Waiting for Prince Harry (17 page)

Chapter 20

The Pop Quiz Question:
How much do you know about your new boyfriend’s past?

A)  Who cares? I live in the present.

B) I have asked him a zillion questions because I need to know everything about my new man.

C) When the time is right, he’ll share it with me.

“Harrison, when you said ‘penalty box,’ I have to admit I had something completely different in mind for this evening,” I say, smiling at him.

Harrison laughs as he holds my hand. He is leading me down the tunnel to a hockey-training rink, which he has reserved just for us this evening. When Harrison picked me up, he told me I had to change, so now I’m in my True Religion jeans, black T-shirt, and a women’s replica of Harrison’s Dallas Demons jersey, which is now my most prized possession.

“Why, Kylie Reed, you have quite the dirty mind, don’t you?” Harrison teases. I blush like mad in response and he laughs louder. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time for you to punish me later.” Then he cocks an eyebrow at me. “In any fashion you find appropriate.”

I laugh as he eases me on to the ice. “I like your style, Harrison Flynn.”

He laughs as we step on to the ice. “Be careful, Gorgeous Girl. It’s really slick.”

I carefully walk on the ice, holding Harrison’s hand in mine as he leads me a few steps over to an area enclosed on all sides.

“Now this here,” Harrison says, opening a door, “is the penalty box. I thought this might be a good place to talk about what happened last night.”

He leads me inside, and we sit down on the bench. He wraps his hand over mine and clears his throat.

“I haven’t really told you much about my parents,” Harrison says slowly, his eyes cast out over the vacant hockey rink.

I nod. I know they live in Cambridge, they’re involved in education, and they don’t approve of his hockey career.

Harrison takes a deep breath and squeezes my hand. “When I told you they work in education, that was an understatement, Kylie. They are professors. At
Harvard
.”

I feel my jaw drop as I stare at Harrison.
They are Harvard professors?
Suddenly everything about last night makes sense.

“My mother is a professor in the Department of Celtic Languages and Literatures, the only Celtic department in the United States,” Harrison continues. “My father is a professor in the Department of Classics.”

Harrison pauses for a moment. “They are
brilliant
, Kylie. They’re passionate about books and research and teaching literature. Sports are useless and irrelevant in their world. In fact, they’re horrified by what I’m paid to play sports.”

I furrow my brow. “So if they don’t like sports, why did they sign you up for lessons at age three in the first place?” I ask, as I remember reading that about him on his web page.

“I was a mess at preschool. I was wound up and acting out. I had an endless amount of energy. My parents kept enrolling me in children’s art and music classes to give me an outlet but that was an epic fail. I wasn’t interested in sitting still. So the preschool teacher suggested an athletic activity might be a way for me to get all this energy out.”

“And that is how you ended up in hockey,” I say quietly.

Harrison smiles softly. “Yeah. And I took to it immediately. On the ice I was free. The little boy who was forced to sit still and do things he wasn’t interested in could fly on the ice, to learn to stick handle, to feel the energy of skating hard and shooting the puck at the exact right moment to hit the net. From the first moment I stepped on the ice, it felt
right
. And I loved it. I still do.”

“So your parents,” I say gently, “they obviously saw you had a gift for hockey, right?”

Harrison sighs. “Actually, they were completely bewildered. Nobody in the family history had any sort of athletic skill. The coaches started throwing around words like ‘prodigy’ and they were like, ‘Whoa, this is just a way for him to get energy out. Not a career.’”

I tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear. “They thought this would be recreational for you.”

Harrison nods. “Yeah. Except I kept excelling and moving up the ranks. When the coach suggested I go study in Canada so I could live with a family there and pursue junior hockey, my parents went nuts. They told me absolutely not, I was staying at my prep school here. Then they told me no more hockey, it was time to focus on school.”

“Oh, Harrison, that’s not right,” I say, squeezing his hand in mine. “They didn’t encourage you to pursue the thing you were passionate about. You could have managed both with their guidance.”

“That’s the ironic part,” Harrison admits. “But when they said no hockey, you’re going down this path we’ve picked, I rebelled. Big time.”

“We both had paths chosen for us,” I say, reaching up and playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. “But you were strong enough to rebel. I just did what I was told,” I say, thinking of how my parents told me I was going to SMU, end of story, and even though my dream was Parsons, I never argued it.

