Want You to Want Me Read online

  “Gabriella. There’s no excuse for my dickish, hurtful behavior. What’s worse is I didn’t know you’d overheard.” I cringed. “No, it’s definitely worse that you took off and I didn’t check in with you to make sure you were all right given the shit day you’d had. And to add further insult to injury, this past week whenever I saw you, I couldn’t figure out what I’d done to piss you off.” I ran my hand across the back of my sweaty neck. “Christ. I always know how to smooth things over and this time . . . I’m at a loss. I’m not a purposefully mean guy. I don’t get off on being an asshole. I’m just so fucking sorry. I won’t ask for your forgiveness because I don’t deserve it.”

  I walked away.

  Seven

  GABI

  In less than five minutes Nolan Lund had wrecked me again.

  This was why I hadn’t wanted to come to this party, but Liddy had strong-armed me into attending to celebrate after I told her I’d made the next level for the job interview.

  Too much bubbly resulted in too much information from me, giving Nolan a piece of my mind. What he’d done was wrong. No doubt about it.

  But the way he’d owned up to it and apologized?

  That had set everything to rights with me.

  I cooled my heels and my temper with another glass of champagne.

  Then I went looking for him.

  I wasn’t sure where he’d gone, but I suspected he’d be by himself. I dodged and weaved through the patrons clogging the hallway. The crowd thinned when I’d reached the last semiprivate gaming area and I caught sight of him, playing an arcade game in the corner.

  Now what?

  I paused in the threshold, debating my options.

  Sidle up next to him and toss off a pithy comment as if we were cool now?

  Approach him with caution and thank him for his apology?

  Return to the bar, snag two flutes of champagne, come back here and toast to new beginnings?

  In my usual fashion, I decided to wing it.

  I marched up to him. “So here’s the thing, Lund. I’m guilty of doing the same thing you did.”

  Without looking at me, he said, “Being an asshole?”

  “Yeah, that too. But I’ve said stuff that could’ve hurt people if I’d been overheard. It’s just . . . that comment hit me where it hurts because I’ve spent most of my life fighting back against incorrect assumptions.”

  “I wish you would’ve fought back against me and mine.”

  “In a way, that’s what I’m doing tonight. Only because I’ve been drinking. I confronted you—when I could’ve let myself be pissed off at you forever. So, I accept your apology.”

  A beat of silence passed between us.

  “That’s it?”

  “It’s not enough? You want more?” I teased.

  His lips quirked, even when he kept his focus on the game. “I never would’ve pegged you as funny.”

  “I hear that a lot. Along with Crabby Gabi.”

  The machine made a tinny sound and Nolan smacked the button on his left. “Being called Crabby Gabi bothers you.”

  A statement. “That’s what sticks in people’s minds. It’s hard to overcome.”

  “Tell me about it. In college I was known as Trollin’ Nolan. I didn’t go to college here and thankfully that nickname stayed there after I graduated.”

  “Wait. You didn’t go to U of M like everyone else in your family?”

  “I went to NYU.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Why?”

  “Because at the time I figured I’d be stuck in Minneapolis the rest of my life, so I wanted to live somewhere else when I had the chance and didn’t have a dozen relatives looking over my shoulder.” He paused. “You little fucker. Stay put.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Talking to the game.”

  I sighed. “I’ll leave you be then. I should probably find my date anyway.”

  The whomp whomp whomp whomp whomp sound of him losing followed me as I walked away.

  Not that I got far before Nolan spun me around. “Ash isn’t your date any more than I am.”

  “You’re right. But you’re here, and I’m here, and we just bitched and made up, so let’s find a game we can play together and make everything all better.”

  “Last game we played, you kicked my ass. Twice.”

  I offered him a sunny smile. “Which is why I’m offering you a chance to redeem yourself.”

  “Ha. You just wanna sucker me.”

  “If you’re saying no . . .” I stood on my toes as if peering over his shoulder. “I’m sure there’s someone around here who’d be interested in losing to me.”

  “Jesus. You’re impossibly cocky. Fine. I’ll play with you.” Nolan loomed over me. “One game, Gabriella. One game of my choosing.”

  “Unless I win and then you’ll demand a rematch. So, it has to be three games.” I looked around at the possibilities and rubbed my hands together. “Now what’ll it be?”

  “Space Invaders, Ms. Pac-Man or Pac-Man are the only dual-player games I’ve seen. Come on.” Nolan placed his hand in the small of my back to direct me. We didn’t stop to chat with any of the people he’d smiled at, said hello to or greeted by name. Seemed he knew everybody here.

  Seemed he didn’t want to introduce me to anyone he knew.

  Because he’s embarrassed to be seen with you.

  I must’ve stiffened because he came to a full stop.

  “What?”

  “If you’d rather hang out with someone else, it’s fine. I can track Liddy down.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “I’d rather hang out with you, even if you’re pissed off at me, because the rest of these people are here for the bragging rights of being invited to an exclusive event thrown by the Lund family and for the free booze. They’re not even interested in the games.”

