"It's my whole life," I say simply.
"Your life? Whoa. You're putting a lot of pressure on yourself, Garrett."
"You want to talk about pressure?" Bitterness colors my tone. "Pressure is being seven years old and forced to go on a high-protein diet to promote growth. Pressure is being woken up at the crack of dawn six days a week to skate and run drills while your father blows a whistle in your face for two hours. Pressure is being told that if you fail, you'll never be a real man."
Her face goes stricken. "Shit."
"Yeah, that about sums it up." I try to push the memories away, but they keep flashing through my mind, tightening my throat. "Trust me, the pressure I put on myself is nothing compared to what I had to deal with growing up."
She narrows her eyes. "You told me you love hockey."
"I do love it." My voice goes hoarse. "When I'm on the ice, it's the only time I feel … alive, I guess. And believe me, I'm going to work my ass off to get to where I want to be. I … fuck, I can't fail."
"What happens if you do?" she counters. "What's your backup plan?"
I frown. "I don't have one."
"Everyone needs a Plan B," Hannah insists. "What if you get injured and can't play anymore?"
"I don't know. I guess I'd be a coach. Or maybe a sportscaster."
"See, you do have a plan, then."
"I guess so." I eye her curiously. "What's your Plan B? If you don't make it as a singer?"
"Honestly, sometimes I don't know if I even want to be a singer. I mean, I love it, I really do, but doing it professionally is a whole other story. I'm not crazy about the idea of living out of a suitcase or spending all my time on a tour bus. And yeah, I like singing in front of an audience, but I'm not sure I want to be on stage in front of thousands of people on a nightly basis." She shrugs, looking thoughtful. "Sometimes I think I'd rather be a songwriter. I enjoy composing music, so I wouldn't mind working behind the scenes and letting someone else do the whole star thing. If that doesn't work out, I could go into teaching." She gives a self-deprecating smile. "And if that fails, I could always try my hand at stripping."
I sweep my gaze up and down her body, making a big show out of licking my lips. "Well, you've definitely got the tits for it."
She rolls her eyes. "Pervert."
"Hey, I'm just stating a fact. Your tits are great. I don't know why you don't flaunt 'em more. You know, throw a few low-cut tops into your wardrobe rotation."
A pink blush blooms in her cheeks. I love how quickly she goes from serious and sassy to shy and innocent.
"By the way, you can't do that on Saturday," I inform her.
"What, strip?" she says mockingly.
"No, blush like a tomato every time I make a lewd comment."
Hannah arches one brow. "How many lewd comments do you plan on making?"
I grin. "Depends on how much I have to drink."
She lets out an exasperated breath, and a strand of dark hair comes loose from her ponytail and falls onto her forehead. Without thinking, I reach out and tuck the errant strand behind her ear.
The instantaneous tensing of her shoulders brings a frown to my lips. "You can't do that either. Freeze up when I touch you."
Alarm flits through her eyes. "Why would you touch me?"
"Because I'm supposed to be your date. Have you met me? I'm a handsy guy."
"Well, you can keep your hands to yourself on Saturday," she says primly.
"Good plan. And then Loverboy will think we're just friends. Or enemies, depending on how jumpy you get."
She bites her lip, and her visible agitation only makes me tease her harder. "Oh, and I might kiss you, too."
Now she glares at me. "No way."
"Do you or do you not want Kohl to think you're into me? Because if you do, you'll need to at least try to act like it."
"That's going to be tough," she says with a smirk.
"Bullshit. You like me lots."
She snorts.
"I'm totally digging that snorting thing you do," I tell her frankly. "It's kind of a turn on."
"Would you quit it?" she grumbles. "He's not in the room right now. You can save the flirting for Saturday."
"I'm trying to get you used to it." I pause as if I'm mulling something over, but really, I'm getting a huge kick out of making Hannah squirm. "Actually, the more I think about it, the more I'm wondering if we should warm up."
"Warm up? What the hell does that mean?"
I slant my head. "What do you think I do before a game, Wellsy? Just show up at the rink and throw my skates on? Of course not. I practice six days a week to get ready. Ice time, weight room, watching game tapes, strategy meetings. Think of all the advance prep that goes into it."