“I don’t know if it was strong or stupid,” Harrison says, looking down. “But in essence I blackmailed them. I told them if they took hockey away from me I would purposefully flunk every class and humiliate them. They would be known in social circles as the Harvard professors with the idiot jock son.”

I swallow hard as I see the embarrassment flicker across his gorgeous face. Then he looks up at me. “I’m not proud of that,” he whispers, his voice filled with regret.

“Harrison, you were a
kid
,” I say, shaking my head. “We all do things we aren’t proud of. And hockey was your
gift
. You fought for it the only way you knew how.”

“I guess so,” he says quietly. “So then they said I could play hockey, but they begged me to go to college, play there and get a degree. Makes sense, right? Unless you are stubborn and a teenager and hear numbers like 50 million dollars being waved in front of your face. A college injury could have ended all of that in the blink of an eye. So I signed with the Demons when I was 18.”

“Harrison, I totally think you made the right choice,” I say honestly.

“Did I?” Harrison asks, his eyes searching mine. “Financially, yes, absolutely I did the smart thing. And I love playing hockey. I love everything about it—the excitement of figuring out how a play is breaking out, of hearing the crowd scream because you just shot the winning goal. Hockey is who I am, Kylie.”

“No,” I say.

“No?”

“You’re more than hockey. That is one part of the real Harrison Flynn. Because you aren’t always in the No.22 jersey. And that is the Harrison—”

Oh Jesus. I was about to say, “I fell in love with.” But that’s crazy. We have known each other for like what, two weeks? KNTGAG.
Kylie Needs To Get A Grip.

“Yes?” Harrison says, his eyes locked on mine, waiting for me to finish that sentence.

“Um . . . that’s the Harrison I know,” I say, keeping my original thought to myself. “And that’s the Harrison I want to be with.”

“But Kylie, I’m not educated,” Harrison says simply. “What the fuck do I know about anything?”

“What? Harrison,” I cry, hardly believing he thinks this about himself. “How can you
say
that? You’re just as smart as your parents.”

“Right,” Harrison says, shifting his gaze back to the hockey ice in front of us.

I put my hand on his arm, and he turns back to me. “Harrison, you’re incredibly smart. To learn all of that psychology stuff on your own, to understand it like you do . . . shows me your brilliance. I have no doubt about that. None. And after hockey, you could pursue a career as a psychologist.”

Harrison sighs and shakes his head. “No. It’s too late for that. I discovered my interest in psychology two years too late.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, puzzled.

“I was curious about the mind/sport connection when I first started my professional career,” Harrison says. “So on flights, in hotel rooms, I started reading a lot of sport psychology books on my Kindle. And it was fascinating. Then I started reading general psychology books. From there, I moved on to books by and about famous psychologists. I thought, ‘Man, this is something I would love to do. To help people with problems and mental health issues.’ But that opportunity is gone. Too far back in the rearview mirror.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Harrison asks. Then he laughs. “Come on, Kylie. I barely studied in high school. I don’t even remember how to write a paper. And what would it be like sitting in class at a university? Would people be taking pictures of me with their cell phones? No, that’s not an option.”

I study him carefully. And then it hits me.
Harrison is afraid to take that leap
. He’s afraid to try to realize his other passion, his other calling—
to become a psychologist
.

“So now you know why I reacted the way I did when I saw your quiz answer,” Harrison says quietly, slamming the door on the psychology subject.

I feel embarrassment flood through me. “I’m not proud of my answer on that question. Because I couldn’t disagree more with that now.”

“I know,” Harrison says softly, reaching out and playing with my hair. “And I’m sorry I overreacted to it. So are we good here, Kylie?”

I smile happily at him. “We are very good, Harrison.”

He smiles and leans into me. His lips meet mine, and we share a slow, sweet kiss in the penalty box.

And as he kisses me like this, with his fingers tangling in my hair and his spicy vanilla scent wrapping around me, I decide there is no other place I’d rather be than right here, with my ginger Hockey God.

“Mmmm, nice,” Harrison says, whispering against my lips.

“Mmmm, yes,” I murmur back.

Harrison lifts his head and grins at me. “As nice as that is, and we do have endless possibilities for that
later
, I have something else in mind right now.”

I laugh. “Like what?”

Harrison reaches down next to him and picks up a box. “For you,” he says, handing it to me.

“Me?” I cry, delighted.

Harrison laughs. “Yes, you. Now open it.”

