Chapter 11: Run in at the Museum
Sundays are for me. I'm not religious, but I remember Sunday school lessons about needing a day of rest. Every Sunday, I rested and did something to expand my knowledge or life experiences just for fun. I forced myself to hone or learn a skill, go for an adventure, or cuddle up with a new book. It was the one day a week where I took time for myself.
My father started this 'rest day' when I was in high school. Between AP classes, Sports, extracurriculars, and volunteer hours, I was so stressed that it was causing tension headaches. My insomnia was out of control, and my parents could see sophomore me wilting under the pressure. One Sunday afternoon, my father threw open my bedroom door, grabbed my hand, and sat me on the couch in front of our TV. He wordlessly forced me to sit there for an entire football game. He would pin me with a fatherly glare whenever I tried to get up.
Every week following that Sunday, we would watch one football game. After I got over my initial outrage at the time taken out of studying and my fear of my grades slipping, I began to relax. I cherished the nearly silent couple of hours each week. By the time I entered my Junior year, Sunday had expanded to Brunch with my mom, a Football game with my Dad, and ended with a family game night.
After I left for college, I spent time exploring this new city, experiencing everything life had to show me. I never worked Sundays. I loved taking one day a week to live life slowly. When I met Ben, Sunday Funday was a staple of my routine, and I wouldn't change it no matter what. Ben and I used to go out on dates. I forced us to slow down and take Sundays off from everything. He never understood my need for knowledge and art but begrudgingly tagged along. At first, it was a cute couple thing we did, but Sundays staved off the lonely boredom when his job became more demanding. So, I took this time to escape the thoughts and stress of my home life.
I trudged up the steps of the Museum of Fine Arts, loving that our city had multiple ones I could visit. This week, I scored tickets to an exclusive art viewing. It wasn't a black-tie event, but the artwork was delicate, so it was a small viewing audience at a time. I made it through security and slowly worked my way from the entrance through the maze of paintings, sculptures, and other works. The exhibit hosted works from four different local artists. Each piece shows a theme of love for our city.
I stopped at an interesting metal sculpture that reminded me of an abstract goalie. The wide, flat strip the man grasped in his hand reminded me of a hockey stick. There wasn't a net behind the bronzed man, but the crouched stance screamed protect this house. I spent some time studying it before my mind drifted to another hockey player I couldn't get out of my mind. He was dodging my attempts to contact him through the PR team. I needed to finish the interview to get Horatio off my back, but I also wanted to see him again. Leaving everything between us unresolved made it impossible not to think about him. Grant's eyes, his mouth, and the way he radiated confidence and understanding all flooded my thoughts like a movie montage. Images of his hands on my thighs, his voice whispering sweet nothings in my ear as we moved together took over the mini-movie in my head.
"So soft," Grant whispered in that velvety voice as his hand ran down my sternum, over my stomach. His fingers dug into my hips, and he sunk into me over and over again. I took a deep and shaky breath to try to ease the growing desire within my body. How could I miss him so much when I only remembered bits and pieces of that night?
As if I conjured him up from thin air, Grant sat on a bench before me. His back was so broad, stretching out the fabric on his dress shirt. His eyes were so focused entirely on the artwork before him that he didn't notice me staring. I took my time watching his furrowed brows come together, fall apart, and come together again. I smiled when he adjusted a sketchpad on his bent knee and sketched something in pencil. The movement of the veins in his arm to the back of his hand as the pencil moved about the page had me questioning if I had a forearm fetish. Who knew this gruffly, muscular hockey center who sported a black eye more often than not was an artist? So adorably sexy. I strolled casually around to the other side of the bench, sat down, and in a sultry voice, said, "There you are, beautiful."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grant's face erupt with a grin, but he remained focused on his work. I leaned back on my hands, stretched out my legs, and bit my lip as I pretended to examine the artwork that had captivated him. I wondered if he was copying the painting. After a few moments, Grant let out a breathy laugh and looked at me with amusement. "Now that you found me, I'd prefer handsome or sexy."
I feigned surprise, "I was talking to the painting. But for you..." I let my eyes graze over his body hungrily.
Grant laughed uproariously, earning a few dirty looks. I scooted closer to him, "What are you sketching there?"
He gave me a bashful grin, throwing the cover over the page to hide it, "It's nothing much. I'm really not good at art; I just enjoy it."
"Come on! Unless it's stick figures, you are probably better than you give yourself credit for." I playfully snatched the book from him and flipped it to the marked page. Staring down at my sleeping face, I instantly blushed.
Grant gently took the book back, "I.. Ah.. I wasn't trying to be a creep or anything. I just needed to get the image out of my head because I couldn't stop thinking about you. It was messing with my focus at practice." He ran his hand through his hair and, in a humor-laced voice, followed, "Fuck, that sounds even worse."
He scrubs his face with his free hand as I take in a shaky breath, "I look stunning. Thank you for thinking of me that way."
Grant stared at me dumbfounded, "The drawing doesn't do you justice. You are far more beautiful than that could ever be."