Charmed Life

James came in regularly for the next month. One or twice alone, when he’d sit at the bar for a drink or two, but mostly with a group of guys. They weren’t always seated in my section, but most of the times, it was me who waited on James and his pro hockey player friends.

If his friends knew anything about my little break in, they didn’t show it, but I had a feeling he never told them. They turned out to be a great group of guys. Marc-Andre Fleury, I finally learned, was not a milkshake, but a sweet guy with an accent I could hardly understand, and someone always translated his order for me, while the other guys laughed at my confusion.

Four times, I got off while they were still in the restaurant, and after much persuasion, sat down and had a drink (non-alcoholic, of course, even though they’d offer to buy me a one, but I could feel Josh’s glare through the walls of the restaurant). James acted like his friends did, and it was like the whole break in thing had never happened.

It was unexpected, but I’d fallen into a sort of friendship with them.

“You should come watch a game,” Sidney Crosby said one night, taking a huge gulp of his beer. The other guys, Malkin, Pascal, and Marc, all agreed while I mumbled incoherently about work and school. They brushed my excuses off, saying a girl my age needed to have fun sometimes.

Only James stayed quiet, studying me with an unreadable expression.

In ones or twos, they’d trickle home or to another bar, but James was always the last to leave, and always conveniently decided to leave at the exact same time my shift was over.

“Phone for you,” Amanda said as I headed into the break room after an eight-hour workday. I picked up the receiver and clamped it between my shoulder and ear. The curly cord stretched from the phone’s position on the wall to my locker as I attempted to zip my backpack up.

“Hayden,” I greeted, knowing it was him. He always called at the end of my shift. “Hey.”

“I’m assuming you don’t need a ride tonight?” I could hear a guitar in the background as his band rehearsed. And his disapproval. Hayden was the closest to family I had besides Grams and Gramps. He was a frat boy, lead singer of a heavy metal slash alternative slash cover band, and, though I hated to admit it, my best friend.

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

“Pick you up tomorrow?”

“Please,” I responded, smiling at his protectiveness. To say Hayden didn’t approve of James “heading in my direction” was an understatement. Even though he loved the Penguins, he wasn’t a fan of one of them driving me home. According to Hayden, only one thing would come of this relationship.

“And what’s that?” I had asked, humoring him as we sat in the Starbucks near campus.

“Three words, Layna,” he replied, taking a bite of his muffin. He held a finger up as he said each word. “Un. Planned. Pregnancy.”

I brushed him off. “For God’s sake, Heyden. He gives me a ride home. I don’t ride him.” He’d rolled his eyes at that one. “Plus, he’s a professional athlete. He wouldn’t waste his time with me.”

Hayden snorted. “You’re right. He can do better than your ugly ass.” I had laughed, throwing my crumpled straw wrapper at him. I knew he was kidding, but I couldn’t help thinking he was right on some level.

I hung up after saying goodbye and headed out into the restaurant.

“Let me guess, you’re heading in my direction?” I asked as I found James sitting at the bar. It was a relatively quiet Monday night, and he was amongst two other patrons.

James shrugged, downing the last of his Scotch. “Malkin and the guys are down at some bar near your apartment, so I guess I am.”

I smiled. “Right.”

…..

James pulled into a spot outside my building and turned the engine off. I faced him.

“You know, I don’t need an escort,” I sounded like a stubborn ten year-old, but that’s how I felt. “Every. Single. Time.”

He ignored me, climbing out of the car and striding towards the stairs. It was no use arguing with him. Something I learned about James Neal in the month since I’d broken into his house was that he was passionate.

Sometimes (okay, fine, a lot of the times), at work, when a game was on, I’d stare at the TV screens a little too long, especially where James was concerned. I loved watching him skate around, and I loved when he celebrated a goal or win.

I especially loved when he got angry, like that first night when we met. You couldn’t hear anything on the TVs, but you could tell he was furiously cursing when his lips moved quickly on the screen, his brows knitted in frustration as he pointed angrily with a gloved hand at an opponent.

He was passionate about the game. And I guess about walking me to my door. He waited, like usual, as I unlocked the padlock securing my door to the frame. I always did this as quickly as possible, so he would leave sooner.