I eagerly take the large white box with an elaborate silver bow and ribbons on top. I remove the ribbons and lift the lid. I push the white tissue paper inside and find a pair of silver and pink ice skates.

“Ice skates!”

“Yes. Because it’s high time you have a Hockey 101 lesson. I refuse to be confused with a basketball player. My captain’s ego won’t allow it.”

I burst out laughing. “How did you know what size to get?” I ask, curious.

“I sent Gretchen a Connectivity PM, she got your shoe size for me, and I bought these from the pro shop this afternoon.”

Oh, how I love his thoughtfulness.

“They’re perfect,” I cry happily. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Harrison says, flashing me a brilliant smile. “So lace up, Gorgeous Girl. You are about to be schooled on my home ice.”

Chapter 21

The Pop Quiz Question:
Do you understand what your boyfriend actually does for a living?

A) Not really, but I do know the name of where he works.

B) Yes, of course.

C) He might as well be speaking Greek to me when he explains what he does for a living . . . but it’s a language I want to learn.

I’m leaning over the door to the penalty box trying to focus as hard as I can. Harrison is skating out on the ice in front of me, showing me the various lines and circles painted on the surface and what they mean, but this is all really hard for me to understand. One, because I’m completely sports illiterate, and two, because he’s so incredibly hot on the ice that it is
impossible
for me to focus.

I mean, here’s this ginger Hockey God, skating around on the ice quickly and easily, backward and forward, showcasing his athleticism and agility. He’s in his element here, and I hear the passion in that Boston-tinged voice as he describes everything to me. Of course, that alone is a turn-on, but then he’s doing this in jeans and a cotton navy crew neck sweater that stretches tight across his broad chest—

“Got that, Gorgeous?” Harrison asks, skating over to me and sliding to a stop as ice sprays out behind his skates.

I blink. Harrison is looking at me with a cocked eyebrow.

“What?” I ask, embarrassed.

“Am I boring you?” Harrison asks, grinning.

“No!” I cry. “I was just . . . wondering . . .” I glance around and notice he has a hockey stick propped up in the penalty box. “I was just wondering how you use your stick.”

Harrison’s eyebrows shoot up. “You want to know about my stick? Funny, but I think you already know about my stick, Kylie.”

Oh shit. I’m so mortified I want the ice to swallow me up.

“That’s not what I meant!” I cry, covering my hands over my face.

Harrison roars with laughter and I peek at him by opening my fingers a crack.

“I thought you liked my stick-handling abilities,” Harrison teases.

“Stop it,” I cry, laughing.

“We have endless possibilities for stick handling later tonight, if you so desire,” Harrison continues.

“Would you stop?”

Harrison laughs again and reaches beside me, pulling out his hockey stick. “Oh, were you referring to this stick?”

I giggle. “Yes, that would be the one.”

“Right,” he says, his eyes sparkling at me. “Well, this here is one of mine. Players are meticulous about sticks.”

I wrinkle my brow. “How so?”

Harrison turns it over and shows me the curved part of it. “The curve of a stick dictates how you lift a puck. If there is less of a curve it is easier to pass. So each player works on their own sticks. You use a blowtorch to heat the blade and curve it. You stand on it, turn it in a vice. But we all work on them so they are just the way we like them.”

“You mean they just don’t come that way?” I ask, surprised. “You really craft your own stick?”

Harrison grins at me. “You aren’t the only one who is crafty, Kylie Reed.”

I laugh. God, I’m so falling for him.

“So tell me what it’s like when you’re on the road.” I ask. Then I think about this. When the season starts—if they aren’t locked out—Harrison will be gone. A lot. And the thought of him being away makes me feel a bit anxious inside.

“I’ll tell you while we skate,” Harrison says, opening the door of the penalty box.

I put my hand in Harrison’s as I get ready to step on to the ice. “Okay, you better not let me fall,” I declare. “I have skated once, in high school, at the ice rink in the Galleria,” I say, referring to the big mall in North Dallas. “And it was an epic fail.”

Harrison takes both my hands in his. “I’ll never let you fall, Kylie,” he says softly, his eyes locked on mine as he holds my hands in his. “I promise you that.”

I stare back into his eyes. I know he is talking about more than ice skating.

I swallow. “And I would never let you fall either, Harrison,” I say back to him.

