“Run for your life,” Elizabeth announces, passing between me and the cash register. I don’t need to ask what she means.
“Hey Rory,” says the voice behind me.
“Well well, Jordan Staal. International man of mystery.” I close the till and turn toward the bar. He’s leaning on his elbows, all broad shoulders and huge arms, giving me that million dollar smile. A snake with blue eyes.
“Nice to know you’ve missed me.” He’s got a bit of a drawl, which he figures he earned growing up on a farm even if there were no animals in sight. It’s playful and arrogant and it totally works for him.
“Me and every other girl in town.” I stop the tap and hand him a pint with the perfect pour.
A little black cloud passes over his sunny blonde head. “You know you’re the only girl in the ‘Burgh for me.”
“Oops, I meant a girl in every other town.” I take the change from his $20 and stuff it in my bra.
“I always come home to you, Rory,” he says just what he thinks I want to hear.
"But you only come out at night.”
“You’re new here. First night?” It’s quite loud. Jordan easily spans the bar, getting near enough to be heard. And for me to see the ocean blue color of his eyes, smell his cologne over the spilled beer and peanuts. From that angle, he can see right down the front of my shirt.
I nod. “And yet I’ve been warned about you, Casanova.”
“So that means you already like me.” He raises an eyebrow. It’s cocky, so frat boy self-assured that he’s got the goods and knows how to use them. The warning in the back of my head is drowned out by the rush of being hit on by someone so gorgeous.
“That depends.” I can’t help myself.
“On what?”
“On how much of the warning proves to be true.”
____
“That boy is like a disease,” Elizabeth says. Jordan and some of his teammates are shooting pool on the other side of the low wall that divides the place in half. A few puckbunnies have hit the stalker jackpot and are wedging their way into the night. One squeezes between Max and Jordan, sticks her tits and ass out and doesn’t have to pretend as she scratches the cue ball straight into the opposite pocket. Jordan looks at me as he backs away from her.
“I’ve seen that look on your face. You’re not hearing what I say,” Elizabeth is still talking.
She’s right. I’m watching how the fabric of Jordan’s t-shirt stretches over his shoulders like it’s begging for its life. The angle of his thighs as he leans low to the table lining up a shot. That megawatt smile that flashes constantly, like someone blinking a light to signal SOS. That’s for me: I’m drowning.
Kris Letang comes to the bar and orders a round of drinks. He follows me to the taps and chats as I pour, telling me about the road trip, how well they played, what he’s doing with his off day tomorrow. I know he’s flirting with me in his shy way. Kris is like a Disney character – all honest and earnest, plus he looks like Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid. As always, he gives me a huge tip and doesn’t wait for change. Sometimes it’s the only way to get him to leave.
“Can’t you go out with someone nice, like Kris? You gotta get out, Rory, and Jordan is holding you down.”
On cue, Jordan struts up to the bar. “I think I need something a little stronger tonight.” He’s always been a scotch drinker, I suppose he thinks it’s manly. Elizabeth practically raspberries as she leaves us alone.
I put the highball glass between Jordan’s hands and he quickly snatches my arm. His physical presence is like a magnet, he’s big enough to have his own field of gravity. Two days’ worth of stubble means he’s trying to look older. Those baby blues, already crinkled at the corners from so much laughing, are locked onto my hazel eyes. He rubs the pad of his thumb along the inside of my forearm.
“I’ve missed you,” he says quietly, sounding sincere. Maybe he is. Maybe this is how Jordan cares about people.
The devil in disguise, I remind myself.
“You miss people you don’t call or visit for three weeks.”
“Two of those weeks I was on the road.” His go-to defense strategy.
“And your phone was crushed in a tragic zamboni accident?”
At least he has the sense to laugh.
“Nice games, by the way.” He knows I always watch. “And nice fight in Columbus. Rick Nash could kill you, you know.”
Jordan smiles a crooked little half-smile, a private smile, one I’ve seen a hundred times. “See, you worried about me. You’re not mad.”
He’s holding me as close as the bar will allow. His fingers trace patterns along my skin. I can see an abrasion under his left eye where he took a glove or stick to the face. That face. I’m staring as he darts in and kisses my lips. Then he walks away. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Jordan: Come over tonight?
Me: Booty call? We’re in the same room.
Jordan: You kissed me.
I look over, but he’s got his back deliberately turned. The v-shape of his body, starting with shoulders you could climb and tapering down into a taut, hard waist makes my mouth a little dry.
Me: YOU kissed ME.
Jordan: Best 2 of 3 then.
I close the phone without answering. He’s funny, I have to give him that. The problem is I’ve given him a lot of things over the last seven months, including more nights than I care to admit and a few bad days-after.
____
“Last call,” I shout. Twenty minutes later I’ve filled every last order and begin scooping empties off the bar. Jordan appears with two drained pitchers.
“So you’re off work now.”
I tip my head toward the stack of glasses waiting to be washed. Without asking, Jordan ducks under the divider and starts filling the sink.
“The sooner you’re done, the sooner I can get you out of here,” he says, dish suds clinging to his hands.