  That explanation made me feel better.

  He tilted his head at a rakish angle that was utterly charming. “Or . . . are you getting cold feet because you’re afraid you’ll lose to me?”

  “Now who’s being impossibly cocky?”

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  A couple had claimed the Space Invaders game.

  He said, “Ladies first,” and directed me to the Ms. Pac-Man table.

  After sitting down, I leaned forward to read the instructions printed on the outside of the glass. Either they’d replicated this feature, or this was an original machine.

  “What are you doing? Don’t you know how to play?”

  “It’s been a long time since I played,” I lied, “so I’m refreshing my memory.”

  He placed two stacks of tokens on the edge of the table. “Ready?”

  I pointed at the tokens. “I thought you said we were only playing three games.”

  “I lied. And I’m picking competitive mode.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We don’t alternate turns. We play our own sides. High score wins.”

  Then he shoved the tokens in and the machine flashed and beeped.

  Shit.

  I managed to last, oh, maybe one minute before I was run through by a ghost.

  Nolan kept playing.

  And playing.

  So I started dropping tokens in every time I lost and restarted with a new game.

  I had improved, but I wasn’t anywhere near Nolan’s level—the man was still playing on that first token.

  After I dusted all the tokens in both stacks, I stood. “I’ll grab us champagne.”

  He might’ve grunted a response.

  Thankfully I didn’t have to venture far to find a cocktail waitress. I downed a glass, then carried two flutes back to the room. The other couple had left, so I parked myself in one of the Space Invaders chairs. I read through the instructions on
that one so I’d be prepared.

  Nolan said, “Are you fucking kidding me? I got through that vortex. The damn handle stuck. Stupid machine.”

  “Having trouble with your joystick, Lund?”

  He smirked, but he didn’t move his eyes from his game.

  Then the familiar sound of the game ending came from his side of the table.

  “I’m out. Next game.” He pushed back and loomed over the table, then peered over to check the floor. “Where are all the tokens?”

  “It’s a ghost in the machine.”

  “What?”

  “The ghosts in the machine have them.” I sipped my champagne. “I kept losing to them.”

  “That was twenty bucks’ worth of tokens! That should’ve lasted us all night.”

  “What can I say . . . I was a little quick on the trigger. It’d been a long time for me.”

  A moment passed and Nolan granted me that panty-dropping grin.

  Good lord. If I had any more champagne, I might do just that.

  Simmer down, Gabi. You’re still not his type.

  “I brought you a glass of champagne.”

  Nolan picked it up, studying the bubbles before he drank. “I should save myself the headache tomorrow and stop drinking now.”

  “Or you could pop four Excedrin before bed and enjoy the free booze.”

  “Is that your trick?”

  “Yep.” I tilted my glass at him. “Although, I’ll probably pop four more when I get up since I’m coaching and refereeing tomorrow.”

  He took a sip. “Do you take any days off?”

  I couldn’t afford to. Instead of sharing that tidbit with the billionaire heir, I deflected. “What about you?”

  “I’ll probably go into the office and catch up on a few things.” He frowned at the game console. “Not feeling Space Invaders.”

  “Great!” I jumped up. “I found a better game anyway.”

  “Lemme guess. Air hockey,” he deadpanned.

  “Ding ding! We have a winner. I have two tokens left so I’ll even pay.”

  “Generous of you, Coach.”

  I practically had to drag him to the machine.

  Maybe it was bad form to crack my knuckles before we started.

  We went back and forth a few times. I scored first.

  And second.

  My joy was short lived because he scored seven times in a row.

  Seven times.

  He beat me.

  Me: a professional hockey player.

  Nolan’s brash grin had me growling at him. “Don’t feel bad, Welk. I beat Jax all the time too.”

  “But . . . how?”

  “You’re focused on offense. You leave your slot open.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He laughed. “I didn’t mean for that to sound dirty.”

  “Sure you didn’t,” I teased back. “We need more champagne.”

  We found two seats at the bar. I looked around as the bartender refreshed our flutes. I hadn’t seen Liddy in a while and Nolan’s family were gathered across the room. “You don’t have to sit with me if you’re supposed to be with the Lunds.”

  “Still trying to get rid of me?”

  “Well, you are hopelessly annoying with that beating-me-at-games thing tonight.”

  He leaned in. “We’re tied. You beat me at pool twice. I beat you at Ms. Pac-Man and air hockey.”

  The waitstaff got busy and neither Nolan nor I felt like talking as we waited for service.

  Until he felt like jumping right in. “Earlier, after you accepted my apology, you said it wasn’t the first time you’d been on the receiving end of assumptions. What did you mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m calling bullshit on that.”

  I groaned. “Maybe I was talking out my ass in a show of camaraderie and commiseration and hoped it’d just float right over your head.”

  “God, woman, you baffle me.”

  “Honestly, Nolan, there’s nothing baffling about me not wanting to share some of the shitty things people have said to me that haunt me way longer than they should.”

