Hot as Puck(69)

I should have asked Roger if we could change locations as soon as I realized the pub owner is a Badgers fan, but I’m a glutton for punishment. My eyes keep drifting to the screen, soaking in the sight of Justin playing with his typical mixture of ferocity and grace, while my thoughts drift to all the other physical things he does so well…

“What about the chocolate cake to share?” Roger taps two fingers on the table as he surveys the dessert menu, a gesture I’m realizing is a nervous habit for him. “Or maybe the cobbler?”

“I’m completely stuffed,” I say, though I’ve barely eaten anything. I’ve been too nervous about my impending talk with Jus to enjoy the meal. My grilled vegetable sandwich tasted like sawdust and the craft brew might as well have been Pabst Blue Ribbon for all the impression it made on my tormented pallet.

“Maybe a coffee, then?” Roger taps the table again. “I’d love to talk more. I know we’ve worked together for years, but I feel like I’m just getting to know you.”

I’m about to tell Roger that I’m just getting to know me in a lot of ways, too, and that I’ve realized I’m not ready to date someone I work with—blame it on the job, Collins, that way he won’t get his feelings hurt—when a hubbub from the bar draws my attention. A girl in a Badger’s jersey squeals in excitement, the men surrounding her laugh, and a group of older men at the other end of the bar grumble amongst themselves, apparently not approving of the excitement of the younger crowd.

Or maybe they don’t approve of what has excited them…

“Oh my God,” I murmur, sitting up straighter in my chair as I see what’s happening on the screen.

There, sitting on the far end of the Badger’s bench as the third period gets ready to start, is Justin, holding a brightly colored piece of paper up to the glass.

A poem for Libby:

My fingers drift to cover my mouth as he switches the sign out for another. His intense gaze is focused on the camera filming him, and I swear it feels like he’s looking straight at me as he flips slowly through the stack of papers in his lap.

Dear Libs, I suck at art.

And my first poem to you was a joke about farts.

But this is real and true

Don’t call this off. ’Cause I’m stupid in love with you.

In love with me…

He’s in love with me! And I’m in love with him! And I’ve been stressing out for the past day and a half for no reason.

Oh yeah? What about Sylvia?

“Sylvia doesn’t matter,” I murmur. “Sylvia must be confused.”

“Excuse me?”

I turn back to Roger with a start. God, this man used to make me so nervous, and now for a moment I’d completely forgotten he was sitting next to me. “I’m so sorry, Roger, but I have to go.”

His lips curve in a wry smile. “Because you’re Libby.” He motions toward the screen. “His Libby.”

I nod. “Yes. Yes, I am.” I am Justin’s, and he is mine, and I need to be where he is immediately, even if I’ll have to wait for him to get off the ice to tell him that I love him, too.

I pull my wallet from my purse, but Roger stops me with a hand in the air. “No, this is my treat. Thanks for coming out tonight. I had a nice time. I hope we can be better friends from here on out.”

“Of course, but are you sure?” I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t feel right letting you pay.”

“I insist,” he says with a smile. “I’m just sorry it took me so long to get up the courage to ask you out. If you and Mr. Super Sexy Famous Hockey Player Guy break up, maybe you can give me a shout out?”

I press my lips together, but Roger saves me with a laugh.

“I’m kidding,” he says. “I’m happy to be friends. And I hope everything works out for you two. Truly. He looks like he’s suffering. I’m glad you’re going to put him out of his misery.”

My breath rushes out. “Me, too. And I know you’ll find someone wonderful. You’re a really nice person with so many admirable qualities. Don’t be afraid next time. Go for it. I’m sure any woman you ask out will be thrilled to say yes.”

Roger winces. “Okay, now you’re being too nice. Go get your guy before I have to man-cry into what’s left of my beer and talk about my last ugly breakup.”

I nod, giving him a thumbs-up. “Right. I’m gone. See you Monday. Thank you so much for dinner.”

And then I turn and hustle across the bar, past the big screen that is now showing footage of the game in progress. But as I pass I hear one of the commenters say, “Looks like someone’s got it bad,” and another joke back, “Not as bad as that poem. I think my five-year-old could write something better than that. But hey, whatever works. Hopefully this Libby person will realize he has other admirable qualities. Like one hell of a wrist shot.”