seventeen

John had the door to his house open before Meghan closed her car door.  He needed those precious seconds of her walking toward him to process everything about how she looked before she got close enough to touch.

Tonight she wore a white skirt, or maybe they were shorts, with layers of lace that moved with the sway of her hips.  A gauzy, bright blue t-shirt with a deep, sexy v-neck was tucked casually in at the front.  Her long legs ended in gray slip-on TOMS.

Yeah that’s fun, he thought, watching her approach.  He gestured to his own outfit.  “How’d I do?”

Meghan was already smiling.  John had predictably chosen a v-neck short-sleeved shirt of his own, this time in a faint, autumnal yellow.  She bet he’d bought one in every color of the rainbow when she said she liked them.  If she claimed to love bow ties, John would be wearing one daily.  His long cargo shorts were brown with a plaid pattern and a pair of classic white Converse low tops on his feet.

Another sensible footwear decision, she said to herself.

“You pass.”  Meghan stopped shy of the steps to John’s front door, knowing if she went inside there was a good chance they’d never come out.  “Let’s go.”

John let the door close behind him.  Meghan stayed put until he reached her, then reached for her, drawing her in for a kiss.  Her lips quickly parted, giving him a velvety brush of tongue that sent an ache right into his lap.  John groaned softly, his body revving like an engine.

“Easy tiger,” Meghan giggled, grabbing a handful of his ass for good measure.  “Maybe if you win you’ll get a prize.”

“Win?” he asked.  She just shook her head - no hints.  John was okay with this game for now.  “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

Meghan made a shocked face and pointed at her gray Volvo sedan.  It was actually her parents’ old car, but they’d held off selling it until the summer was over.  “Are you saying you don’t want to ride in Professor McGonagal?”

“Your car is named Professor McGonangal?”

“Your car probably doesn’t even have a name.”

“No,” John said patiently.  “It does not.”

Meghan huffed playfully.  “Exactly!”

Safely inside a car so boxy and solid an old British woman would love it, John let Meghan whisk him off toward the city.  The car had a CD player but no iPod jack, so he flipped through the CDs tucked into every door and glove box.  There was even a little binder.

“I didn’t think they made these anymore,” he said, holding up the CD file-o-fax.

“Har har,” Meghan said.  “Keep complaining and I’ll sing instead.  Then you’re in for it.”

The thirty minute drive took nearly an hour in traffic, but Meghan didn’t mind.  They talked about music most of the way.  John’s first concert was Billy Joel with his mom, Meghan’s was the Backstreet Boys with her mom.  He was excited to find an Augustana CD in her collection.  Meghan confessed about the weakness for country music she shared with Steven.

“I like some country,” John said, “and a lot of other stuff too.  Like Eminem, I usually listen to him before games.”

Meghan turned almost completely in her seat to face him.  “Eminem?”

“Yeah.  You don’t like him?  I know he talks about women a lot but I think….”

“No, I like some of his stuff, I guess.  I just,” she faced the road again.  Visions of John wearing tucked-in polo shirts and awkwardly stuffing his hands into his pockets came to mind.  That guy, listening to Eminem.  She smiled so as not to laugh.  “You’re full of surprises, John.”

She wheeled into a nondescript parking garage, giving John no clue of their destination.  Their fingers twined easily together on the walk toward the street.  Megan had chosen her target well, they emerged from the structure just a few meters from a sign that read: SPiN Toronto.

“You’re kidding,” he pulled her hand, stopping them.

Meghan’s eyes flashed.  “Have you been here?”

“No, but I’ve heard of it.  There’s a charity thing here every summer, some of the…,” recognition dawned on his face, “some of the Lightning players host it.”

“I came here two years ago with Steven.  And I beat him.  Marty St. Louis, too,” Meghan nodded pertly.

“You’re a ringer,” John put his free hand over their clasped hands.  She was all bare legs and cute shorts and now the date she’d picked was awesome before they even walked in the door.  If John had been nervous planning dates before he was in for it after this.

Meghan lifted onto her toes and said quietly against his ear, “A girl’s gotta be good at something.”

