A Groom of One’s Own: A Sweet Hockey RomCom

Bailey

It’s hours later before I get a chance to look over Eli’s paperwork.

Did I take it home with me? Yes. Yes, I did.

Because reading over the volunteer application of my crush turned maybe soon-to-be husband—a thought so unreal I’m going to keep qualifying it with maybes and ishes until it becomes verifiable with documentation—is something to savor. I choose to savor it with the Bueno from his bouquet, hot tea, and reruns of Project Runway streaming on the TV.

There are lots of interesting facts on the actual application. The one I’m still hung up on is Hagrid. I decide, after looking up the publication dates for the first Harry Potter book as well as Eli’s birthday, that Hagrid must be a family name. Eli is just barely too old for Maggie to have read the books while picking baby names.

He also listed his previous employment as delivering pizzas and babysitting, complete with reference phone numbers—in Canada. Adorable.

Under reasons he wanted to apply, he wrote three. I love dogs being the first. Unsurprising, but still cute. The second is about the importance of volunteering, which rings true for him but also sounds a little like what a quick Google search might tell you to put on an application.

It’s the third one that has me smiling so hard I got a cheek cramp. To see my favorite dog handler, he wrote. Then, in parentheses, he added (Leelee aka Bailey aka hopefully the person reading this application). I read over this multiple times. While massaging my cheek.

The man is almost sweet enough to make my teeth ache. But there’s a little squeeze of naughty that just keeps him from being too nice.

It takes all my restraint to read the first page thoroughly, slowly before I flip to the second. And then, I almost choke on my Earl Grey.

The page is covered with pink sticky notes, a message scrawled out one word per note in Eli’s blocky handwriting: I know you said yes, but I thought you might appreciate some character references.

He doesn’t say yes to what, specifically, but I don’t think he means going to the hockey game. Probably smart not to mention the marriage stuff to prevent any kind of paper trail. Even a pink sticky-note paper trail.

I’m grinning as I flip to the next page, careful not to dislodge any of the sticky notes. I’d like to put this whole thing under glass like ancient documents in a museum, install special lighting and buy the kind of gloves museum curators use to aid in preservation. Maybe if I had money for anything extra, I would.

It looks as though Eli asked half the team to write something. Because of course he did. I’m starting to see just how much attention he pays to detail, how Eli likes to turn even little things into events.

Most of the notes are fairly generic, and unlike Eli’s neat print, most are written in an almost illegible scrawl I can only decipher through squinting and some guesswork. Also, several of them aren’t all that convincing, like one from someone named Wyatt, which makes me snicker: I don’t know Eli well, but he seems like a good guy. (And if he’s not, I will not be held liable or in any way legally culpable for his actions.)

Culpable, huh? I could submit this as proof to contradict anyone who still equates athletes with stupidity.

Stay away from hockey players. We stink. Literally, someone named Nathan writes.

Probably true. Though every time I’ve been around Eli, he’s smelled delectable. Men’s cologne covers over a host of smell sins, but I doubt it would fully blanket hockey stink. Nathan’s note doesn’t deter me in the slightest.

Bring it on, hockey stink. Working here has uniquely prepared me for any olfactory assault.

Alec writes, Eli’s a good guy, but if you’re looking for someone great … Then he added a phone number. Presumably his.

Did Eli even read these? I’m not sure he would have included them all if so.

Then again, it’s Eli. He might have assumed his charm would outweigh anything negative his teammates said. (He would be right.) Or he knew I’d read these for what they are: his teammates lovingly giving him a hard time.

My throat gets a little tight when I read Van’s message: This guy would do anything for people he loves. Anything. Count yourself lucky if you fall into that category. And whatever you do, don’t hurt my boy.

Surprisingly tender, coming from the guy who hit on both Shannon and Jenny the other night, plus flirted with the snack bar attendant at the bowling alley, a random woman in the parking lot, and the group of older women in the lane next to us. Maybe some of that’s just for show? Or maybe Van is a ladies’ man who has some hidden depth.