“I’m sorry, did you ask me a question in there somewhere?”
He leaves the water running as he steps into me, pressing my back against the shelf. He doesn’t need to use his soapy hands; Jordan’s size makes him a force of nature. There are still people in the bar but I can’t see them over his massive frame. He leans down and softly kisses my cheek. He smells like the woods at night and his body radiates heat right through my clothes. Jordan drags his lips lightly across my skin.
“The question is: do you want me to stop?”
____
“You can’t get away from him, can you?” Sidney says, taking a stool at the bar. It’s a slow night when Crosby feels safe enough to sit down and gossip out loud. I give him my best What am I supposed to do? look.
“If I told you there were other girls, would it make a difference?”
I tilt my head. “Why would you want to sell out your teammate when he’s trying to take me home tonight?”
Sid puts his hands up like I’ve pulled a gun. “Just asking! And, you know, maybe there’s someone else hanging around who’s more… uh, focused. On you.”
We both look over. Kris is pouring from a pitcher, dark hair falling in front of his elfin smile. I’ve always wanted to touch his hair, it gives me shampoo-commercial envy. Then there’s Jordan, leaning against the jukebox like a tall drink of water, watching us watching him. He doesn’t need to hear us to know what we’re saying.
“You’re addicted,” Sidney says.
“And I know how this ends,” I say before I move down the bar, ending the conversation.
____
“Morning,” he mumbles into my hair. I lay on my back with Jordan sprawled across me. Over his shoulder I see my bra is caught on the edge of the flat screen TV. Jordan’s pants are hooked over the desk chair. Three empty condom wrappers litter the unused side of the king-size bed.
“I have to go to practice,” he moves a hand across my stomach. When he lifts his head, he’s already smiling. His lips meet mine in a quick, unbrushed-teeth way.
Half an hour later he rolls to a stop in front of my building. He pulls me in by the neck and kisses me again.
“I’ll call you when we get back.”
I run my hand scandalously up his thigh and smirk. “You’re not going to call me.”
“Why do you say that?” He twists my hair in his fingers.
“Because everything else in the warning was true.”
It turned out that part would wait: he did call, that time. And the time after that. It was after I’d lost count of the times that the rest of the warning finally made its way around.
____
I’m in the cooler off the kitchen, reaching for a case of Heineken, when arms suddenly circle around me from behind. Unless the abominable snowman or Hal Gill just arrived, the size of the body could only be Jordan. He brushes my dark hair away and puts his lips to my neck. A warm jolt flashes through my system despite the cold of the walk-in fridge. He presses right to the spot below my ear that he knows full well drives me crazy.
He’s like a curse, one half of my brain says.
One more touch, pleads the other.
And touch he does. Jordan’s hands draw slowly across my stomach and around my waist, raising the hem of my shirt to graze the bare skin. Good thing I already have goosebumps. He’s as warm as always.
“Rory,” his voice is husky. “I missed you.”
“What, no warm bodies in Raleigh? All those southern accents and you couldn’t charm the pants off anyone?”
He presses his thumbs into my lower back, a spot he knows is always tense from being on my feet. Kneading the muscle spreads a different kind of warmth through my body. Jordan is very strong and his hands are… practiced.
“It’s not like it is with you,” he purrs. He doesn’t even deny it.
“Because you have to remember my name?”
Now I’ve pushed it too far. He spins me around, hands still firmly on my hips. Jordan towers over me and I have never been any good at resisting his physical presence. He pulls me hard against him. When I don’t look up, he uses one hand to raise my chin.
I could run. I could scream. Half the Penguins are out there and they’d at least pull him off me. Instead I do what I always do when faced with the possibility and problem of Jordan Staal. My foot barely reaches the cooler door – just enough to kick it shut.
My hands are barely in his hair before his tongue is in my mouth. My back touches the cold metal shelf and I squeal. Jordan moves us away, using one solid arm to lock me to his body. He’ll stand – he’s anchored to the Earth by more force than most people. His other hand wastes no time pulling the neck of my shirt down to expose my breast. He pinches it between his thumb and forefinger and I can feel him smiling.
“At least part of you missed me too,” he moves his mouth to my nipple, leaning me back to flick it with his warm tongue.
“It’s 42 degrees in here, of course they’re hard.”
“That’s not the only thing that’s going to be hard in a second. Let me take you home.”
“We’re not closed!” I protest, but my hand refuses to stop descending past his cowboy belt buckle. He wasn’t lying.
“After. Say you’ll come home with me after.”
“Jordan, I…,” it must sound like a no because he kills it instantly with a kiss. His hands go under my ass and lift me up around his waist. I’m not a tiny thing and Jordan’s always been able to manhandle me like I weigh a hundred pounds. Between that and the insistent press of his lap into mine, my defenses crumble.
“This is the last time,” I tell him, gripping firmly onto one huge, perfect bicep.
His smile is candy-coated misery. “That’s what you said last time.”
____
Contest entry for
My player was Jordan Staal and my song was “Cowboy Casanova” by Carrie Underwood. I used as many of the lyrics as I could… you can
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