Inside was set up like a combination nightclub and pool hall - swanky decor, bars everywhere and in the middle, lined up like soldiers, rows of ping pong tables.  Most were occupied; Thursday night happy hour was in full swing.  A doe-eyes hostess in the shortest tennis whites John had ever seen asked if they had a reservation.

“Fuller,” Meghan said.  The girl scanned the list, her eyes widening slightly when she reached the annotation.  She looked around expectantly, faltering a bit when she realized it was just the two of them.

“Right this way.”

Over her shoulder, Meghan whispered to John: “We all got memberships at the tournament - mine is linked to Steven’s name.”  No wonder the girl looked so excited.

John whispered back, “I never asked your last name before.”

“Yes, you’re very rude,” Meghan told him.  He chuckled and pinched her butt in reply.

They were shown to a table at the far end of the room.  The wall to their left held a bar rail and to their right the room opened into more tables.  It was as semi-private as possible in a place meant to see and be seen.  John had already noticed everyone seeing Meghan.  She leaned her long, bare-legged way over the table to retrieve two paddles and a mason jar of ping pong ball.  His eyes took the scenic route from her shoes to her shorts, and he wasn’t the only one.

A waitress sauntered up.  “Get you folks a drink?”

“What’s the cosmo you guys make, the one with cranberry?”

“Bubbly Cosmo, coming right up.  You, sir?”

Meghan watched the waitress’s expression for hints of recognition, but saw nothing when she looked at John.  Oh well.  Then she noticed behind him, two guys with heads together glancing in their direction.  She pursed her lips happily.  Meghan had no desire to share her date with John but it seemed that in a place full of twenty- and thirty-something Canadians, John Tavares should be a recognizable name - and face.

John glanced at the menu and ordered a beer.  He’d rather save his calories for dinner.  When he turned around, Meghan was idly twirling a paddle between her thumb and forefinger.

“I’m going to be horribly embarrassed now, aren’t I?” he asked.

Meghan mentally gave John points for proper grammar before giving him an answer.  “I’m pretty sure Steven let me win that day.”  She tipped her head, long, soft waves fall over her shoulder.  “You could let me win.”

“Oh no,” John insisted.  “Stammer may be a sucker for a pretty girl, but you’re gonna have to beat me if you want to win.”

In truth they were both equally bad.  A shot or two went flying into another game, a few came flying at them from other players.  Every miss got a theatrical groan, every point a celebratory dance.  The layers of lace on Meghan’s shorts fanned out as she moved, catching John’s eye and distracting him every time.  He whiffed a stroke as if the paddle had a hole in it.

“You score goals?!” Meghan teased.  “Maybe I should take up hockey.”

“I don’t see you putting any money this game, financial analyst,” John shot back.

“I’m a consultant,” she corrected, tapping a volley over the tiny net.

“Which means what?”

“I tell you what to bet on,” Meghan explained, the ball flying over her outstretched arm.  She dropped into a crouch to check under the table.

“Well I’m not betting on you,” John replied.

She retrieved a ball and stood.  “I don’t want your money, honey. I’d make you wager something much more fun.”

“Like what?” John put his hands on his hips.  

She took in the shape of his body, pushing up beneath his shirt in perfect lines and rises.  Broad shoulders and thick arms, his posture exaggerating the way his torso narrowed into his hips.  She hadn’t seen that hard, flat plane of stomach since their day on the boat.  Soon enough, Meghan thought.

“That shirt, for starters,” she smirked.

John barked a laugh.  Meghan’s flirting was getting more brazen - he loved it, but wasn’t sure how long he could go on talking without acting.  Surely the ping pong table could hold her if he threw her on down of it.  He’d rather jump on top but he could stand for the sake of structural integrity.

Meghan won a game, then John won the next.  They were sloppy wins with more points for witty banter than actually hitting any shots.  Meghan finished her drink and set it down next to her paddle.  “Quick break.  If the waitress comes around, order me another drink.”