Right now I’m only aware of the genuine look in his eyes.
This is my man
, I think, my heart jumping.
Harrison is my Prince Harry, my everything. And I know he would never let me fall
.

Harrison then begins to skate backward, and I move with him.

“Shit,” I gasp as I go sliding forward.

Harrison holds me up. “You’re fine. Just look at me and hold my hands.”

The ice feels so heavy underneath my skates. Jesus, how do figure skaters and hockey players make it look so easy? It’s hard to simply
move
, let alone skate fast or jump!

Harrison skates backward like this is the easiest thing on earth, and I inch across the ice, wobbling, as I try to skate.

“Don’t let go!” I cry.

“Not going to.”

“Okay,” I say, focusing.

“So the road games,” Harrison says as we inch along and I get a feel for what I’m doing. “Say we are doing an East Coast swing, and playing Boston and the New York teams. That usually takes five days. We’d be home for a week, let’s say, play three games here, and then back out on the road again.”

My chest grows tight. I hate the idea of him being away so often, but I guess this is part of dating a professional athlete.

“So what it’s like on a road day?” I ask, wanting to know more about his hockey life.

“Around ten in the morning we take a bus to the arena,” Harrison explains. “Hey, you’re doing great,” he interrupts.

I smile. “I’m awful.”

“No, you’re not. I might just let go now.”

“Harrison!” I squeal, gripping his hands tighter.

“Kidding,” Harrison says, laughing.

“So you go to the arena,” I say, redirecting him.

“We do a pre-game skate for an hour,” Harrison explains. “Then we take a bus back to the hotel. We have the pre-game meal there at twelve-thirty. Usually that is pasta and chicken parmesan—carbs for fuel. And after lunch it’s nap time.”

“Nap time?” I cry, laughing. “You take
naps
?”

“The nap is huge,” Harrison declares, laughing. “That’s usually an hour and a half. You’re seeing how hard it is to skate, Kylie. Imagine playing hockey on the ice.”

“Okay, I see the value in a nap.”

“So after you take a nap, it’s time to get a coffee and head to the arena by five. Play the game at seven, on the bus and to the airport by ten, land at the next city.” Then Harrison makes a face. “And be greeted by Seekers and groupies in the hotel lobby when you arrive.”

Suddenly an image of the Flynnbabes flashes through my head. And I’m not sure I want to know the details of what Harrison is greeted with in every hotel lobby on the road.

“Seekers?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

“Autograph seekers. Some people will shove a stack of photos in your face with a pen and get real pushy about it. Those are the ones I refuse to sign. I know they’re going to be sold, and I don’t like the aggressiveness. Sometimes they will send kids to do it for them, because we are more likely to sign for kids. The whole thing pisses me off. And who wants my autograph anyway?”

I laugh. “Apparently a lot of people do.” Then I clear my throat, coming back to the topic I really want to discuss with him. “What about the groupies? Are they the Flynnbabes I saw online?”

Harrison shoots me a look. “You haven’t gone back on that page, have you?”

“No,” I say honestly. I take a breath, deciding to be honest with him. “I haven’t been to any Internet site about you other than your own web page. Although it’s really hard to not peek. Sometimes I just want to know what is being said, you know?”

“I understand that,” Harrison says, his face relaxing. “But I wouldn’t ask you to stay away from social media without having solid reasons for doing so. There is so much crap out there, Kylie. So much of what is there is untrue or stupid or just hate-filled. I don’t want you to deal with any of that, Gorgeous.”

I exhale. “I know you want to protect me.”

“I do,” Harrison says firmly. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, let alone the rantings of some idiot fan taking shots at me on a hockey forum or a Flynnbabe discussing my personal status.”

I nod. “So back to Flynnbabes. Do they wait for you? In lobbies?”

Harrison groans as we continue to skate. “Yes. Groupies know what hotels we stay at, what bars we frequent. They wait for us to roll in.”

I swallow hard. I know this is part of his life, but I can’t help but wonder why he picked me to be his girl. Harrison could have any number of available women, women more experienced than me, more exciting than me, throwing themselves at him in every city he travels to—

“I’ve never dated a fan,” Harrison says, snapping my thoughts. I see sincerity shining in his eyes. “There are certain things that come with playing a professional sport, Kylie. Groupies are one of them. Anything can happen on the road—heavy drinking, wild nights with random girls, cheating on wives. That all happens, I’m not denying that. But I’m promising you right now that’s not me. None of that is. I’m not a heavy drinker, I’m not crazy on the road, and I would never cheat.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” I say honestly. And I know I’m right. All of that might happen, hell, it might even be
standard
, but it is not
Harrison’s
standard.

