Penalty Kill

Harper

"Thank you so much, yes, they do smell wonderful. The reading is just the upstairs and then to the right—there's signs once you reach the floor. Yep, you're welcome. No problem"

For the four hundredth time today, my cheeks are flushed the most embarrassing shade of pink. Almost the same shade of pink as one of the dozens of gorgeous flowers poking out of a bouquet that I swear to god is centerpiece sized and taking up the majority of the front desk at the library.

The flowers are from none other than Jake, and they arrived promptly after I got here for my noon shift. The timing of their delivery was so impeccable that I found myself looking over my shoulders to make sure there wasn't a lumbering six-foot some odd inches Jake peering out from a stack of books giggling like the adorable doof that he is. 

Not only did he send flowers the day of his second reading at the library, he sent a gift along with them—a brand new Storm jersey. It's the same home colors as the home jersey I had before, except this one seems a little different. It's heavier in my hands, and as I pick it up, a strap falls down from the bottom. With what little knowledge I possess, I glean that this is probably a fancy game-day jersey.

And when I'm taking it in and shaking my head at the pomp of the man I've been so greedily spending every waking second of my time with, I notice some sharpie writing near the tag at the inside of the collar.

For my feisty Chirpy girl xxxx Jake

Only kisses. Go figure.

I've tucked the jersey away into the safety of the backroom where my lunchbox, purse and jacket are, but when I attempted to stow the flowers away out of sight and out of mind, I was admonished by every coworker in close proximity.

So the flowers stayed out, and I've been blushing the same blush every time someone stops to tell me how beautiful they are and ask me who they're from.

Lucky for me, I don't have to be too specific, and I can get away with a simple answer of "Oh, just an admirer."

No reason to come out and advertise that they're from one of the alternate captains of the Storm, who will, in fact, be here tonight for a book reading. There's also no reason to counter all the compliments I've received on my outfit—picked all-too-eagerly out by Felicia—with the fact that the only reason I got myself all done up was to impress a silly boy who chases other boys and a puck around with a stick.

I've only felt the tiniest bit ridiculous walking around in a cream-colored, oversized turtleneck sweater, warm tan skirt, coordinating tights and knee-high heeled boots. Especially considering the amount of kneeling, crouching and bending over this job requires—there's a reason I'm usually a high-waisted jeans gal.

Mercifully it's nearly quarter to seven right now, and I'm doing everything in my power to not think about who's supposed to be arriving quite literally any second. The past week has been a whirlwind of me feeling like I'm living out someone else's wildest romantic fantasies. Every second I've gotten to see or be with Jake, we're all over each other like two hormonal teenagers. I'd be more disgusted if it didn't fill me with such an infectious high of undeniable giddy glee.

We're constantly touching. Whether he's hanging on me, or I'm hanging on him, or we're hugging, holding hands, putting a hand on an arm or a shoulder or a back—we're always connected at one point. And every moment a kiss is acceptable, you can guarantee one of us is sneaking one in. Or two. Or three.

It's ridiculous, and if I was anyone else, I'd sure as hell be sick of us. But by some unfathomable act of god, I'm me, and I get to fucking live it. A fact that is never lost on me whenever we're together. So when I hear a general raucous being raised from behind where my back is turned at the desk, I have a feeling a certain someone has finally arrived for their reading.