“Am I going to have to drive home?” John called after her.  She bounced away, lace shorts and waves of hair following suit.  He watched her cross the room - and turn every head on the way.

John drew his eyes back to the table, then to the menu, fiddling for something to do.  Of course everyone everywhere was going to look at Meghan.  Every guy would check her out.  John was guilty of the same from the moment he laid eyes on her at the gym - hell, he’d even given her a number rating.

She likes me, he reminded himself.  It was just still a little hard to believe.  Before his Pity Party of One could get into swing, the waitress arrived.  To her, John was just another guy with a wallet.  He ordered a second round and this time, handed over his credit card.  The waitress looked quickly - she had never heard of him.

Meghan couldn’t help admiring John from across the room.  He had the posture of someone who worked out for a living, an ease about his most common movements.  When he shifted his weight, every muscle in his body responded like an army in perfect formation.  The closer she got, the better the view.

“God, you’re hot,” she said, snaking her arms around his waist from behind.  John’s stomach contracted in laughter beneath her hands.

“That’s why every guy in here is looking at you.”  He smiled when he said it, like a compliment.

Meghan, however, made a face.  “They’re looking at ‘who’s this chick with Hart Trophy nominee John Tavares’?”

“Right.”

Meghan put her hands on her hips.  She didn’t care if John was a little jealous about other guys - considering what he was willing to put up with from James, it was obviously no real problem.  But it was a problem if John felt like he wasn’t important.  She spun on a heel and went back across the room, where four guys were breaking into new beers between games at their table.

“Hi,” Meghan said to the one who’d smiled at her before.

“Uh, hi.”  His eyes instantly darted over to John.  Meghan figured he was back there with his mouth hanging open.

“I wonder if you might help me.  This guy I’m with says he plays in the NHL.  Like I haven’t heard that one a thousand times.  Do you guys recognize him?”

“Yeah, that’s John Tavares from the Islanders, right?”

She pretended to look surprised.  “Really?  Is he any good?”

“Crazy good,” the guy said.

“Top five players in the League,” his friend added.

Meghan smoothed her top and skirt, tossed her hair and rubbed her lips together like she was about to hit the catwalk.  “Guess I’d better get back there then. Thank you!”

She turned and walked slowly back toward John.  The guys behind watched her go, but they were more interested in John than in Meghan’s retreating form.  She kept going until she was right up in John’s face.

“According to those guys, I’m on a date with a big deal hockey player.”

John laughed, turning his face away.  Meghan would do that.  She was always stirring the pot, keeping him on his toes.  He didn’t strive to be recognized but it was a nice validation of his play and standing in the League.  It was also nice to know that Meghan wasn’t afraid of it happening - apparently their secret really did stop with James.

“Top five in the League!” she whispered, starting to giggle.  “I should probably make sure he has a good time tonight.”

With that she kissed him, just an easy, carefree kiss.  John pressed his lips against hers like he was planting a flag.

Mine.  Because she wants to be mine.

____

Outside SPiN, Meghan stepped to the curb.  She kept one hand in John’s and used the other to hail a cab.  They’d each won two ping pong matches before Meghan took the grudge match by two points, with a strong suspicion that John had gone a little easy.

“College and Euclid, please.”  

They drove into Little Italy.  John was sitting closest to the curb side door and blocked Meghan in until she agreed to let him pay the fare.  When the cab pulled away, she led him toward a gray building that opened onto a few street-side tables and an awning below the name: Perla. Inside was fairly small, with deep blue walls and a long bar heading toward an open kitchen.  The hostess checked her list and led them to a table just at the threshold where the patio began, up against the far wall; private without being hidden away.

The lights were low as night fell on summer outside.  Passersby were on their way to other bars and the trendier neighborhood spots, but John thought this one was just right for a date.  Meghan glanced around, looking pleased with herself.  John was pleased to know she’d never been here with another guy.

Meghan watched John open the menu and scan the right side.  

“Hey, this place is…” John slowed at mid-sentence, his words turning into a chuckle as he realized when he was saying.  “Portuguese.”

“Half-Portuguese,” Meghan corrected.  “Like someone I know.”