“And the reason I have never dated a fan,” Harrison says, continuing, “is because I always wanted to find someone who simply liked the
real
me. The guy who is a mess and can’t find where he left his phone. The guy who has more psychology books than he can count. The guy who blows up when he’s mad, when he should stop down and think first. I wanted someone who would like that Harrison, the
real
Harrison, flaws and all. That’s who I looked for, Kylie. And I found that in
you
.”

I feel tears well up in my eyes, and his handsome face becomes blurry.

Then he releases one of my hands and quickly grabs my waist with it. Harrison is staring down at me, holding me up at center ice, and I gaze up at him with nothing but love in my heart.

“And I found,” I say, my voice thick, “someone who likes the fact that I’m quiet. Who likes a girl who prefers being home to going out. The girl who’s passionate about sewing and cutting patterns. The girl who can’t cook. The girl who hates conflict and is still figuring out how to deal with it. And that is what I found in
you
, Harrison.”

My heart is pounding wildly inside my chest. His strong arms keep me from falling on the ice, and I rest my hands against the soft cotton fabric of his sweater.

Harrison dips his head down and his lips find mine. His mouth is gently moving against mine in the sweetest, most romantic kiss I’ve ever had. The way he is kissing me tells me everything I need to know.

He’s falling for me just as fast as I’m falling for him.

Harrison lifts his head up and stares at me. “You know, Kylie, I still need to be punished for my atrocious behavior yesterday,” He says wickedly.

“Are you saying the penalty box is now in play?” I ask, matching him.

Harrison roars with laughter. “Perhaps I am.”

“You do realize, Harrison Flynn, that it is going to take me a very long time to skate back to the other side, right?”

“One of my flaws,” Harrison says sexily, “is impatience.”

And with that, he scoops me up in his arms.

“Don’t drop me!” I cry, winding my arms around his neck.

Harrison laughs as he begins to skate. “You mean like this?” Harrison says, letting me drop down closer to the ice.

I shriek with laughter. “Yes! Pull me up!”

Harrison laughs and lifts me back up so I’m cradled into his chest. He skates with me over to the penalty box and he puts me down. I walk over to the bench and take a seat.

Harrison sits down next to me. I turn to look up at him but then Harrison’s mouth is on mine, this time in a hot, seeking kiss. His hands are tangling in my hair, I feel his stubble scratching against my face, his lips moving rapidly, his body pressing into mine as he moves his hands around my back and pulls me closer to him.

“How bad have I been, Kylie?” Harrison whispers sexily. Then his mouth closes over mine again.

Oh. My. God. We’re going to make out right here in the penalty box!

If I have any say about it, that is.

“You,” I whisper back, kissing his neck, “need to,” I murmur, kissing him up and down his neck, “be here . . . in this box . . . for a
long
time.”

Harrison groans as I kiss him. “I love when you do that.”

I reach up and stroke the ginger curls at the nape of his neck. Harrison kisses me again, his hand rubbing up and down my thigh and then climbing up the fabric of the jersey I’m wearing.

“You’re wicked hot wearing my jersey,” Harrison whispers against my mouth. “I like that.”

I kiss him harder. “It will look even better when it’s the only thing I’m wearing.”

Did I just say that aloud? Harrison Flynn is making me a whole new woman, one who is sexy and confident and very suggestive, nothing I have ever wanted to be before. It’s amazing what the right man can do.

Harrison immediately breaks the kiss and stares at me. I see nothing but desire flickering in his gorgeous eyes.

“You said just wearing my jersey?” Harrison says, his voice low. Then he cocks an eyebrow at me. “Nothing else?”

“Mmmmm hmmmmmm,” I say, winding my fingers through his curls. “I did.”

“Then I just killed this penalty,” Harrison says quickly. “We’re done. Get those skates off, Gorgeous. I have one last night in the penthouse suite, you know. And I intend to spend the night with you. Wearing that jersey. And nothing else.”

I smile happily as he gives me a lingering kiss on the lips before unlacing his hockey skates.

As I unlace mine, I realize just how much I am growing and changing because of this man.

My Prince Harry
.

And I just hope with all my heart that I’m the girl who becomes his princess.