Breakaway (Beyond the Play, #2)(15)
“Do you always have so many questions about other people’s sex lives?”
She looks up; she’s not the shortest girl in the world, but I still have several inches and nearly a hundred pounds on her. She must have a figure skating background; her poise on the ice has a presence of its own, and quality skates like that don’t come cheap. She reaches out, her delicate fingers a mere inch from my chest. Her nails are perfect little ovals, white with orange tips. I have the absurd urge to take her hand in mine and examine the differences, the places where my palms are rough and hers are as smooth as the inside of a seashell.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was about to kiss me.
My breath stutters.
We lock eyes, and she seems to make some sort of decision.
And then she actually kisses me—on the cheek, I mean. Her lips are feather light against my beard. When she speaks, it’s in a whisper against my ear. She’s trembling, but I’ve got it worse. I’m frozen in place while my mind and body scramble to keep up with her.
“Hook up with me.”
8
PENNY
The moment the words leave my mouth, I steel myself for the rebuff.
Cooper is staring. I force myself to keep meeting his gaze. I have enough self-respect for that. Just not enough to keep from propositioning one of my dad’s players because something about him makes my insides twist, apparently. As soon as he said he was hard-up, I felt a twinge of sympathy. Having an itch that you can’t scratch seriously sucks. I know that all too well.
It’s not like I arrived at the rink knowing I was going to ask. The entire bus ride from campus to Moorbridge Skating Center, I replayed the conversation with Mia in my mind. What she suggested made a twisted amount of sense, but there’s a big difference between agreeing with something in theory and wanting to put it into practice.
Yet the moment I saw Cooper, the wheels began to turn. Throughout the lesson, I couldn’t stop looking at him. Every cut he made across the ice, every word of encouragement or bit of advice he gave one of the students, every time I realized he was looking at me—it drew out the ache I usually keep tamped down with success.
I knew what he looked like before today, of course, but up close and in person, he’s even more handsome, with deep blue eyes and thick, almost wild, dark hair. His beard is a touch too long, but I still have a weird urge to feel it under my palm. He’s an athlete, so of course he’s built, but his broad shoulders matched with his trim waist—especially when he was in motion on the ice earlier—have turned my insides to a warm, bubbly liquid. There’s a scar underneath his ear, a ragged half-moon, and even though I don’t know him, I want to ask him how he got it. When one kid made a joke as he said goodbye, he threw back his head and laughed, and it was like the sound took on a physical form, scraping over my skin.
Cooper Callahan is everything I’m not—confident, cocky, and unafraid of intimacy. Mia’s right. If there’s anyone to jumpstart The List with, it’s him. The fact he’s one of my father’s players—and a hockey player at all, ugh—is less than ideal, but from everything I’ve heard about him, it won’t make him hesitate. Maybe if I cross one item off the list, the rest will come easier.
He’s still staring at me like I spoke in Klingon instead of English. I cross my arms over my chest. I’m not the shortest girl ever, but he towers over me. I can feel the blush coloring my cheeks, but I hold my ground. My words are out in the open, and it’s not like I can take them back now. Especially not when they had a kiss attached to them.
“Hook up?” he repeats finally. He scratches at his beard.
My stomach tightens at the thought of that beard rubbing against my sensitive skin. Even that kiss on the cheek made my heart rate spike. I’ve imagined it, but I’ve never truly experienced it before. If the stories are to be believed and he really is generous in bed, not a hotshot player who takes his own pleasure and leaves the woman hanging, that already gives him a leg up on half the guys I was considering on Tinder last night. “Sounds like you need it.”
His mouth twists. “I don’t need a pity fuck.”
“It’s been way too long for me too.” Several years long, but I don’t mention that last part. “I noticed you looking at me.”
“And I noticed you noticing me.” He looks me over, from my skates all the way to my frizzy hair. Under normal circumstances, this level of attention from a guy would send me running, but even though my heart is pounding like it’s an entire freakin’ drumline, I don’t hate it. I’m not sure why he’s acting like he doesn’t know I’m his coach’s daughter, but if he wants to pretend, I’m content to let him. It makes things easier.
I skate backwards, biting my lip to keep from grinning when he follows me. I could still bail, pretend I was joking, and maybe that would be the smarter thing to do, but the thought of going back to my dorm room and trying to get off again on my own is depressing as fuck, and I’m turned on by the way he’s looking at me, and even though it’s hard to remember, I know I deserve this.
He catches up to me easily. His hand splays out on my waist, drawing me closer. He has a bright look in his eyes, almost boyish with excitement. He probably thinks I’m a total vixen who does this all the time. The truth couldn’t be further from that, but what’s the harm in pretending? He just said that he never gets with the same girl twice. He’d never talk about it because I’m his coach’s daughter. This is as safe as a hookup can get.