You want me too. Her words echo around inside my head for the rest of the flight. She wants me. By her own words, she admits it. She wants me, but she wants Compton and Sanford too. She’s already in a relationship with them.
Yet still, she seeks me out.
And they both know.
That’s the part in all of this that confuses me most. Compton knows his woman wants me. Does the man have no pride? Does he care so little about her fidelity? He must not, because she brazenly admits to having a relationship with Sanford as well. Can it be possible they enjoy sharing her in such a way? Can they really bear to let another man kiss her or touch her?
The concept is wholly foreign to me. Even just thinking of their hands on her has me shifting in my seat, desperate to get away. I can’t sit here and feel her presence so close to me while I’m thinking of other men touching her. Other men making her moan. Making her come.
And not just any men. Compton is my teammate. We’re on the ice together every day. He’s my sword and my shield. He’s a damn good player. To add insult to injury, he’s a good person. He’s just…nice. He always tries to include me in things. I know it’s him who keeps adding me back in to the group chat. Novikov told me. Compton always has a kind word when I fail to block a save. He encourages me.
But he’s fucking my Rachel. And he knows that she wants me. They talk about it.
I press my head back against the seat, eyes shut tight, breathing through the feeling of deep, aching need coursing across my chest.
I can’t do this. I can’t indulge her curiosity. She wants to fuck me, that’s all. She doesn’t want me. Why would she when she has Compton and Sanford? She’s offering me a taste and nothing more. But what mortal could ever stop at just a mere sip of ambrosia? If I can’t have all of her, I will have none. I’ll let her go. I’ll walk away. Not a single drop of her essence will pass my lips again.
Resolved, I cross my arms and keep my eyes shut, pretending to sleep until we land.
“Dammit,” she mutters, eyes on her phone as she walks at my side through the airport towards baggage claim.
“What?” I say, trying to let her set the pace. Walking this slow feels odd.
“Oh, it just looks like we’ll have to get a taxi over to the clinic,” she replies, eyes still on her phone as she taps out a message. “My friend Tess was going to pick us up, but she’s having some kind of crisis at work.” She sighs, looking up from her phone. “You good to head straight to the clinic? Or do you want to check into your hotel first?”
She’s as casual as can be, strolling at my side as if we’re discussing the weather, not the potential demise of my two-decade-long hockey career. But my mind snags on something else she just said. “My hotel?”
“Uh-huh. I booked you a room at the Cincinnatian,” she says, eyes back on her phone as she leads us onto the airport tram. “It’s really nice. I’ve stayed there before. And it’s just a few blocks up the street from the clinic.”
The tram starts to move, jolting us forward. I grab for the metal pole. She just leans into it with her shoulder, eyes still on her phone. Is this another tactic? A game? Why won’t she look at me?
“Where are you staying?” I mutter, feeling increasingly irritated.
“With Tess,” she replies. “Before I moved down to Jax, we rented an apartment together. She turned my room into a guest room.”
So, she’ll take me to the clinic, let her doctor run their tests, and then leave me at my hotel? That’s what I want, right? Distance. I want to be alone. I want away from her cloying presence. Before I do something I regret…like grab her by the hair and kiss her senseless on this tram.
“Fine,” I say. “Clinic first.”
We walk out to the taxi stand and the businessman from first class is waiting at the curb. He’s on his phone again, talking with his hands.
“Yeah, Chuck. I’m on the way right now and—yeah, hold on—Hey,” he says, spotting us standing behind him. He flashes me an American smile as he taps his earpiece, ending his call. “The kid told me who you were. Big NHL goalie, huh? That’s cool, man. My buddy plays for the Bengals.” His gaze darts to Rachel and I fight the urge to step in front of her, wanting her blocked from his view. “Wanna sign something for my kid?” he adds, patting his pockets like he’s looking for a spare piece of paper.
“No,” I reply, feeling Rachel tense next to me.
His eyes narrow under dark brows. “You won’t sign something for a kid? That’s a pretty shitty move. The kinda move that could get you in trouble,” he adds, making it clear he means to threaten me.
“Do it,” I say. “Report me to the League. See if they care that one asshole couldn’t get an autograph.”
“Mars,” Rachel murmurs, her hand wrapping around my wrist.
His gaze darts back down to her and he smirks appreciatively, taking in her curves. “Nice,” he says. “I see why you wanted to pay me. You should listen to your girl, man.”
“Suksi vittuun,” I curse, squaring my shoulders at him. I’m 6’5” and nothing but muscle. This man is maybe 5’8”. He’ll back down or get flattened into jelly.
“Sir, your taxi is here!” calls the stand attendant.
Mr. Business glares at me for another moment before he turns away with a muttered, “fucking asshole prick.” Then he gets into his taxi and drives off as another pulls up.
“You know that guy?” Rachel murmurs, her hand still on my wrist.
“I was sitting next to him in first class.” I step forward to open the taxi door for her, taking her bag from her shoulder. The attendant helps me get them into the trunk, and then I move around to the other side and slide in. Rachel is already giving the driver the address.