Whatever the case, he’s a little misguided if he thinks I would ever be in a position to hurt Eli. Try the other way around, pal. Wasn’t my crush on Eli completely obvious to everyone around us the other night? I felt as transparent as rice paper.

If anyone’s going to get hurt in all this, it will be me. Hands down.

And yet, even knowing this, I am undeterred. If I expected to regret saying yes to this ridiculous marriage thing, I don’t. I’ve felt surprisingly calm and sure about the whole thing. Partly because of the way the ever-present tightness in my chest eases when I think about having financial help. But partly because being around Eli more won’t be a hardship.

Not until it ends.

I light that thought on fire, then read through the rest of the notes. Though they don’t share any actual details about Eli I didn’t already know from spending time with him, I do get a sense of the impact he has on people in his life.

Every hand-scrawled note shows how much the guys like him. It’s so clear that he’s the kind of man who is a beacon to those around him. Drawing people in. Making them feel warm and accepted.

Not that I need to be told this. But it hits different seeing it in these notes, all written in various shades from playful affection to genuine admiration.

The issue at hand isn’t whether I need a reason to trust Eli. It’s whether I can trust myself not to fall canyon-deep in love with him.

Because somehow, I don’t see Eli having the same struggle when it comes to me.

“Bailey!”

I’m not sure how I hear my name over the noise of the stadium. Maybe because it’s Eli’s voice. At this point, I’m like a sad little compass who can’t stop being magnetically attuned to him. I might as well start calling him North.

I scan the ice, where the guys are warming up. At a glance, they all look the same in their gray uniforms and helmets and gloves. I don’t get to look for long, because I’m trying to keep Maggie from being jostled in the teeming crowd of people.

“Watch the elbows, buddy,” she says, throwing her shoulder into a big man who seemed totally unaware of her presence.

He steps back, pulling his cup of beer closer to his chest and tipping his chin. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Guess Maggie doesn’t need me looking out for her after all.

Shannon grabs my elbow and shakes me with a little too much violence. “There he is!”

As though I could miss the man now skating toward us with a huge grin on his face. My heart transforms into that of a teen girl at a boy band concert. It’s a wonder I don’t pass out as he reaches the plexiglass in front of us.

“Aw, this is adorable,” Beth says with a sigh. “Young love.”

I almost choke. “It’s not⁠—”

Shannon pokes me in the ribs, eyes wide. Right. As far as everyone needs to know, it absolutely is love.

Shannon and Jenny are the only ones I’ve told about this whole arrangement thing. I needed someone—okay, two someones—to know the real story. Jenny couldn’t come tonight, which makes Shannon my anchor. Eli said a few guys from the team know. He also muttered something about what sounded like a vow of … violence?

I wonder if they’re as on board with it as Shannon. She started calling us Bonnie and Clyde—I guess because of the illegal aspect of it—though we’re certainly not robbing any banks. Just the government?—and seems convinced we’re going to fall madly in love and stay married forever and have adorable babies.

Which … isn’t going to happen. Lovely idea, though. One I’m keeping locked up tight for about twenty-three hours and fifty-three minutes a day, allowing myself just seven minutes—an approximation since I’m not actually pulling out my stopwatch to time it—where I’m allowed to daydream about this possibility.

Then, with a show of monster self-control, I put the thought away, and pummel myself with a litany of words like arrangement, agreement, contract, fake, and—the one I hate most of all—temporary.

I mean, I’m assuming we aren’t doing this as some kind of lifelong not-real marriage thing. Another clutch of worry grips me tight at the reminder of all the things Eli and I still haven’t discussed. Between his busy schedule and my own, we just haven’t managed. It’s only been a few days, but considering the timeline, that’s maybe ten percent of the time we have left before getting married.

My knees do a quick wobble, and I grip the metal railing until cold seeps through my fingers and I’m steady again. Somewhat steady. I have a sneaking suspicion I won’t be all-the-way steady for a long time. Like the kitchen table in my apartment, only level when a piece of paper is folded just so under one leg.

