A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(16)

“I sure hope so.” Blaze rubs his chin, brainstorming, then snaps his fingers. “Maybe if I cast an actual net I would catch one?”

I titter. “Excellent idea.”

Blaze folds his arms, his heavily tattooed biceps bulging. I catch him dart a sidelong glance at Caleb before giving him a hard nudge from behind with his elbow. Caleb loses his footing and staggers forward, shooting Blaze a dirty look over his shoulder and loudly mumbling, “Would you knock that shit off?”

“Only if you stop being such a cock-guzzler and go talk to her.”

“Why are you pushing this?” Caleb hisses.

“Because you’re being a little bitch-ass.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, f*ck you.”

What. Is. Happening.

Amused, I watch them feverishly taunting each other in hushed whispers. Their vulgar bickering actually makes me choke back an entertained laugh.

Curiously, I brazenly advance a few feet and cock my head to the side. “Does everyone around here have a terrible nickname, or is it just the two of you?”

“Terrible nicknames?” Blaze grins down at me. “Are you trying to say that Blaze is a terrible nickname? We earned those nicknames on the ice, sweetheart.”

“Ah. And here I thought Showtime and Blaze were just s-sex references.”

“Honey, if that were the case, they’d call me Hung Like a Stallion, not Blaze.”

I blush a crimson red, embarrassed to even have asked. And yet… “Well, what does your nickname mean, anyway?” My eyes dart to Caleb, who is intently watching my exchange with his friend.

He hasn’t moved an inch of what I assume are solid muscles.

“I’m fast, and I score. A goddamn blaze of glory! My buddy Showtime here—” Blaze jerks his thumb at Caleb. “Well, he’s the best damn goaltender in the entire NCAA. Did you know that? We used to call him the Lockhart Show when he was a rookie. You should see him work his stick.” He lets out a low whistle, and I hear Caleb let out a horrified groan at the innuendo. My brows only raise a fraction as he continues. “We shortened it to Showtime, right, buddy?”

The Lockhart Show.

Lockhart.

Caleb Lockhart.

God, even his name is schmexy.

My gaze shifts and our eyes meet as Blaze continues to ramble on obliviously, and I force myself not to stare at the grass. “Showtime here could show you moves you’ve never seen. Right, buddy?” He winks at me and slaps his hand down on Caleb’s shoulder, rotating his hips like he’s got a hula-hoop around his waist. “Hockey players are notorious for giving good swivel action.”

Caleb shrugs his hand off, agitated, causing the hood covering his head to shift and giving me a better view of his dark, unruly hair.

It falls into his dark, brooding eyes, shaggy and thick, before he reaches up to brush it back under his hood. I swallow at the sight of it, guiltily looking toward the detached garage in between the two houses to avoid his intense gaze.

Bashful now, I clasp and unclasp my hands, glancing back up at the porch. “Well, I didn’t find what I was looking for, so… I’ll just… you know. Be going. Home.”

I try stuffing my hands into a pocket of my short shirt before awkwardly remembering this shirt doesn’t have one. Self-conscious of the fact that my rear end is on full display, I descend down the driveway, tennis shoes crunching on the loose concrete.

I risk a glimpse over my shoulder and find Caleb glaring after me, then quickly scurry down the driveway.





CHAPTER 7

Caleb

“Bro, you should get on that,” Bryan “Blaze” Wallace announces beside me, giving me another hard nudge. He stares off into the yard at Abby’s retreating form, both of us appreciating the view of her in tight navy yoga capris as they showcase her firm runner’s ass.

Abby looks back over her shoulder, long chestnut ponytail swinging, before her hands fumble around her aqua-blue top, searching for a pocket and failing to find one.

“For f*ck’s sake, dude. Don’t just stand here, go say something.”

I’m rooted to the spot.

“Jesus Christ, Showtime, she’s going to be halfway down the goddamn street before you pull your head outta your ass.”

Blaze shoves me again, aggressively, toward the stairs. But this time, instead of resisting, I go. I go because I want to. I go because my feet are on autopilot, forgetting that chasing girls across my yard isn’t something I would normally ever do.

Bounding down the stairs, I cross the yard and make toward the sidewalk.

“Atta boy!” Blaze shouts obscenely loudly from the porch, and I shake my head skyward, making a mental note to sack him in the nuts when I get back.

I jog down the sidewalk, bounding around the corner, and falter momentarily in my tracks when I catch sight of Abby leaning against the stop-n-go light on the corner, forehead pressed to the pole and arms hanging limply at her side.

I quicken my pace. “Abby?” My voice comes out slightly panicked. “Are you okay?” I ask as I approach, jamming my hands back in my pockets.

“Oh my god, Caleb.” Abby’s head flies up, and her posture straightens as she clutches a hand to her chest. “You can’t sneak up on people like that. You scared the crap out of me.”