His smile—shy and cocky at the same time. Not sure how he does it, but I just want to grip his cheeks and swallow him whole. Instead, I settle for bringing his fingers to my lips. He sighs and studies me quietly for a bit. “Thank you for telling me that, but like I said, you didn’t have to. I don’t care what they say. I don’t care about any of that bullshit. You know that.”
“Yes, but you’ve seen that stupid chart going around. I just needed you to know the story behind it and that you never, ever have to worry about any of that crap.”
His brows scrunch together. “The chart?”
Oh no. “Come on. You must have seen it. It’s everywhere.”
He shakes his head, and holy crap. He really doesn’t care about any of this stuff. Has he even read the articles about him or did he just skim them for basic information when necessary… like my hospital location.
“No, I have no clue what chart you’re talking about.” He pulls out his phone, and I stiffen.
“Okay, then don’t,” I say, lunging for the phone.
He lifts it out of my reach, still typing a search. “No way. Now I have to know.”
“Oliver! Don’t. Seriously.”
He turns toward the driver’s window so I’d have to scale his entire back to challenge him. I probably wouldn’t succeed healthy, let alone with a sprained ankle and concussion. “Oliver!”
“Found it,” he says. I hear the smirk in his voice.
Groaning, I settle back in my seat, kicking myself for bringing it up. Once I’ve resigned, he faces forward again, and I cover my eyes with my fingers, peeking through a hole to read his reaction. My fear fades when his lips lift in another smirk, then a chuckle, then a laugh.
“This is literally comparing Darryn and me in every category imaginable. Best eyes?”
“You.”
“Best body?”
“You.”
“Best hair?”
“You.”
He shakes his head. “Darryn, actually.” The phone screen flips toward me, and I snort a laugh at his expression. Gosh, I love him.
“Well, they’re wrong. It’s you.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Oh here. Most likely to win in a fight. At least I win that one.”
“Duh, you’re a hockey player.”
“People have way too much time on their hands,” he mutters, still chuckling to himself. His amusement fades as he spots something through the windshield, and I follow his gaze. “Get down, Gen.”
“What?”
“Three guys are approaching our car. Get down!” He fumbles for the keys and curses when he drops them. “They’re pulling something out of their pockets!”
I grab his hand to stop him before he runs those poor kids over. “Oliver, they’re just pens. They probably want autographs.”
He freezes, staring at the kids again. “What?”
I’d laugh, but he’s obviously upset—and not used to this. “It’s fine. Look. They have paper and a pen. They just want autographs.”
He relaxes slightly, but still seems poised to attack if necessary. It’s kind of sweet, really. Brett and Walt would be proud. To our surprise, though, the young men round the hood of the SUV to Oliver’s side instead of mine. We exchange a quick glance as he lowers the window just enough to hear them.
“Sorry to bother you,” one of them says. “You’re Oliver Levesque, right?” He squints past Oliver to land a quick glance on me but doesn’t react. His starry eyes return to Oliver who looks dumbstruck.
“Um… yeah?”
“Oh shit. I knew it!” He turns and fist bumps his buddies who hover closer at the confirmation. “Will you sign this? I’m sorry to bother you, but you’re, like, a fucking god. Oh, and hi,” he says, ducking further to toss a greeting at me.
I lift my hand in a wave, suppressing a grin. Oliver lowers the window more to accept what appears to be a piece of junk mail and a pen.
“Sorry, it’s my car registration. It’s the only thing we had in our car. Dude, that save you made on Burke in that game against Boston last year? Money, right?” he asks his friends who wholeheartedly agree. It’s then that I notice the Trojans ball cap. And the Trojans t-shirt. One even has a Trojans jacket. “Yo, we just about lost our shit when you got knocked out in preseason. Sal over here cried like my baby cousin.”
“I did not!” Salretorts.
“Dude, you were sobbing like my grandma when she watches her stories,” the other guy snorts out, smacking him. Sal glares at them both and shakes his head.
“Anyway, again, sorry to bother you. And thanks for this,” the original guy says, shaking the paper after Oliver hands it back to him. “When you coming back? This season you think? Playoffs at least, right? Although, not looking so hot for the playoffs right now.”
“Dude!” Sal says, shoving his friend from behind. “He didn’t mean that! You guys rock!”
Oliver still looks dazed as he shrugs. “Doing my best to come back as soon as possible,” he says in the same tone he’d use for the press. It’s everything I can do to hold in my laughter at the entire scene.
“Sweet. Yeah, we’re pulling for you, man. Randall, damn. That dude couldn’t stop an exercise ball.”
“Dude!” Sal says, smacking his friend again.
“What? You know I’m right. They might as well pull him and put an extra guy on the ice for the whole game.”
Now, I see the dimple in Oliver’s cheek as he holds back a smile. “Well, thanks, guys. We have to get going.”
“Oh, right! Of course. Sorry, man. Thanks again. Oh, and nice to meet you too…” He pauses, fishing for a name.
“Genevieve,”