My eyes don’t leave Eli as we near the ice, though it feels like parts of me have left my body. Like, for example, my heart. I think it’s hovering around him like some kind of winged bird, ready to light on Eli’s broad shoulders. When he leans forward, chin resting on the gloved hand holding his stick upright, a little sigh leaves me too.

At our row, which is right by the ice, Maggie, Shannon, and Beth sit down, leaving me standing by the plexiglass. Standing in front of Eli. There must be thousands of people in The Summit, but right now, with my pulse pounding in my ears, it’s just us.

“Hey, Leelee.” Eli’s muffled by the layer of clear plexiglass between us. That doesn’t lessen the impact. The low rumble. The nickname. The smile that feels somehow private.

I feel suddenly desperate, like I could rip away the sheet of plexiglass with my bare hands, Hulk style. Instead, my words get stuck behind an invisible blockade, my tongue thick and mouth dry. I give him a little wave instead.

His grin widens as his gaze does a quick tour of my body. Then, another slower one. Specifically focused on the top half of me. “Parker found you, I take it?”

I nod, smoothing a hand down my jersey. ‘She did.’

Parker, the Appies’ social media manager, was waiting inside The Summit for me, her brown hair swinging in a cheerful ponytail, her smile wide. After giving me an enthusiastic and unexpected hug while whispering, “I hope we can be friends,” she pressed a jersey into my hands. A mirror of the one Eli’s wearing, it’s light gray with turquoise accents and the Appies logo in black and turquoise on the front.

And, as he insisted, Eli’s last name and number on the back.

Eli leans closer, practically plastering himself against the plexiglass. “Do me a favor,” he says, his voice sounding low and husky, though I’m sure he’s practically shouting to be heard. Maybe it’s the wild look in his eyes that seems to color how his words hit me. “Turn around.”

“What?”

His smile melts away, his eyes blue flames as he stares. “I want to see you wearing my name.”

Oh.

I know I’m blushing as I hazard a glance at Eli over my shoulder. His mouth stretches into a grin that is one hundred percent pure, unadulterated, smug male pride. I turn back around to face him, swaying closer toward him.

“My name looks good on you,” he says, and then he lifts his left glove to the glass.

I’m not sure how I know he’s waiting for me to line my hand up with his, but somehow, I do. And when I press my palm against the plexiglass, I’m rewarded with an even bigger smile. This one softer.

Moments like this, I can almost forget it isn’t real.

“Enjoy the game, Leelee,” he says. “I’m playing for you.”

He skates away, leaving me shaky and a little breathless as I make my way to the seat between Maggie and Shannon. The moment I practically collapse into my seat, Maggie gives me a sly look.

“He’s showing off for you,” she says, pointing.

I watch Eli fly over the ice with a dexterity that seems incongruous for someone his size. He zips right by a few guys, effortlessly countering their efforts to steal the puck, and lines up a shot. I don’t even see it hit the back of the net, but the goalie bends to scoop it out, shaking his head.

Eli turns right toward us, beaming. He blows a kiss my way, and I remind myself AGAIN that it’s not what it looks like to everyone else. Not what it feels like.

There’s a squeal and a scream from behind us, ripping me out of my Eli haze.

“Did you see that?” a shrill voice says. “He blew me a kiss!”

My head whips around to see a gorgeous woman behind us also wearing Eli’s jersey. She has tiny shorts on underneath, and her legs go on forever. Her tan indicates she either just got back from the Bahamas or she spends a fair amount of time at a tanning booth.

An ugly part of me hopes it gives her premature wrinkles.

I’m feverish with jealousy, I realize, and glaring at this woman like I have any right to. I mean, I guess I technically do, but the emotion feels out of place somehow. Unearned. Alien.

I’m about to put my focus back to the ice where it belongs, when Maggie turns all the way around.