Except the door was stuck again. It’d rained last night, which meant that, since this building had a billion leaks, the rust was acting up, which meant the metal door wouldn’t budge without a lot of embarrassing grunting and pulling.

“You okay there?”

“Fine, thank you,” I grunted loudly, tugging on the stupid door.

After five more minutes of fighting the door and losing, I stepped aside, my tail between my legs.

“Help?”

He smirked, clearly amused at my declaration of defeat. It took him of all two seconds to pry the door open. I couldn’t help watching his arms flex as he pulled the sliding piece of metal aside.

Fuck.

I shook my head to clear it. I had bigger problems, like the fact that James was staring opened mouthed at what he was seeing. I thought hard about it, I really did. I thought about pushing him away from the door, shutting it, and pretending like he never glimpsed the inside of my apartment. Maybe he’d fall down a couple of steps and get a minor concussion and forget what he saw, and I wouldn’t die of embarrassment.

Or maybe, the rational part of my brain said, he’d fall down all eight flight of stairs, die, and I would go to jail for murdering a pro hockey player. Good luck getting out of that one.

In the end, I realized it was no use, and instead strode past him, into the dingy little room I called home.

Dropping everything on the ground, I sat at the two-person dining table by the single window and kitchen area and waited.

It was a tiny, rectangular space. The dining and kitchen was at one end and the shower and sink was at the other. I had a small armoire for clothes.

“Where do you sleep?” he asked finally, his expression one of horror. I pointed at the wall opposite the door, between the kitchen and shower, where a string hung, and when pulled, released the fold up bed. “You actually live here?”

“Not all of us are professional athletes,” I deadpanned. I could feel my cheeks getting hot, and I hated that he made me feel this embarrassed. “Some of us are poor college seniors trying to graduate on time and pay off their loans.”

“You can’t live here,” he declared, looking around the small space. It was about the size of his walk in closet. I would know, I’ve been in there. But jeez, he didn’t need to be so blunt. Sure, the place could be a little better.

Okay, no, nothing could salvage my excuse for an apartment. But still.

“I can. And I do. It keeps me warm and dry, and that’s all I need.” I kept my mouth shut about the recent convenience store robbery just down the street. No one had died, so it wasn’t worth mentioning.

He seemed to struggle for words, like this whole situation was just too much for him. Or too little, since his own living space was about ten thousand times the size of mine. “But this isn’t safe! You’re leaving, right now.”

I scoffed. “Excuse me? And go where?”

He hesitated, as if afraid to say what he wanted to say next. His eyes looked conflicted. “I don’t know, but there must be someplace else?”

I shook my head. People were always telling me that what I was doing was wrong, but when I asked for a better solution, they could never give me one. James Neal was no different.

I gave a sarcastic laugh. “Right, that’s what I thought,” I said. “Thanks for the helpful suggestion, but I’m good right here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have tons of work to do.”

He stood his ground. “I’m not leaving you here.”

My laughter died and the sarcastic smile I had fell off my face. Who did this guy think he was?

What, was he going to stay here with me and make sure no one attacked me at night? Hide in my armoire, ready to strike?

“Listen. I’ve been here --” I paused. Honestly, I’d only been here for a little over a month. I’d lived in a dorm the first half of my freshman year, and then I’d been a Resident Advisor. It was only until my senior year started that I realized I had to stop being an RA (the pay sucked even though it was free housing) and get an actual job if I had any chance of paying off all my student loans. When looking for a place to live, I didn’t have very many choices. This building, this entire area, wasn’t the safest, but it was the best I could do. It was either this or a cardboard box. “… over a month now. And I’ve managed. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“But--”

“Thanks for the ride,” I cajoled him, standing and placing a hand on his firm arm while simultaneously pushing him gently out the door. “Have a safe drive home… If you’re car is still there…”

He looked back, his eyes wide and insistent. But I didn’t care. He didn’t have anything helpful to say, so I didn’t need to hear it.

He was halfway out the door when he suddenly resisted my pushing, putting a hand on the door to brace himself.

“Youcouldlivewithme,” he said quickly, all in one breath.

I stopped in my tracks, hands still on his arm.

“What?”

“You could… you could live with me.”