A Better Man(54)

They danced for several slow, romantic songs before he led her to the table in the center of the room, pulled out her chair, then pushed it back in after she was seated. Standing next to her, he lifted the bottle from the ice bucket and uncorked the champagne with a flair that said he'd done the task before. Then he filled their glasses and they clinked crystal.

He moved his chair next to hers before he sat down.

"You're very good at all this," she said.

"This?"

"Dancing. Pouring champagne. Making fairy tales come true." She sipped her champagne and smiled when the bubbles tickled her nose. "If you're not careful, you'll shatter the beer-­drinking, belly-­scratching, Neanderthal image of hockey players I've been harboring all these years."



       
         
       
        

He laughed, and the sound that came from deep in his chest called out to something at the very core of her foundation. She'd never known a man to go to such extremes without expecting something in return. At least, that had always been her past experience. Still, tonight she was determined to keep that past where it belonged.

"I can guarantee your image might not be far off base. There are several guys on my team who'd probably admit they're barely above knuckle dragging."

"You're kidding."

He shook his head, and that dark hair and smile gleamed beneath the chandelier light. "The Rock grunts at everything. It's his favorite form of communication."

"The Rock? I thought he was a movie star who got paid for talking."

"Different guy. The one on my team got the nickname for how many times his head has hit the boards, yet he always comes up smiling."

"Sounds brutal."

"It can be. No one plans it. But there's so much aggression to get to the puck it sometimes ends up that way. If a guy keeps getting in your face or plays dirty, you can't help but want to check him and let your fists do the talking."

"Check him?"

"Slam him into the boards to stop his forward motion or try to steal the puck."

"There's so much I don't know about this game." She grimaced. "And I'm not exactly sure I'd want to learn."

"Have you ever been to a hockey game?"

"No." And she didn't want to admit that she'd seen him play a few games on TV either. "But my best friend and her husband are sports nuts. I've caught a few minutes of a playoff game on TV once or twice."

"It's different when you're actually in the arena."

She finished her glass of bubbly. Interested in the conversation, she leaned in while he poured them both another glass. "Different how?"

"You get caught up in the energy of the crowd. The fast pace of the game. You ever watch football?"

"A few times." And only when she'd been forced to because she'd been invited to a Super Bowl party.

"It's a lot like when the running back has the ball and he's racing toward the goalposts and the crowd is sure he'll score. That kind of thrill happens constantly in hockey."

"Did you know your eyes light up when you talk about it?" They really did. And as crazy as it seemed, that wondrous glow made him even more handsome. 

"I'm not surprised. It's all I've ever known and for a reason. I love the game."

"I feel like that about teaching." Although they didn't need it, she smoothed the ruffles on her dress. She wasn't used to talking about herself. But she guessed talking about her job was safe enough. "Sometimes I'll get a student who not only has talent but is enthusiastic about learning. I get a crazy burst of adrenaline and I can't wait to get back to school the following day to help guide them some more. I always dream that I may have the next Ernest Hemingway or even the next generation's J.K. Rowling in my class."

"Do you write?" he asked, refilling the glass she didn't even know she'd emptied.

"I dabble," she admitted, figuring it was a safe enough answer and that he really wouldn't be interested in asking more. "But my main focus is teaching."

"What do you write?" He leaned both tux-­covered forearms on the table and gave her his full attention.

Okay, so she'd underestimated him.

Lucy bit her lip-­literally-­trying to decide whether to answer him truthfully or to stretch the truth in another direction. Then again, she could always divert the conversation with . . .

"I love this song. Bruno Mars is my favorite." Not that she didn't really love Bruno, but right now he was her only way out of this conversation. She stood and held out her hand. "Dance with me?"