Page 6 of Elite Player
Because his easy yet dominant orders override my ingrained insecurities.
Once he’s finished on his phone, he puts it away and moves even closer to me, angling his chair so he’s positioned in line with my knees and facing me. “So,Josephine…”
I swallow, unsure what is happening here. Why this hockey player is in my hospital room, gazing at me like we have anything to talk about. Like he’s here to visit me…as if we’re friends.
We absolutely are not.
Aside from being aware of him as a person in my orbit, I don’t have a clue who he is. I know his full name is Nicholas Tremblay III, and he’s a left winger for the Philadelphia Iron. His mom is Paulina Luciano, the Italian supermodel from the 1980s, and his dad was some big-time real estate developer in California. He wears number 20, for his birthday, and he’s left-handed.
Okay…MaybeI know a little bit about him.
More than he knows about me.
“So, Jo—can I call you Jo?” Without letting me answer, he tosses me a smile that I’m sure has caused many a girl to lose her panties. “You’re a photographer, huh?”
I focus on the thin hospital blanket, picking at it with my index finger, half of my dark green nail polish chipped off. “Yep.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
I flick my eyes over to him to find him staring then go right back to picking at the blanket. “Not necessarily sports photography, but…yeah, I enjoy it.”
“How long have you been working for the Iron?”
“I’ve been Sean’s assistant for about three years.” When I hear him shift in his seat, I take another peek at him to find him scooted closer, his left hand on my bed, long, thick fingers loosely curled so I can spot a scar on his middle finger’s knuckle. He’s totally relaxed, lounging in what has to be an uncomfortable chair, while I’m all twisted up in this bed, trying to take up the least amount of space possible. I don’t understand it, and I blurt out the question, “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to check on you, and—why do you do that?”
I lift my eyes to him. “What?”
“Not look at me.”
I attempt to hide my frown because he’s used to people fawning over him. They’d probably stare at him even if he weren’t a hockey player, but I don’t know why he wantsmeto look at him.
I bite my lip, unsure how to answer. “I…I don’t know. It’s not you, it’s everyone.”
“What’s everyone?”
I blink a few times, really struggling to hold his gaze. Or anyone’s. “It’s hard.”
“What is, Jojo?”
I let a squeak of surprise escape my throat at the nickname, and I feel more than see or hear him lean into my space.
“You shy? Is that it?” Though he sounds proud to have puzzled it out. “It’s all right. That’s cool. I figured I’d sit with you a bit, but if you’re uncomfortable with that, I’ll leave.”
He gives me a moment to answer, and when I finally turn my focus on him, he lifts his thumb as if to motion that he’ll follow through on his offer. But when I shake my head, he smiles. Less showboating stranger, more…friendly acquaintance.
“So,” he starts again, leaning back in his chair. “They treating you well in here?”
“Very well.”
“Good.” He grins. There really is something about him. An irresistibility. It’s infectious.
He asks me some more questions, about where I’m from—West Virginia—if I went to university—community college for my associate’s degree—and what my favorite cereal is. When I tell him I don’t really eat cereal, his eyes practically bug out of his head, and then he proceeds to go on and on about his favorites, which are Froot Loops—saved solely for between-period snacks—Cap’n Crunch—the “every day” cereal—and his personal rainy-day favorite, Apple Jacks.
“So what do you eat in the mornings?” he asks, and I shrug, comfortable enough with him to mostly meet his eyes, letting myback relax against the adjustable bed and extending my legs so I’m no longer scrunched up.
“I don’t usually.”
