Page 12 of Taking Sides

“It’s okay.” She resists, but only for a second. As soon as I take some of the weight into my hold, her body relaxes.

“Thanks.” She stares at me over the bags. Her hair is pulled up into a high ponytail with several dark strands hanging loose around her heart-shaped face.

We’re standing so close, I can count the long, dark lashes that frame her brown eyes. They’re a warm, dark brown with flecks around the iris that are a reddish orange. It reminds me of staring into a fire as the embers spark. The longer I stare, the more captivated I am. She smells like coconut—sunscreen, probably, and something else sweet and feminine.

She’s wearing cut-off jean shorts and a threadbare white T-shirt that has the words moonshot high school hockey across the front in faded red letters. Thin yellow straps peek out from the collar of her shirt and tie behind her neck. Her swimsuit. A bikini? I’m struck with a visual of her in it that has my mouth going dry.

Aaaand I’m still standing entirely too close.

I step back quickly and blink the rest of the world into focus. My body flushes hot. Thank fuck I’m holding ice because it cools down the heat coursing through me. I need to get my shit together before I embarrass myself more than usual.

Whitney walks ahead of me as we step outside. She goes to the cooler and raises the lid.

I set the bag down on the porch and we work together to open and dump the ice into the cooler, then fill it with soda and waters.

Penn and Grady are chatting a few feet away from us about . . . I have no clue since all my energy has been laser focused on Whitney, but it leaves me in an uncomfortable silence with the only other person nearby.

We stand after the coolers are full.

“There are some chips and other stuff to bring out.” She hitches a thumb behind her.

“Yeah,” I say, a little too eagerly but thrilled to have another task. Just keep moving, that’s the plan. Leave no room for idle chitchat, that’s where I seem to struggle. How I’m going to ask her out without talking is a whole other problem that I’m choosing not to think about for now.

I follow Whitney back inside. There are a dozen bags of chips, dips, cookies, a veggie tray of carrots and celery and little tomatoes, and a watermelon. I pile as much of it as I can into my arms and head back out with it. Penn and Grady have moved off the deck and stand near a pile of bricks that I assume is some home improvement project. Penn’s nodding along as Grady waves his hands in front of him excitedly.

“Look at me, I carried a watermelon,” Whitney says as she sets it at the end of the table next to all the other stuff I brought out. She glances at me like she expects me to say something in return.

Finally, she asks, “Dirty Dancing?”

My brows lift, and my brain short-circuits for a second. “What?”

“The movie,” she clarifies. Right. Not asking me to get freaky with her, she’s explaining the reference. “You’ve never seen it?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“It’s my favorite. Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey. He’s a bad-boy dance instructor and she’s a good girl on vacation with her parents . . .” She trails off as she organizes the snacks by type: chips, dips, other. When she’s done, she stands tall and looks at me again. “Anyway. What’s your favorite movie?”

I open my mouth to answer her, fully intending to tell her, but I’m a little too slow, and I think she takes that as my unwillingness because she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Let me guess. Miracle? The Mighty Ducks? The Mighty Ducks 2?” She waits. “Not The Mighty Ducks 3. That isn’t anyone’s favorite.”

“Those are all good.” The words rush out a little too fast.

Light laughter fills the space between us, and she lets her arms drop back to her sides. She glances to the pool, where the kids are splashing and yelling. Her expression shifts from happy to concern to . . . something else I can’t quite put my finger on. When she looks back at me, I’m still staring at her.

“In case I don’t get a chance to say it later, thank you.”

“For carrying the food out here?” I ask.

She laughs again. Not at me, I don’t think . . . or maybe.

“For coming today. I know you didn’t want to be here, but the kids really enjoyed camp this week in large part because of you and August. You gave them memories that will last a lifetime and coming here this afternoon is the cherry on top. It makes it all the more real for them, so thanks.”

My brain processes her words slowly, trying to make sense of them. “What do you mean I didn’t want to be here?”

Her brows pinch together. “I mean . . .” She lets out a soft chuckle. “I saw the look on your face. You looked horrified at the idea of spending more time with them. And I get it. Grady shouldn’t have put you in that spot. You already gave enough of your time this week⁠—”

“That . . .” I cut her off but then find I don’t know how to respond. It’s just so, so . . . wrong. “I . . .” I clear my throat. “The kids are great. I had a blast with them this week. It was a great reminder of why I love hockey and who I am because of this sport. It wasn’t about them. I was happy to be there this week and here now.”