He playfully flipped the menu.  “What, no Polish half?”

“Scary Gary disapproves of pierogies and kielbasa.  I figured you can eat fish.”

“That’s really sweet,” John almost added baby to that thought.  “Healthy options really help me.  I have a big weakness for food.”

Meghan smirked.  “I read that online too.”

“You’re like a spy - you can get all kinds of info on me, but I don’t know anything about you.”

“You have to do it the old fashioned way and ask,” she said.

Meghan chose the wine and John chose an appetizer selection that included one or two things that would make Roberts frown.  Over bites of olive dip and pork alentejana, John sought to even the playing field between.  They’d already talked about basic date things like movies and books, so he broadened his questions.

“What about your family?”

“My mom teaches special ed and my dad is a city engineer, he works on anything new that goes in, like a development that needs water and sewer.  I have an older brother, Dylan, who’s married and lives in Ottawa.  It’s a six year age gap between us, so growing up it was more like James and his brothers were my brothers.”  Meghan paused, realizing she’d just brought up the elephant in the room.  “Sorry.

“It’s okay if you want to talk about him.”  John had been waiting for it, like walking through a minefield.  If anything he was anxious to have the topic out in the open and get more information on exactly what was needed to overcome the Neal obstacle.

There wasn’t much way around James, if Meghan was going to talk about anything.  She continued.  “It was kinda exciting, growing up with James. He didn’t billet, he played in Whitby then in Bowmanville for a season, so we always went to his games.  He went to Plymouth when he was 17.  I was secretly so mad - I wanted him to go to the Generals or Steelheads.”  She laughed at the memory.  “I was such a brat.  I had my first boyfriend when James was with the Whalers and when they came to Oshawa, I brought him to the game.”  

“And?”

“And it went over about as well as you did, honestly.”

John managed a smile, but inside he sighed.  If James always reacted badly to Meghan’s dates, what did it mean?  Had he been in love with her since they were seventeen?  John thought he had a good foothold here but wondered how anyone could compete with that.

“But in that case, James was right.  That guy was a jerk.”  Meghan set down her wine glass and reached across the table for John’s hand.  He looked at her fingers before he met her eyes.  She said, “In this case, James is wrong.  And I will tell him, I promise.  I will figure out a way to do it so he understands that it’s not him against you.”

John wanted to believe those words.  The uncertainty must have shown on his face because Meghan gave his hand a squeeze.  

“It’s just you, John.”

He lifted her fingers to his lips and brushed his lips across her knuckles.  “Okay.”  

“Plus, I already told my parents.  They can’t keep a secret for long.”

Woah.  The ground under John’s chair moved a little.  Maybe he could believe what Meghan was saying after all.  “You told your parents?”

Meghan slowed.  She wanted to reassure the guy, not scare him.  “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, of course.  I mean, if it’s okay with you.  I, uh,” he stammered, “can I tell my parents?”

Tell them what? half his mind asked.  That you’ve made a deal with the devil to spend two months climbing a mountain and at the end, just before you start the biggest, most important and pressure-filled hockey season of your life, jump off the first cliff you find?

The other half of his brain saw the smile on Meghan’s face and said, Shut the fuck up.

“If you want,” she said.  The idea was giving her butterflies.  It wasn’t supposed to do that - parents were serious.  Well, not her parents, they were crazy.  “It’s a little unfair though, my parents already knew who you were.  At least my dad.  My mom knew your name and I showed her a picture.”

“What did they say?”  What did parents who probably assumed their daughter would marry her childhood best friend-turned NHL star think of another player stepping into the fray?

Meghan giggled.  “My mom thinks you’re gorgeous... and my dad said you seem like a dork.”

“Oh.”  John considered the alternatives.  “I guess that’s cool.”

“All the reasons I like you.”  Meghan squeezed his hand again.  “Hey, is it true you’re going to be named captain?  My dad said everyone thinks so.”

“I don’t know.  Streitsy just got traded like three weeks ago, and they probably won’t decide until just before the season starts.  We could make another move and….”

