Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance, Kate Willoughby [best books to read for young adults .TXT] 📗

hard-on, but it was impossible. Ever since that fateful afternoon, I sometimes fantasized about what it might have been like if he’d hooked up with me and not Blair.

Usually, I imagined we were in my dorm room and he couldn’t get my clothes off fast enough. He’d take me on top of the bed, or against the wall, or on my desk. I’d actually come up with quite a few scenarios and they all ended with us sated and sleepy.

His smile got even more wicked, as if he could read my thoughts.

“Would you like to join us?” Ruby asked, gesturing to an empty chair.

“Emerald, right?” He looked at her questioningly.

“Ruby.”

He snapped his fingers. “I knew it was a gemstone. I’m Hudson.”

“I remember.”

“Okay, let me get some food. Be right back.”

After he left, I whacked Ruby on the arm. “What are you doing?” I hissed.

“Giving you a chance to make your fantasies a reality.”

I quickly checked to make sure he wasn’t sneaking up on us again. “I don’t fantasize about him,” I hissed.

“Like hell you don’t.”

I bit my lip. “Okay, maybe once or twice.”

“Then you need to go for it,” she said. “Ask him out.”

“Are you kidding? First of all, he’s way out of my league. I also just insulted his penis. I have a better chance of curing cancer than I do getting a date with him.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, my friend. He did agree to sit down and have lunch with you,” she said, slinging her backpack on her shoulder and picking up her tray.

“Wait a second. What do you mean, ‘with you’? What are you doing? Are you leaving?”

“Three’s a crowd,” she said with an overly-bright smile.

“But then I’ll be alone with him and I’ll have to carry the conversation all by myself. I can’t do that. I suck at small talk. Lunch will be one giant uncomfortable silence and he’ll walk away thinking my tongue went on vacation.”

She put a hand on my shoulder. “Indi, I have faith in you. You can do this. Ask him about hockey. Or his car, if he has one.”

“Oh, good idea. Guys love talking about themselves.”

“And if all else fails, talk about his penis some more.” Then, hooting with laughter, she deserted me.

I didn’t know if I wanted to hug her or strangle her.

When Hudson returned a few minutes later, he had the same French dip combo that I had gotten—times two—an apple, a banana, a spinach salad, potato salad and a jumbo glass of iced coffee.

“Did you just come off a fast?” I asked.

He chuckled. “I have practice later. I need energy for that. Where’d Ruby go?”

“She had class.”

As he dug in, I tried to regulate my breathing. I was sitting at a table alone with Hudson Forte. He was close enough for me to see that his blue lagoon eyes were rimmed with green. He had thick lashes, a full lower lip and a tiny scar on a jawline that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Clark Kent.

“You know, it’s not every day I find two women talking about my penis and in such disparaging terms. I think maybe you owe me an apology.” He raised an eyebrow, but there was a smile playing about his lips.

This was so unlike any conversation I’d ever had with a guy, especially a jock. It was so disarming. And funny. It felt like we were friends now that we had this private joke. Maybe that was the key. I had to think of him as a friend. That would take all the pressure off. Despite what Ruby said, I was under no obligation to ask him out or even think of him as actual date material. He was pretty much in the same category as a celebrity I had no hope of ever talking with again.

Taking a mental deep breath, I said, “I would apologize if you were actually hurt by what I said.”

“I was hurt. I have an incredibly fragile ego. Inside, I’m weeping.”

“Stop it. You are not. Inside, you’re digesting.”

He laughed. “Can’t argue with you there. I love their French Dips here. The bread is killer because they grill it with butter and the jus is really beefy. I dip my French fries in it too.”

“So do I,” I said.

“You do not.”

“Yes—” I picked up a fry “—I do,” I said and dipped it.

His eyes narrowed and we sat there dipping and eating fries in silence, maintaining eye contact like we were in some kind of French fry eating throwdown. After a moment or two, he took three fries as if in challenge, dipped and ate them, all in one go. In response, I grabbed the rest of the ones on my plate—about five in each hand—dunked them into the jus and pushed them into my mouth, heedless of the liquid dripping down my chin and onto the table.

He laughed. “I give up,” he said, hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. “You win.”

I wiped my mouth and chin with my napkin, pretty relaxed now. The friend zone trick was working.

“They said in class you were drafted by San Francisco. I’m not really a sports fan so explain to me why you’re here and not with the team that drafted you.”

“Because it’s not like being drafted into the military. You don’t immediately report to the team for duty. What being drafted in the NHL means is that San Francisco has, I guess, reserved me, so that when I go pro, I play for them. That way, I get my college degree and they wait for me to finish.”

“So you’re going to live in San Francisco then?”

“Most likely.”

“You’ll be a Forty-Niner. Congrats!”

He got a pained look on his face.

“Gotcha!” I said, laughing. “I know that’s a baseball team.”

When the pained look didn’t go away, I laughed harder.

“Ha! Gotcha again. The Forty-Niners play football. My dad loves the Patriots.”

He chuckled. “Yeah? I’m a Giants man myself.”

“So what is your hockey team? It’s the San Francisco…?”

“Dragons. The San Francisco Dragons. And get