“That kiss wasn’t for you,” she says.

Tiny Shorts sneers. “He was looking right at me. And who are you, anyway?”

“Maggie,” I whisper, but she ignores me. “You don’t need to⁠—”

“His mother,” she says, then hooks her arm through mine. “And this woman is the only one my son’s giving any kind of kisses to.”

Tiny Shorts turns her gaze to me, the cocky look fading into confusion. “I thought he was single.”

“Was,” Maggie says, then curls an arm around my shoulders. “Past tense. And you’re looking at his present and his future.”

I almost fall out of my chair when Tiny Shorts says, “Sorry. I don’t go for taken men.”

A sliver of my faith in humanity is restored as I give the woman a small smile and turn back around. Maggie winks at me.

Beth snorts and leans across Shannon and me to high-five Maggie. “Go, Mama Eli!”

Guilt needles its way through me. Eli’s mom does like me. And I adore her. But I’m also lying to her. My present and future are going to be filled with lies to her.

Every day, lying.

Clearly, something of the sick feeling in my belly shows on my face because Shannon leans close. “Hey. Stop that. Remember—this is for her too.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” Maggie says, patting my arm. “I’ll fight off any puck bunnies.”

I cough to cover my laugh.

‘Do people really call them that?” Shannon asks. “Like, it’s a real thing?’

My stomach turns, thinking of the women draped over him at the bar the night of my birthday. As though sensing my discomfort, Maggie gives my hand a squeeze.

“They exist for every sport or for any public figure. Different names, of course.” She chuckles. “Personally, I think puck bunnies is a particularly apt name. But”—she angles herself to make sure she catches my eye—“my Eli has always known better than to mess around with that type. He’s a romantic.”

Shannon pokes me again. “They are adorable together, right? Now, Mrs. H—explain hockey to us poor sports-illiterate people.”

A hand grabs the back of my jersey and yanks me back into my seat. “Calm down, Cujo,” Shannon says with a laugh.

I glare and shrug her off. “But did you see that? The guy hit him with his stick! That’s not okay!”

Maggie laughs. ‘You’ll get used to it. Though I applaud your enthusiasm, and I agree. It was a bad call.”

The buzzer sounds to end the second period, and I relax only slightly as the guys skate off the ice. The Appies are up three to nothing, but it doesn’t make me feel any less anxious. It was one thing when Eli was warming up with the team, and something totally different when the actual game started.

It’s brutal. I always thought people exaggerated when they talked about hockey fights and guys losing their teeth. So far, there have been no actual fights, but I am surprised anyone has their teeth with how rough it is.

Yet it’s also graceful, with intricate, precise movements. So fast I have trouble keeping my eye on the puck. It’s a surprising dichotomy to see such big men in heavy gear be so quick, so graceful.

Beautifully brutal.

“Come on, you.” Shannon tugs on my arm, and I see our whole row is standing. “Bathroom time.”

“I don’t need to go,” I say. “I’ll stay and keep our seats warm.”

I did need to go earlier. But I swear, the stress of watching Eli play made whatever was in my bladder evaporate or something. Is that a thing? Probably not.

Shannon is undeterred. “Come on before it gets too crowded.”

Maggie gives me a nudge from the other side, and I finally cave as our little troop of people vacate our row. Shannon groans as we see the line for the bathroom spilling out of the room and almost to the concession stand.

“I could go for a beer and a hot dog,” I say, suddenly ravenous.

But this train of thought is derailed by Parker, appearing as though out of nowhere.

“Come on,” she says, taking my hand and waving our little group forward. “Secret bathroom. Perk of working here.”

I give the hot dogs a longing glance but follow Parker as she shuttles us all through a metal door, giving the beefy security guard a pat on the shoulder as we walk through and into a mostly empty hallway.

In here, the sound of the bass and the crowd reverberates through the cinder block walls, giving the weird sensation of hearing through layers of water.

“This way,” she calls, practically sprinting down the hallway.