Meghan interrupted.  “But you could be.”

“Yeah.  I guess.”

“Wow.”  She leaned back in her seat.  This guy in front of her was so even-keeled.  He’d calmly accepted every crazy thing she’d done so far and been equally calm when telling her he didn’t agree.  On top of being a great hockey player, John had the demeanor Meghan assumed a captain would need.  “That’s amazing, John.”

“Hasn’t happened yet,” he cautioned.  Superstition and caution equally kept him from thinking about the possibility.

“Well, if it does, I think you’d be a great captain.”

John gave her a wry grin. “Because right now I’m really running the show with all these hockey players.”

____

After dinner they walked the twenty-five minutes back to the car.  Meghan was glad they’d had an honest conversation about James.  She felt better knowing that John understood some of the history, even if he didn’t liek what she was doing now.  At least she’d had the chance to say again that James had no hold on her heart, not romantically.  It helped to remind herself too.  Now she just had to figure out how to tell James without breaking his.

At a corner, waiting for the sign to cross, John turned Meghan in and kissed her sweetly.  They looked like any other couple enjoying a warm summer night, holding hands and strolling through the city.  Bars were packed, restaurant patios bursting with sounds and smells.  Meghan and John walked past every one without slowing.  They had a destination in mind.

The ride to John’s house was quick.  Meghan parked and beeped her alarm on, then followed him inside.  Predictably, he headed toward the kitchen.  “Do you want anything?  I have….”

Meghan headed right for the stairs.  “Bring me a water.”

John stopped, turned and ran after her.

Meghan was just inside the door to his bedroom when he caught up.  The walls were off-white, the carpet gray.  On his bed, a gray and blue patterned duvet was perfectly pulled up and smoothed across the queen-sized mattress, tucked under a small pile of white cased pillows.  A dark wood dresser spanned one wall with neat piles of whatever boys kept on top.  Unlike Steven and James, John had no TV in his room.  Next to the bed a nightstand held a  book and lamp.  She walked over and turned the small light on, then back to where John stood in the doorway.  With a flick, Meghan turned the overhead light off.

They were inches apart in the half-darkness of John’s bedroom.  Meghan had told John he was the only guy she wanted.  He would have taken less if it ended in this same scenario but John was thrilled to find himself here with the girl he thought had gotten away.

“You should kiss me,” she whispered.

John did.  His arms slipped around her waist as he brought his lips down on hers.  Meghan let him in eagerly; their kiss racing off the start line.  It was so different from the leisurely hour of kissing on the chair downstairs that John’s heart kicked into overdrive.  His hands moved from the small of Meghan’s back, over the curve of her waist and onto her backside.  Layers of lace caught against his palms as he hauled her in tighter.

Meghan was already working on John’s t-shirt.  She pushed her hands beneath it, the lines of his abs standing taut against her touch.  Her fingers hooked into the belt loops on his shorts and she tugged him across the room.  When she felt her calves against the mattress, Meghan scooted to the middle of bed.  John crawled right up after her.

The chair downstairs had nothing on the feel of John laying himself out against her whole body.  His weight and strength were more obvious than ever.  He settled onto his side, laying mostly on top of her.  That same hand that had stayed at her waist downstairs found it’s mark again.

John felt delirious.  Meghan curled toward him, knee lifting over his thigh to let his lower body slot in between her legs.  His hand moved north until his palm was full of her breast, pushing it gently toward his roaming mouth.  His long fingers pulled her collar down, baring more skin as his kiss traced the line of cleavage he’d just created.

Meghan sighed deeply.  For a guy who’d kept his hands to himself, John was moving much more quickly now.  It was hard not to race for the finish, but he wasn’t the type.  She drew her fingers through John’s hair, tugging on his earlobe.  He tried to pull the neck of her shirt wider.

“Let me.”  John lifted his face just enough for Meghan to pull her shirt overhead.  It fell with a quiet thud to the floor nearby.

Politeness was disappearing fast.  He took in the sheer, satiny blue of Meghan’s bra as much with his eyes as his hands, pushing her breasts together.  This time nothing stopped him from tugging one cup down and flicking her nipple with his tongue.