  He poked my arm. “That’s exactly why I want to talk about it. After talking to you—really talking—I suspect we share some of the same misperceptions other people have about us. Let’s throw the fragments of our broken egos out there and run those motherfuckers over.”

  “But . . . I have a happy buzz from the bubbly,” I whined. “I don’t wanna focus on negative stuff.”

  “I have an idea.” Nolan upended his champagne and set the empty glass on its side on the counter. Then he set it to spinning like a top.

  “Dude. I am not playing spin the bottle with you.”

  He laughed. “You sure? We’re getting along so great now.”

  I whapped him on the arm.

  “We can put our own spin on talking about negative assumptions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Describing them with a positive result from them.”

  “Sounds good. You go first.”

  For the second time tonight I saw a raw vulnerability in Nolan’s eyes, and I had the urge to protect it—and him—from anyone who’d see it as a weakness and use it against him.

  Spontaneously, I wrapped my hand over his and squeezed. “Let’s run this shit over and never look back.”

  Nolan propped his elbow on the bartop and his head on his hand. “I’ve always put extra effort into my appearance, and I enjoy keeping up with fashion trends. It’s become somewhat of a hobby. I understand my good fortune at being born into a situation where money to maintain a certain style isn’t an issue. And my family gives me grief about my metrosexual fashionista ways, but it’s never mean-spirited.”

  My exhale caught in my chest because I suspected what was coming.

  “But they were the only ones who weren’t cruel. Everyone assumed I was gay. I had to be, right? Because I cared about how I looked. Trying to justify it just created worse problems for me. So I stopped defending or explaining myself.”

  “What’s the positive result?”

  “It has given me a different perspective on how difficult any marginalized groups can find things. Anytime I can step up and show the general populace that the LGBTQ community deserves the same rights and respect as everyone else, I do.” He sighed. “The negative . . . I became a manwhore at age eighteen if only to prove to myself I was hetero and realized I fucking loved women and vice versa, hence the ‘Trollin’ Nolan’ moniker.”

  “Only negatives as positives, remember?”

  “That was the positive.”

  I felt him studying me but didn’t look at him, half-afraid of what I’d see, or worse—what I hoped to see.

  “Now it’s your turn, Gabriella.”

  “But I don’t wanna . . .” I mock-whined.

  “Woman up and share with me, sista.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not being flip but . . . it’s been that same tune different dancer for me since high school. Girls who played sports competitively were butch. Therefore, as a hockey player, I had to be a lesbian. If we slapped each other’s asses after a great shot? Lesbians. If we hugged after a game win? Lesbians. No one ever assumes men on any other sports teams are gay if they do those exact same things.”

  “True.”

  “Conversely, if we didn’t wear makeup off the ice we enjoyed being seen as butch. But if we wore makeup to games, then we were vain, or trying too hard to look feminine to get men to notice us.” I snorted. “No one considered that we liked getting dressed up when we went out as a group after a game because it was a relief to get out of the sweaty uniforms we lived in. I’m not saying there aren’t lesbians in professional sports—I’m just saying it shouldn’t matter.”

  “Amen.”

  “I lo
ve my sport. I love showing skeptics that female hockey players are just as talented and fun to watch as any men’s team. Not just during the Olympics but all the time.”

  “You are an amazing coach, Welk. The kids at Lakeside worship you.”

  “Thanks.” I forced myself to list a negative aspect of the assumptions, since he’d done it. “As far as negatives . . .”

  “Only negatives as positives, remember?”

  “Fine. Years spent fighting to prove I’m tough and talented on the ice gives me a chip on my shoulder that’s easier to take with me off the ice than it is to leave it there.”

  Why had I told him that?

  Too much champagne.

  Nolan’s knees bumped mine when he turned on the barstool to face me. “Thank you for showing me off-the-ice Gabriella.”

  Relieved he’d given me an out, I said, “She’s usually not this tipsy.”

  “So is tipsy Gabriella in a place where she’s willing to exchange digits with her former frenemy?”

  “Yep.” I whipped out my phone and said, “Hit me.” Right after I typed in the numbers, I sent him a rainbow unicorn mermaid vampire emoji text.

  He laughed. “I’d expected a middle finger emoji.”

  On a whim, I gave him a tiny head-butt. “Another thing to remember about me, Lund? I live to defy people’s expectations of me.”

  “You’ve certainly defied mine.”

  “Same.”

  With our faces this close, I could see the turquoise flecks in his eyes.

  “Can I ask you something weird?” he said softly.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you smell cookies?”

  “Uh. No. Why?”

  “Every so often I get a whiff of cocoa and vanilla and it’s . . .” He frowned. Leaned closer, sniffed my neck and said, “Jesus. It’s you.”

  My chest tightened. “Are you saying I smell, Lund?”

  “Christ. Are you kidding me? I fucking love cookies. That scent has been driving me crazy. Why do you smell like cookies?”

  “Probably my cocoa butter lotion. I use a vanilla sugar body scrub too.”

  “It’s making me hungry.”

  We stared at each other.

  A half-shouted, “Hey, Gabi,” had us breaking apart.