But Matty doesn’t spare them a glance. When he spots me, he pushes away from the truck and strides over to embrace me. Not just embrace me, but cup my head and plant a deep, hungry kiss against my lips that leaves me breathless and needy.
“Let’s go upstairs and count how many condoms are left,” I tell him when he lets me go.
He grins but shakes his head. “Nope. We’re going sledding. We’ll do the condom thing later.”
“Sledding?”
“Yeah, snow, hill, plastic rectangle.” He makes a downward gesture with his hand that I suppose simulates sledding. “Come on.” He tugs me forward excitedly.
“I haven’t been sledding since I was a kid,” I admit after we’re buckled in. Matty points the SUV toward the east side of town.
“Then this will be fun. I’ll even spring for hot cocoa.”
“You big spender, you.”
He winks. “You know it.”
“Why sledding?”
“It’s less risk—” His voice catches on the word. Our eyes meet, mine filled with humor and his with surprise. He clears his throat. “Less risky than skiing. I don’t want to break a leg and screw up my season.”
I smirk. “So weighing the risks. That’s a sound thing to do. I guess I’m not so weird, after all.”
Matty shakes his head but can’t keep his own smile from breaking through. “Never thought you were weird, Goldie.” He reaches over and grabs my hand and settles it on his thigh.
It takes twenty minutes to arrive at the amusement park.
“I thought this place closed during the winter.” I peer out of the window where I see a hill lit up and a bunch of people who must be riding sleds down a very, very large incline.
“All the rides are, but they’ve got a big hill that’s not high enough for skiing but makes for killer sledding.”
He neatly swings into a parking space near the edge of the lot and hops out. He takes my hand again, and we walk up to the rental booth to pay for admission and our sled.
“Just one,” he tells the attendant. “It’ll be more fun going down together.” The attendant turns to get our sled. “Less risky,” Matty whispers in my ear.
I’m not convinced it’s less risky. Matty’s extra weight in the front makes the sled go faster—something about momentum and acceleration that he swears he learned about in Scouts building soapbox racing vehicles. Plus, he serves as a natural windbreak. Later, we switch up with me positioned between his legs with his arms bracketing my sides. I’m in a Matty-style nest.
And he carries the sled up every time.
We spend two hours on the slope until dusk falls and our stomachs start rumbling. Finally, we decide to call it an afternoon.
“Come on, let’s get something hot inside of you, Goldie,” he says after returning the sled.
At the small concession stand, he buys us hot dogs and hot chocolate. There aren’t any tables, so we wander down toward a wooded area and settle in out of the wind that’s picking up. I watch him gulp down the hotdog in three bites before asking, “What’s with the nicknames?”
“Nicknames are important. Feel free to pick one out for me. I can provide a list of suggestions. Big Guy. God. Master. Awesome Master.”
He finishes the hotdog and goes to pay for another, so he doesn’t see me roll my eyes.
“How about overweening ego?” I offer when he returns.
“Not my favorite. All kidding aside, names reveal a lot. Your first name says something about your parents. How’d they come up with Lucinda?” He squirts ketchup on his hotdog. I take a bite of mine before answering.
“It’s a family name. It was either that or Maude.”
“Same. Matthew’s my grandad’s name.”
You’re more alike than you think, Sutton had told me.
“Who started calling you Matty?”
“I can’t remember. Probably my mom. Some of the guys on the team call me Ives, but my closest friends call me Matty.”
I want to ask him how he introduces himself to girls he’s just met, but I guess I know. He called himself Matthew. And now…now he’s Matty to me.
“So what else do names reveal?”
“Professors want us to use their last names to create distance and authority. Nicknames imply a certain closeness or familiarity. You can use a person’s first name as a weapon, too, to imply that you’re in a position of power.”
I can feel my mouth open slightly in surprise. “This is pretty interesting stuff. Was this in a class?”
He looks down at his boot and even in the dimming light, I can see a faint hint of pink on the tops of his cheeks that’s not because of the wind.
“I learned it in a book.”
“A Ludlum book?”
He kicks the heel of his boot against the ground as if trying to shake off the snow but I can see he’s faintly embarrassed. “Nah, I read stuff about profiling. When I’m done in the NFL, I’d like to join the Feds.”
“FBI?”
He nods.
“That’s very cool.”
He’s really blushing now, and it’s beyond cute. I don’t know why. Having plans for after football seems smart to me, but maybe this dream is one that he’s uncomfortable talking about. I’m rather touched he’s sharing it with me. “When do you think you’ll be done with football?”
“Ten? Fifteen years if I’m really lucky. I kind of view my life in two stages. Football is stage one. I’ve got to be careful” —we share a smile when he uses that word one of mine—“and watch what I eat, work out a ton, and spend time on the road. Take a lot of physical abuse. Stage two is where I don’t necessarily watch what I eat, work out less, take only a little physical abuse, and use my brain more.”