumb onto the back of my hand that set my skin alight. Every single thing about this man is different - to what I know, and to what I expected - and all I can do is soak up every little ray of warmth that his sunny personality has to offer.
Seth collapses onto the log with a theatrical huff, and the silliness of it all makes me giggle as I snuggle up beside him. It's bona-fide freezing out here, and his space-heater style warmth is well-received when he curls a muscled arm back around my shoulders, pulling me closer to his side.
"So, Stanley," he says, his mouth brushing against my hair, "what've you got for me?"
Many things spring to mind, each worst than the last, and I have to force out something completely innocuous before my traitorous mind can take over.
"Cherry coke, lime cordial, and a mystery pink flavour with no label," I say breathlessly.
I think my heart genuinely skips a beat when he presses his lips against my hair.
"Sweet. I love cherry coke," he murmurs, grinning as he takes one of the cups.
I really hope it is cherry coke.
Even if it isn't, he takes a long sip, wrapping his perfect lips around the plastic straw, and if the lip sucking was tingle-worthy, the straw is a goddamn inferno.
God, if you are real, stop me from stripping butt-naked on this cliff, I pray, taking a long swig from the cup.
"Huh," I say, licking my lips. "Mine's kinda sour."
He looks across at me, his brown eyes wide and innocent. "Can I taste?"
"Sure," I say, angling the straw in his direction.
He leans across, cupping my cheek in his broad hand, and before I can panic about slushie-breath, his lips are pressing against mine, infinitely soft and impossibly gentle. The cup drops unnoticed to the dirt as I curl my fingers around his wrist, trying desperately to anchor myself to the moment.
The forest could go up in flames around us and I'd hardly notice; the energy practically buzzes in the air between us, and I know that I shouldn't, but I can't resist kissing him back, matching his enthusiasm with equal vigor. When I suck on his lip, it's so much softer than I imagined, and the noise he makes in the back of his throat is even better. His hand comes to rest on the back of my neck, his thick fingers easily spanning the expanse of exposed skin. I can't help but shiver when his fingers tangle through the strands that have escaped my ponytail, tugging lightly on my hair.
And maybe it's the little whimper that slips through my lips when his tongue traces the seam of my lips, or the way I press myself even closer to his body, that embolden him. He curls his fingers beneath one of my thighs, easily pulling me onto his lap, and the pressure of him between my legs is truly something spiritual. It's like all logic and reason have left my brain as Seth's lips work over mine, his tongue diving deeper into my mouth. My mind is foggy, dazed, and when his hips jerk up beneath me, grinding directly against where I most want his touch, I've half a mind to rip my yoga pants off, right here in public.
Seth pulls back suddenly, his russet skin flushed even deeper in the moonlight. His chest heaves, and it takes all of my energy not to immediately pounce on him again when he gnaws on his lower lip. "If we keep going like that -"
He cuts off suddenly, his gaze flickering away.
"That was a super unprofessional taste test. What is this, your first time?" I tease, stealing a sip from his unspilled cup.
"You don't even know," he says, pulling lightly on my ponytail. "I should probably get you home. It's late."
"Yeah," I say, though my eyes remain fixed on his mouth.
I'm already counting down the seconds until I can kiss him again.