“What’s the rush?” I ask, wondering how far away this stupid private bathroom is. I could be eating a hot dog by now.

Parker tightens her grip on my hand. If we’re going to be friends, we’ll have to talk later about how I’m more into strolling than speed walking.

“Almost there,” she says. “Just through this hallway.”

The music is suddenly much louder as we make a turn. I balk as I realize Parker isn’t leading me toward another random hallway in the bowels of the Summit.

No—this looks a whole lot like an entrance onto the ice.

“This isn’t the bathroom.”

Parker manhandles me into a metal folding chair. “Sorry-not-sorry about this,” she says. “Don’t hate me, okay?”

Glancing back, I see Maggie, Beth, and Shannon all stopped, watching this unfold with knowing grins on their faces. Traitors. Clearly, this is some kind of conspiracy. I’m beginning to suspect I know exactly what kind.

“I don’t⁠—”

And now I’m being lifted up by two guys. Not just any guys. Two hockey players who are somehow carrying me, chair and all.

“Hold on and don’t wiggle.” I realize one of the guys carrying me is Van. “Eli would murder us if we dropped you.”

“Um, yes, please don’t drop me. Thanks.”

I’m white knuckling the seat of the metal chair, which suddenly feels very flimsy. What if it decides to fold itself back up right now?

“We’ve got you.”

The other guy’s voice is gruff. I can’t make out much besides dark stubble and dark hair, but his expression is intense. I swallow back an apology. I mean, this wasn’t my idea, after all. I’d one hundred percent rather be just about anywhere other than being carried out of this tunnel and onto the ice.

“Um, Van? Could you maybe put me down or take me back or, you know, just not do whatever this is?” I beg.

“No can do,’ Van says with a grin. ‘I’ve got orders.”

The other guy only grunts. I shrink down in the chair as much as I can while it’s being held in the air. The very last place I ever want to be is the center of attention. And at the Summit, the ice is pretty much the center of attention.

Is this … a proposal? I’m smart enough to recognize the signs, even if I stupidly thought we weren’t to this point yet. I’m still adding to my mental list of things to discuss. Surely, Eli wouldn’t spring a proposal on me.

Then I think of him showing up with a homemade candy bouquet. The way he made my birthday an event. The pages of references from his teammate.

Oh, yeah. Eli absolutely would surprise me with a huge proposal.

It makes sense, being public and all. I’m sure this will go viral, which will only help solidify our quickie marriage story. But I’d rather be stuck in a room full of rabid feral cats than be proposed to like this. And that’s saying something.

The crowd amps up, and the screams and shouts all meld into a deafening roar as the guys deposit my chair right in front of one of the goals. Another player skates up and hands me a helmet.

“You’re going to want this.” I’m momentarily distracted by his perfect white teeth, again wondering if hockey players losing teeth thing was a rumor.

“I am?”

That sounds foreboding. Maybe this isn’t a proposal after all? Because where I’m from, the ring isn’t usually accompanied by a helmet.

Maybe this is just another part of the entertainment, like the way they had fans don T-rex suits and fight over an exercise ball after the first period.

“Here—let me help. I’m Alec. Team Captain.”

“You gave me your number,” I say, and he laughs.

“All in good fun.” He removes his gloves to help fasten the strap underneath my chin, then taps me twice on the top of my helmet. “You look worried. Don’t be worried.”

“You just told me I need a helmet,” I argue. “I’m pretty sure I have reason to be worried.”

He gives no answer other than a last smile as he skates off, abandoning me in my metal chair. It was cold in the stands, but it’s freezing down here, and I wrap my arms around myself now that I don’t need to cling to the chair for dear life.

I wonder if I could make it back to the exit before whatever’s about to happen happens. But I don’t wholly trust my ability to make it on the ice without falling. When it comes down to being embarrassed while sitting in a chair or being embarrassed falling down in front of the crowd, I’m gonna stick with the chair.

