“Babe, you don’t really want to hear about the things going on in here,” Silas responded with a tap to his temple, then rethought the statement. “Or maybe you do.” She wasn’t prone to saying things she didn’t mean. “But another time, now it ain’t gonna help either of us.” Of that he was sure.
He flinched a little at the touch, not that it was unwelcome, but he was a hell of a lot more ticklish than he usually liked to let on. Flinching probably gave it away too, so there was that. It probably wouldn’t be dangerous for Rae to know, right? Or maybe it would. She could use it against him. “Not enough, no,” he agreed regrettably, the growl in her voice reverberating down his spine, and that was a new look. He’d remember that one. He couldn’t help agreeing with Rae’s statements either, but only added an amused, albeit shaky smile to the mix. Situations like they were currently in only served to remind him how complex whatever they had going was; if it wasn’t something serious it wouldn’t matter what their behavior was like, but because Rae wanted minimal backlash and Silas wouldn’t mind that either, it had a tendency to feel like a game of cloak and daggers.
“Just a tiny bit,” he said on a laugh, amused that she was making excuses for his bad shot. “It has nothing to do with the fact that I haven’t tried to make a shot in years, not at all.” He hid his smile at her miss. It wouldn’t have been a bad shot if it had just been lined up a little better, and if she had followed through a little more. But he wasn’t really trying to critique her; it really was just for fun.
Pondering the question for a minute, he made a show of thinking about it. The first question remind him of every romantic comedy he’d sat through, which granted weren’t a lot, but it seemed like a common trope in them. But he gave her an amused smile finally and closed the distance between them.
“You need to transfer your weight from your back leg to your front differently,” he told her, smiling; deja vu of every peewee hockey practice he’d had has a kid flooding in. How many times had he been drilled about stuff like that? Too many to count. “And follow through,” he added, settled a hand on her hip and the other above one of hers on the stick. At least he had an excuse for being in her space, something plausibly deniable if someone happened to be watching from a window, or something. Not that it mattered after the show they probably gave earlier.
He backed off to grab another puck and dropped it on the ice in front of her. “Try it again,” he said, trying not to make it sound like a command. He wasn’t going to take the Coach Topher comment seriously.