Rachel shifts, crossing her right leg over her left, her body angled a little closer in towards mine. “What did he mean about you paying him?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, turning my gaze to look out the window.
“Did you—” She falls silent.
Silence fills the void between us. Uncomfortable silence. I can’t help it. I have to look over.
She’s looking up at me, her expression soft. “You tried to pay him to move, didn’t you? So you could sit by me in first class?” At my silence she nods. “But he wouldn’t take your money.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
“How much did you offer him?”
“I said it doesn’t matter.”
“Mars—”
“A thousand dollars,” I reply, my gaze on the green interstate signs.
She lets out a soft breath. “Oh, Mars…”
We’re silent for a few minutes.
“What did you say to him?”
I glance over again. “Hmm?”
“In Finnish. You said something to him. It didn’t sound very nice,” she adds with a small smile.
“It wasn’t,” I reply. “I told him to fuck off.”
She huffs. “Yeah, he seemed like a jerk. Say it again.”
I raise a brow. “Why?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Obviously because I want to hear you speak Finnish. I like hearing you talk. And it’s a pretty language.”
“I was cursing at him, Rakas. I can say nicer things in Finnish.”
“Oh, don’t hold back on me now,” she says, smiling wider. “Give me a little of both. Sugar and spice. Say the curse again.”
“Suksi vittuun,” I repeat.
“Sooksy vi—what?”
“Vittuun,” I say again, unable to control my smile.
Her dark brows raise as she unscrews the cap to her diet soda. She’s always drinking either diet soda or coffee. Does the woman ever drink water? “What? Why are you smiling? Did I say it wrong?”
“No, you’re correct. Your pronunciation is good. But what you are saying is ‘ski into a cunt.’”
She snorts her diet soda, choking and laughing. “Ohmygod—ouch—Seriously? ‘Suksi vittuun’ means ‘ski into a cunt’?”
“Literally, yes. But the meaning is to go fuck off.”
She laughs again. “Okay, I like that one. Suksi vittuun. Now give me something nicer.” She’s more relaxed now. She likes talking. It eases her nerves.
I’ve never liked talking, but it feels easier with her. It definitely feels easier in Finnish. Using her ignorance as a shield, I let myself gaze at the bold features of her face and say the words I feel. “Oot kaunis, Rakas.” I let my gaze drop to the bow of her lips, wanting to trace them with my fingers, my tongue. “Mun leijona…Mä kuulun sulle.”
She blushes, biting the inside corner of her lip like she does sometimes. Her hand with the hearts tattoo lifts as she tucks her hair behind her ear. “And…what does that mean?” she murmurs, all but breathless. Some things don’t need to be translated.
I look back out the window, avoiding her gaze. “It means ‘you’re beautiful,’” I reply, giving her at least part of the truth.
“Thank you,” she says softly. After a minute she adds, “I think you’re beautiful too, Mars…for whatever that’s worth to you.”
What is it worth to me?
Everything.
We arrive outside the clinic and Rachel has transformed before my eyes. As the taxi drove, she changed her shoes to something more professional with a closed toe and a heel. Then she slipped out of her zipped, hooded sweatshirt and tugged on a sheer, silky white blouse with a collar and buttons. It fits her loose, cuffed at the wrists to expose some gold bracelets on both wrists.
I watch her shimmy in the seat, tucking her shirt into the front of her black leggings. Lastly, she pulls her hair down out of its bun. Adding a flick of red color to her lips, she looks like a different person as we pull up.
“Right, so we’ll do the physical exam first, and then the scans. The team here is great, so you don’t need to worry about that,” she says, going into full doctor mode.
I get out of the taxi, taking both our bags from the driver, as Rachel waits on the curb. The sounds of the city echo all around us. It’s an overcast day, much cooler from the tropical climate in Florida. I don’t mind it. In fact, I prefer the cold.
“I just texted Doctor Halla, so he knows we’ve arrived,” she goes on, her heels clicking on the sidewalk as she leads me over to the front door and pulls it open.
I’m distracted, watching the gentle sway of her hips as she walks. I’m passing through the door when I register her words. A sinking feeling settles in my chest, and I pause just inside the doorway of a bright clinic waiting room. “Wait—Rachel—what name did you say?”
“I said—ah—Doctor Halla!” She hurries forward, thrusting out a hand to greet a tall man wearing a set of navy-blue scrubs. “Thank you so much for agreeing to do this,” she says, shaking his hand with both of her own. “You have no idea how grateful we both are, sir.”
But he’s not looking at Rachel. I’m not looking at Rachel either. I’m looking at him. This has to be a joke. A cruel, cosmic joke. Is she in on it? Does she know? How the hell would she know?
Rachel drops his hand and turns, one brow raised in confusion. She doesn’t understand my coldness. “Doctor Halla, this is my friend, Ilmari Kinnunen, goalie for the Jacksonville Rays. Mars, this is Doctor Benjamin Halla.”
I don’t move. This can’t happen. Not here. Not now.
Slowly, he sighs, clearly sensing the war I’m waging with myself. “Hello, son,” he says in Finnish. “It’s good to see you again.”