A purring noise was his answer.  He did it again to the other side.

Meghan rolled full onto her back, giving John access to her whole body.  As he repositioned, she rolled her hips upward.  It was John’s turn to groan.

“Hmmmmm,” she giggled quietly.  He responded by grabbing her hip, easily holding her down and grinding his lap into the curve of her lower body.

Fuck, she thought.  John had a sturdy, workingman’s build.  Even without his pro athlete muscle, he’d have been a solid guy.  Add a lifetime of skating plus a few months with Robs and Meghan felt like she was underneath a superhero.  She balled her hands into his shirt and pulled it up his back.

John reluctantly took his mouth from her skin to let the shirt pass.  Already everything beneath his waist was begging to come out and play.  Kissing Meghan like this, hearing the sounds of pleasure when he did something right - it was the kind of lesson John was desperate to learn.  Some of his parts had gone longer than others without exercise.

I won’t, he told himself.  Meghan delivered a deep kiss, as if to disagree.  But John had promised himself that if he got this far, he wouldn’t rush.  The only guys who expected everything the first time were guys who didn’t plan to be around later.  Guys like like James.  The only thing John wanted more than Meghan was to not be like James.

As she tossed his shirt away, Meghan took advantage of the momentary distraction and rolled, flipping John onto his back.  She landed with a gentle oof, straddling him, and the space between her legs came right down on top of his growing erection.

“Fuck,” John growled and pushed her right over, like a pinwheel, until she was on her back underneath him again.  “You’re killing me, babe.”

There it was: babe.  Would she let him do that?

“Pretty sure you are the deadly weapon here,” Meghan said, drawing her hand down his bare bicep.  The featherlight touch, in contrast to all the grabbing and heavy petting, opened John’s bloodstream like a dam.  He felt all his resistance flooding away.

“I don’t want to rush,” he blurted.  It was possible no guy had ever said that before.

Meghan should have been stunned, but instead just smiled.  This was John, after all.  “Just keep kissing me,” she said.

____

John woke up knowing exactly where he was.  Meghan was cuddled in his arms, he was the big spoon.  They both still wore shorts and at some point, one had pulled the blanket over their bodies.  John didn’t remember doing it.  He remembered kissing Meghan until he couldn’t keep his eyes open another second.  He was still kissing her when he fell asleep.

Now she was breathing lightly, her chest rising and falling in his embrace.  Long waves of dark hair were everywhere.  His top arm was around her waist, his hand was clasped between both of hers.  John bent his knees, bringing their lower bodies closer together, and closed his eyes again.

It’s just you, John, she’s said over dinner.  Before she let him do this - and let him stop.  Over the years he’d met girls who only wanted to seal the deal so they could tell their friends or Facebook.  A lot of guys went for those girls.  Instead John found himself drawn to the more conservative girls, the ones less likely to strip off before dessert arrived.  His luck - or aim - had been uninspired, though.  The girls he dated were too reserved.  Eventually they’d get to the physical part and it was always satisfying, but never inspiring.

He knew Meghan would be different, and yet she hadn’t been in any hurry to prove herself.  It was as if she wanted to actually just sleep with him as much as she wanted to sleep with him.  

It’s just you, John.  He would certainly try to make that stick.

“Hey.”  Her voice was thick and sleepy as she rolled toward him.  

John blinked himself back to life.  “Morning.”

Meghan opened her eyes to a weak, grey light and a perfect, handsome face.  Disheveled hair only made John look sexier, yet this was the guy who told her that he wanted to go slow.  Meghan had never felt so safe with a guy as when she fell asleep in John’s bed.

“You are unfairly gorgeous,” she said.  Her own hair must be a rat’s nest and she’d worn her date makeup to sleep.  John looked heavy-lidded and pouty-lipped, like a matinee idol.  He smiled shyly, replacing drowsy with the aw-shucks guy she couldn’t help kissing the first time she met him.

“Says the girl I was just dreaming about,” John replied.

____