The Seat Exchange

Chapter 13

I'd nearly toppled over when I collided with the human mountain, but a sturdy hand held firm to my elbow. A shutter wracked through my body when I considered how tiny I was next to him. And I wasn't even what most people would consider short. Next to the hulking frame of Hendrix Tate, the Falcon's starting goaltender, I was miniscule.

Talk about intimidating.

"Sorry." The smooth southern drawl escaping his lips was a bit of a surprise. Even though I'd lived next to the Hockey House for the last year and a bit, I hadn't so much as spoken to my neighbours–besides the over friendly Booker Gauthier.

"Don't worry about it," I uttered, as he removed his hand from my arm.

With a nod, Hendrix wandered off to the bar with the rest of the Falcons, leaving me alone with the last person I wanted to see. Booker's blue eyes sparkled with amusement as they assessed me. His arms laid across his chest, causing his biceps to bulge in a flattering way under the pub-style lighting. But despite how good he looked with his damp hair styled under his signature backwards baseball cap, I couldn't help but feel annoyed by his presence.

I rolled my eyes and responded, "I think I liked it better when you called me neighbour."

"It doesn't seem personal enough?" He mused as he advanced towards me. It was clear that he enjoyed getting under my skin.

I gave him a tight-lipped smile. "You don't know me like that," I reminded him.

"We could change that," he continued. "I think you and I would balance each other out pretty well."

"Balance each other out?" I echoed, raising an eyebrow.

I wasn't sure that there was anyone on this planet who could help stabilise a guy like Booker. If it wasn't clear from his lifestyle, Booker couldn't sit still for the life of him. And since taking French tutorials with him, that statement had never been more true. Booker was loud and he needed to have people around him at all times. It was the complete opposite of my reserved and anti-social nature.

"Well, you know what they say," he replied with a smirk. "Opposites attract."

I shook my head. "There's a reason why you can't use water with oil paints."

Booker was thoughtful for a moment–a rarity–before he spoke again. "Alors, j'ai entendu dire que tu es la jumelle qui parle français."

The foreign language rolled off of his tongue in a way that made it seem second nature. I could admit–even though it came from Booker–that the way he spoke French was almost musical.

I blinked at him, cupping my hand to my ear and trying to hide the fact that I couldn't understand him.

Booker leaned in closer, his warm breath caressing the side of my neck. "Alex mentioned that you help her with her French."

I bit the inside of my cheek. It was becoming harder and harder to keep up this charade, and I couldn't help but wonder when I'd trip myself up and expose my little lie.

"I'm really good at using Google Translate," I admitted. Desperate for a change of subject, I gestured toward the crowded bar. "So, what are you guys doing here tonight? I didn't expect to see the Falcons out after such a major loss."

"Does that mean you came to the game tonight?"

"No," I responded, feeling my face heat under his gaze. "I heard it from a few guys at the bar."

Booker nodded, but I could tell something in his eyes told me he didn't believe me. Maybe it was the permanent, delighted glint he had whenever he spoke to me. It was like he knew something I didn't, and that thought alone drove me mad.