Suddenly, the lights drop, leaving me in a blinding spotlight. A second spotlight appears at the tunnel. Eli makes his way out as the music shifts to “Marry You” by Bruno Mars.

Definitely a proposal.

The crowd cheers as Eli skates toward me, dribbling a puck and wearing a big grin. He’s not wearing a helmet, and blond hair whips around his face.

I hope I don’t look like I’m on the verge of a panic attack, even if that’s exactly how I feel. Not that I’ve had a panic attack. According to the articles I’ve read and the quizzes I’ve taken online, I don’t have social anxiety. I’m just shy.

But the tightness in my chest and the black dots I’m seeing in front of my eyes scream otherwise.

I try to focus on Eli and not on the blur of faces. The cheering. The question of what the heck did I agree to?

Eli picks up speed, circling behind me, behind the goal. The ten-ton pressure on my chest eases when he appears again and I see the smile that’s becoming so familiar, his bright eyes that almost always look like he’s plotting some kind of mischief.

Anchoring myself on these things helps a little, but I still find myself clutching the bottom of the metal chair, fingertips nearly numb. I clench my jaw to stop my teeth chattering. I don’t feel cold anymore.

Honestly, I don’t feel much at all. Just a growing tension climbing my spine like a ladder, leaving tightness as it goes.

Dread rather than anticipation fills me as Eli does another lap. It’s probably only been a minute since he’s been on the ice, but I’ve lived a decade right here. The helmet is a pleasant barrier against the sound—at first.

Then, I start to feel it too tight around my temples. Too heavy, making my neck ache.

Breathe, I remind myself. In and out. Slowly. Just … breathe.

I’ve had moments of acute stress in certain situations, especially when I felt like the center of attention. There’s a real reason I managed to weasel my way out of every possible school assignment which required speaking in front of the class. I could never explain to my parents, who spent their working days behind a lectern in front of packed seminar rooms or on a stage. Never did I feel like such a confusing disappointment as when I failed the test that lost me valedictorian. I think they suspected the truth—I did it on purpose to get out of making a speech.

Breathe.

I force my eyes to follow Eli, only Eli, while talking myself through what’s happening.

It’s simple biology. My amygdala sent a panicked S.O.S. to my hypothalamus, telling it we’re in grave danger. Because clearly my amygdala is a little dramatic.

My hypothalamus responded instantly with “sir, yes sir” and passed orders down to my adrenal glands.

And they deployed hormone soldiers like cortisol, adrenaline, and a handful of others, who didn’t march but RAN into battle. A battle I’m now losing because of those very soldiers.

Thinking my way through the process might sound ridiculous, but it helps me more than any breathing technique. It’s the equivalent of a parent assuring you that it was just a dream after a very realistic nightmare, scratching your back and speaking in soothing tones to ground you in reality.

In reality, I’m not in danger.

No need for fight or flight.

It’s simply a VERY public proposal. A moment I’d prefer to be private, not acted out in front of thousands of strangers.

Okay—maybe I should have stuck to thinking about the brain science stuff.

Eli finally skates through the center of the rink toward me, stopping about fifteen feet away. Bruno Mars is still singing in what must be the longest song in the whole world. Between the noise of the crowd and the blood pounding in my ears, I can barely hear the music.

I definitely don’t hear whatever Eli says before he lines up the puck and sends it my way.

I can’t help it. I flinch.

Which is totally silly because he barely nudges the puck sliding my way. It comes to stop right at my feet, joined a moment later by Eli, who slides onto both knees before me.

Only then do I notice the ring box taped to the puck.

Breathe, Bailey. Breathe.

Eli rips of his gloves, prying my fingers off the side of the chair and curling his hands around mine.

“Bailey? What’s wrong?”

I open my mouth, but it takes several tries before I can croak out an intelligible response. “I think I’m having an anxiety attack. Or maybe not officially? Maybe I’m just freaking out.”

