Page 15 of Breaking the Ice
“Oh yeah? And what's that?”
“His tenth goal of the season,” I reply.
“Pah, and he thinks that's a reason to celebrate? Well, Emma, you'll probably have to drink a lot tonight. Because this season, I've already scored fourteen goals.” Parker clenches a fist and proudly points his thumb at his chest. And then, as if they both want to claim me, they move closer to me. I feel trapped, I can feel the heat from their bodies.
“So, Emma, what would you like to drink?” the Canadian inquires.
“You dimwit, she already has something.” Parker gestures to the whiskey glass in my hand.
“Kid, you really don't understand women, do you?” Durand signals the approaching waitress that he'd like to order. Then he turns to me. “What'll it be, my beauty: champagne, wine, or perhaps a cocktail?”
“I'd actually prefer a glass of orange juice.” My answer makes Parker burst into laughter.
“Yes, Durand, you're a real ladies' man,” he teases him. But the Canadian remains undeterred, orders the OJ for me, and another whiskey for himself.
“I see you're tattooed,” he says, as soon as he's placed the order. Durand's finger casually traces the spot on my knee where the flower vine tattoo ends. The touch is harmless, yet shamelessly sensual. It stirs a subtle ache in my lower abdomen, which I ignore, keeping my composure.
“Yes,” I reply casually, “I'm into body art.”
“Alright, we have something in common then.” With a sly half-smile, he watches me with his best flirtatious look. For the span of a heartbeat, I'm hypnotized by his eyes, reminiscent of melted chocolate. No doubt, this guy knows how to use his looks. I bet he's had dozens of girls falling for him with that face.
“How many tattoos do you have, if you don't mind me asking?” Parker redirects my attention to him. I see that his gaze rests on my left thigh, where beneath the hem of my dress, feather tips of a dreamcatcher are visible. The tattoo is one of my larger ones, covering three quarters of my left buttock and most of my thigh.
“A few,” I reply evasively. He doesn't need to know how many tattoos I have.
“I bet you're pierced too, aren't you?” The gleam in Durand's eyes when he asks this is evident. He's hoping for a ‘yes’. Well, I could tell him that I have two nipple piercings and three genital piercings - I removed the belly button ring because everyone and their cat has one - but I'll spare my breath. His mental cinema is probably running full throttle already. No need to feed him more information.
“Here come our drinks,” I divert and smile at the waitress. As she provides us with orange juice and whiskey, I feel Durand getting restless beside me. From the corner of my eye, I see him lick his lips and gaze at my bare legs. I don't need to be a genius to know what's going on here. The Canadian is hot for me. While he might have found me appealing before, now he's got me in his sights for sure. Caleb's warning and request not to get involved with the players comes to mind. Maybe coming here wasn't such a good idea after all. Nonsense, I just need to keep him at arm's length, I decide.
“So, here's to your ten goals,” I say, raising my orange juice and clinking it against Durand's glass. Before he can respond, I turn to Parker. “And to your fourteen goals.” He grins, toasts with me, clearly thinking I'm engaging in conversation with him. But instead, I turn back to Toby. Luckily, he happens to be looking in my direction, and I manage to catch his gaze. “And to the best goalie!” I toast him and receive a joyful smile in return.
“Wait, wait!” I hear his voice muffled through the disco noise. “We need to toast properly.” The red-haired giant stands up, comes over to me, squeezing himself between Durand and me. “Make some room, kid, I need to toast with the lucky charm,” he grumbles at the Canadian. Judging by his expression, he's seething with anger, but he doesn’t dare confront the Swiss. Annoyed, he turns away and joins Byers and the two girls sitting with him. “To the best goalie,” I echo Parker's words from earlier and clink glasses with Toby. “Now, tell me, what brings a European to Portland?”
“The love for the sport, I'd say.” While Toby shares his life story, I exhale and sink back into the couch. As sweet as my two admirers are overall, their intrusive behavior is starting to get to me. Parker is still sitting next to me, but he doesn't venture closer because every time he edges nearer, Toby gives him a warning look. I learn that our goalkeeper was born and raised in Switzerland, moved to London at 18, and played for a renowned hockey team there. Mr. Flake discovered him during one of his stays in England and recruited him directly for the Devils. With his size and deep voice, Toby can be intimidating to many. But once you get to know him, you realize he's a really nice guy. At least I do. He's like the big brother I never had. We talk for a while about his passion for hockey, and I let him convince me to try a Long Island Iced Tea. Eventually, we get onto the topic of women. To his regret, he's only had one serious relationship in his life.
“And you really only had one girlfriend?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. It's hard for me to believe. After all, he's the most outspoken of them all.
“I'm not exactly proud of that,” he says, scratching his neck in embarrassment. “At twenty-nine, that's pretty pathetic, isn't it?” Suddenly, I feel a deep sympathy for him. There's a pain on his face that hits me unexpectedly.
“May I ask why you haven't been with more women?”
Toby shrugs his broad shoulders. “I don't know, I find it hard to approach them.” He looks at me, realizing that I don't quite understand what he's trying to say. He sighs and explains, “You know, when I'm with the guys, it's easy for me to make a stupid remark. But when I'm alone with a girl, then...”
I understand. “... You lack the safety of the group.”
The goalie twitches his wide shoulders, indicating I hit the nail on the head. When he approaches a woman alone, he's vulnerable. And every rejection, every brush-off is directly aimed at him. Despite being a mountain of a man, he's internally a wimp, I think to myself, but keep my thoughts to myself.
“But right now you're also talking to a woman alone, to me.”
“That's easy...” He waves it off, and before he finishes his sentence, I know what's coming. It's easy for him to talk to me because he doesn't want anything from me. “... you're not exactly my type”. The words are barely out of his lips when he realizes what he's said, and his eyes widen in shock. “Oh, shit, that's not what I meant!”
“It's okay.” I smile reassuringly.
“It's not because you're not good-looking. You're beautiful. But you probably already know that.” His lips form that same embarrassed line again. “I just happen to really go for blonde women. Preferably with blue eyes and... a lot of wood in front of the hut.”
“A lot of wood in front of the hut? I'm not familiar with that expression.” Must be something European.
“Well, a good amount of this,” he explains, raising both hands and indicating ample breasts.