Page 4 of Icebound

Me

I’ll make sure the left one doesn’t get jealous.

A muscle twitches in my jaw. I like being called old man about as much as I like freezing my balls in an ice bath, but I’ll never admit it makes me feel ancient to a rookie like Cruz. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up, but my save percentage is still one of the best in the League.

Micah Cruz latched onto me when he signed with the Guardians, and our center annoys the living shit out of me, but he’s one talented player.

There’s a reason every announcer’s talking about him winning the Calder Memorial Trophy. He’s got everything it takes to be Rookie of the Year if he can rein in his attitude.

My phone vibrates with a notification that my driver’s approaching. I scan the neon-lit street but get distracted by the family eating at Taj Kitchen across the road.

The dad looks younger than me, and he’s feeding his son spoons of yellow curry in a highchair. The little boy claps his hands, squealing with each bite.

A corner of my mouth lifts as I watch the kid, but then the guy kisses his girl, and my lips fall back into a flat line.

That’s what I thought my life would look like at thirty-three, but instead, I’m going home alone, covered in someone’s nasty pink drink.

By the time the white Audi pulls up to the curb, my slacks are crusty, and I’m exhausted, irritated, and starving. I yank open the car door and sniff the fresh leather-scented air. Too bad I’m about to ruin the smell.

“Rhode?”

I stiffen at the woman’s voice. It’s smoother than these brown leather seats, nothing like the shrieks in the club. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“How's your night been?” she throws out. The question hits the air with forced casualness like she's checking a box.

I climb into the backseat and shut the door. “Not great. Some random woman just kissed me, almost puked, and then spilled her drink all over my shirt. So, sorry if I smell like ass. I’ll pay extra for cleaning if you need it.”

“Well, it could’ve been worse. At least she didn’t actually puke and then kiss you.” She pauses. “Unless she almost puked because you’re a terrible kisser. Then, the other way is worse.”

A laugh bursts through my lips. It’s my first one of the night. I glance at her from the backseat, and once I look up, I can’t turn away.

Holy fuck.

I would’ve shaved if I’d known this woman would be driving me around.

She’s got little tattoos all over her hands and neck. Her hair hangs down her overalls in curls, but I can’t tell whether it’s light brown or blonde in the dim light. Caramel, maybe?

Don’t know where the hell that thought came from.

There’s a piece caught in her small nose piercing, and I’m tempted to pull it out. I absorb every detail of her, from the line of earrings on the curve of her ear to the sunflower tattoo on her inner wrist, all the way up to the gold circular glasses covering the freckles on the bridge of her nose. She’s even got a four-leaf clover etched on her neck.

Maybe this is my lucky night.

The woman’s like one of those abstract paintings Cruz drunkenly bid on at a charity auction. There's so much going on that I need to look closer to figure it out, but I’m intrigued.

Really intrigued.

On instinct, I check her left hand. No ring. What’s this woman doing driving Lyft? I’d never let my younger sister drive around with strangers at night. Hell, if I belonged to this woman, I’d use those overalls to clip her to the headboard.

She turns the volume knob, and some random flute album fills the car. Solid music taste. Her blue-green eyes meet mine in the rearview. “What are you looking at?”

I jerk, missing the click of my seatbelt. “Nothing. Sorry, so what’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Sweetheart? Oh no, I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, turning on a street lined with brownstones. “I’m not normally this prickly with strangers, but I’ve been having a really shitty week ever since… Never mind. I’m not about to tell some random my life story, but I don’t want to talk to any more grumpy ass—men,” she corrects.

Alright, she’s a straight shooter. I like that. I deal with enough media bullshit that honesty is as rare as a Gordie Howe hat trick. “Grumpy ass-men? That’s a big assumption. What if I’m an eye-man? I was raised by a woman who taught me the only way to see a person’s soul is to look them in the eye.”

She scoffs. “Okay, fine. What color are my eyes?” She turns her head to the side. “Oh, and I already know yours are blue.”