His arms are suddenly around me, tugging me against his solid chest. He feels different with the pads on—smells a little different too, which I’m going to ignore—but his warmth is familiar. His strong arms, banded firmly around me, ease the tightness in my chest. Even if only a little.

The crowd must assume I said yes to the fastest proposal ever because the cheering reaches deafening levels. My heartbeat kicks up again.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m ruining your whole thing.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Eli says fiercely, lips grazing my ears.

His arms tighten protectively around me. The more pressure, the safer I feel and the more my heart rate slows.

“Is the helmet helping?” he asks. “Or is it making things worse?”

“Worse,” I say. And though things get louder and feel closer the moment he removes it, there’s also another notching down of tension.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, and one of his hands slides up my back, gently rubbing.

“There’s no way you could have known. I’ve never actually had an anxiety attack. If that’s even what this is.”

I’d place a hefty bet that it is. But the last thing I want is Eli feeling worse about it.

“I absolutely should have known. You’ve mentioned being shy. I just didn’t think about it because you seem so different with me.”

“You make me feel safe,” I confess.

And it’s true. So true that my breathing is now even. I can’t hear the rushing of blood in my ears anymore either.

“I did make you feel safe.” His voice has a hard edge. “Then I went and did something stupid.”

“No, Eli⁠—”

“Let’s get you out of here.”

As he gets to his feet, Eli keeps me cradled to his chest like I weigh no more than a piece of paper. And that’s when the music changes.

“Oh no,” I whisper.

Because Bruno Mars’s never-ending song has given way to “Kiss Me.”

And the crowd goes wild.

I mean, of COURSE after a romantic engagement, they’d expect people to kiss. People who are getting engaged for real. Not two people doing this for reasons not having to do with romance. And have never, in fact, kissed.

Oh, and also, Eli never got that chance to ask and I never got the chance to say yes.

Eli pulls back slightly, and his startled eyes meet mine just as people in the stands start stomping and shouting, “KISS! KISS! KISS!”

My heart starts thumping again, and a wave of dizziness returns. I wait for the inevitable panic to set in. But it doesn’t.

Instead, I think my adrenal glands are releasing a whole different set of hormones. Ones not related to fight or flight but anticipation. And desire.

I should NOT be thinking about kissing Eli right now.

Not with the anxiety I just moved through, which still lingers around my edges. Or the fact that this isn’t real and a kiss isn’t required.

Also, I am not and have never been a fan of PDA.

So, why is my heart careening wildly with anticipation like some spun top and why are my eyes focused on his lips like they hold the key to unlock the universe’s secrets?

Eli shifts his hold so he’s pretty much curled around me, hiding my face from view. Though there are people on all sides of us, the way he’s positioning me and the way his head is tilted probably makes it look like we’re kissing.

I can’t help the surge of disappointment.

“I’m not going to force you to kiss me because of a song,” he murmurs, his lips so very close to where I actually want them. “Not because fans are yelling for it. Not when you look like you’re feeling panicked and unsafe, Bailey.”

His mouth brushes my jaw as he speaks, likely lending even more weight to the appearance of us doing as the people demand. It also makes tendrils of desire unfurl inside me like wisps of smoke from a fire.

I shiver. Eli tightens his hold on me, likely thinking I’m cold or scared—not overloaded with a bright bolt of electric desire. Which is even more potent mixed with what I suspect is a bit of post-stress euphoria.

He again starts to skate toward the tunnel.

“Wait,” I say.

The speakers are still playing “Kiss Me,” and though I think Eli did his best to give an appearance or suggestion of kissing, the crowd is still chanting, unappeased. If they didn’t fully SEE it, it didn’t happen.

And in this moment, held like precious cargo in Eli’s arms, I make a decision. Not because the people are demanding it, though I am well-aware of my people-pleasing tendencies.

No—I want to kiss Eli. Here. Now. Like this, with fear crouching at the door of my mind, nervousness a steady whisper in my blood.

Reaching up to curl my hand around the back of Eli’s neck, I pull him toward me and press my mouth to his.