"This isn't a game," she says irritably. "It's a fake date."
"But it needs to look real for Loverboy."
"Would you stop calling him that?"
Nope, I have no plans to stop. I like how angry it makes her. In fact, I like pissing her off, period. Every time Hannah gets mad, her green eyes blaze and her cheeks turn the cutest shade of pink.
"So yeah," I say with a nod. "If I'm going to be touching and kissing you on Saturday, I think it's imperative that we rehearse." I lick my lips again. "Thoroughly."
"I honestly can't decide if you're messing with me right now." She blows out an annoyed breath. "Either way, I'm not letting you touch or kiss me, so wipe all those dirty ideas out of your head. If you want some action, call Tiffany."
"Yeah, that's not gonna happen."
There's a bite to Hannah's tone. "Why not? You seemed pretty into her last night."
"It was a one-time hook up. And stop trying to change the subject." I grin at her. "Why don't you want to kiss me?" I narrow my eyes. "Oh shit. There's only one explanation I can think of." I pause. "You're a bad kisser."
Her jaw drops in outrage. "I most certainly am not."
"Yeah?" I lower my voice to a seductive pitch. "Prove it."
16
Hannah
SOMEHOW I'VE TRAVELED back in time to my third-grade playground days. Unless there's another explanation for why Garrett is goading me into kissing him.
"I don't have to prove a damn thing," I inform him. "I happen to be a fantastic kisser. Sadly, you will never get to find out."
"Never say never," he answers in a singsong voice.
"Thanks for that, Justin Bieber. But yeah, not going to happen, dude."
He sighs. "I get it. You're intimidated by my potent masculinity. Chin up, it happens all the time."
Oh brother. I can still remember the days-all of a week ago-when Garrett Graham wasn't a fixture in my life. When I didn't have to listen to his cocky remarks or see his rogue grins or get drawn into a flirt battle I have no interest in.
Except Garrett happens to be very, very good at one particular thing: throwing down the gauntlet.
"Fear is a fact of life," he says solemnly. "Don't let it get you down, Wellsy. Everyone experiences it." He leans back on his elbows like a bigshot. "Tell you what, I'll give you a free pass. If you're too scared to kiss me, I won't make you."
"Scared?" I rumble. "I'm not scared, dumbass. I just don't want to."
Another sigh rolls out of his chest. "Then I guess we're back to self-confidence issues. Don't worry, there are a lot of bad kissers in this world, sweetheart. I'm sure with practice and perseverance, you'll one day be able to-"
"Fine," I interrupt. "Let's do it."
His mouth slams shut, eyes widening in surprise. Ha. So he didn't expect me to call his bluff.
Our gazes lock in a stare-down for the ages. He's waiting for me to back down, but I'm confident I can wait him out. Maybe it's childish of me, but Garrett has already gotten his way about this tutoring thing. This time I want to win.
But I've underestimated him yet again. His gray eyes darken to smoky metallic silver, and suddenly there's heat in his gaze. Heat, and a gleam of self-assurance, as if he's certain I won't go through with it.
I hear that certainty in the dismissive tone he uses when he finally speaks. "All right, show me what you've got then."
I falter.
Fucking hell. He can't be serious.
And I can't actually be considering meeting this inane challenge. I'm not attracted to Garrett, and I don't want to kiss him. End of story.
Except … well, it doesn't feel like the end of anything. My body is engulfed with flames, and my hands are trembling not from nerves, but anticipation. When I picture his mouth pressed against mine, my heart races faster than a drum-and-bass track.
What the hell is the matter with me?
Garrett inches closer. Our thighs are touching now, and either I'm hallucinating it, or I can actually see his pulse throbbing in the center of his throat.
He can't possibly want this … can he?
My palms grow damp, but I resist wiping them on the front of my leggings because I don't want him to know how unnerved I am. I'm wholly aware of the heat radiating from his jean-clad thigh, the faint scent of his woodsy aftershave, the slight curve of his mouth as he awaits my next move …