“Last home game tonight, boys! Let’s fucking win this!” Miller slams his shoulder into mine, jostling me on the bench, then darts away before I can retaliate.
It’s funny how we all have different ways to prep for games. Mine is to be alone with my thoughts. I like the solitude of it all.
Miller, on the other hand, is that guy who needs loud music blaring and even louder conversations. He’s the one running around the dressing room, bouncing on his heels with excitement.
Most days I can tolerate it, but tonight? Tonight, I want to rip his stupid phone from the charging dock and toss it across the room so the incessant Christmas music he insists on playing stops. I want to tell him to shut up, and I really fucking want to get back out on the ice already and land some hits.
It’s all because I’m pissed.
I’m pissed because I let myself get upset about Emilia wearing somebody else’s jacket.
I’m not stupid. I’m sure she’s been with other people since we were together. There’s no reason for her not to. She’s gorgeous, and how anyone can resist her is beyond me. I’ve accepted that.
But seeing it? Man, it blows.
Of course the moment I walked through the door and realized it was likely Dom just being a gentleman, I felt like a fucking fool for having any sort of reaction to it at all. I’m almost forty years old for shit’s sake. I shouldn’t be getting jealous, especially not over someone who isn’t mine.
That happens with Emilia a lot though. I do things I shouldn’t be doing.
I wish I could get her out of my head. I wish I could forget anything happened between us.
But I can’t, and that’s the problem.
“You good?” Lowell asks from beside me.
I peek over at him and nod. “Yeah, I’m good.”
His dark brows shoot up. “You sure about that? You don’t seem good.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“No, you said you’re good. There’s a difference between fine and good. If you had ever been in a serious relationship, you’d know that.”
I don’t point out that up until he got Hollis pregnant, he had only been in one “serious” relationship himself. Now he’s talking to me like he’s some fucking expert. Funny for a guy still denying he’s even in a relationship.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
He laughs, then looks around to make sure nobody is paying us any attention and leans in. “This have anything to do with the woman behind the camera today?”
I don’t even bother acting surprised by his words.
Lowell isn’t stupid. I’m sure he’s picked up over the years that something is off with Emilia and me, especially over the summer at Harper and Collin’s wedding when I was having a weak moment and spent far too much of the night staring in her direction.
Yes, it has everything to do with her, I want to scream. She’s suddenly everywhere, and it’s driving me insane.
“It’s nothing,” I tell him instead.
“You can talk to me, you know. I’ll totally braid your hair while we swap secrets.”
He grins at me, and I shake my head, laughing.
It might sound like he’s joking, but I know he’s being serious. While I trust every member of this team, if I were going to spill my guts to anyone, it would be Lowell.
“Meant to tell you…I texted Harper before the game and told her you’re in for Christmas. She’s excited you’re finally joining us,” Collin says, dropping down beside Lowell, adjusting his elbow pads while we wait for the second period to start.
I try not to groan at the mention of the Christmas dinner I agreed to. I have no idea why I even said yes.
Okay, that’s a lie. I know exactly why I did.
Emilia.
I have no business going, but I want to because now that I’ve spent time with her, I want to do it again. Maybe my masochistic streak runs deeper than I realize.
“You’re coming to Christmas?” Lowell asks me, a stupid fucking smirk ghosting across his lips.
I glower at him in response.
His smirk turns into a full-blown grin, and I already know I’m going to regret going to this damn meal because I just know he’s going to be giving me that same ridiculous smile the entire time.
“I can’t wait,” he says, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
Yeah, me either.
It’s a good feeling to win a game no matter what, but to win our entire homestand? Fucking amazing.
Sure, we still have the second half of the season, but getting these points early lets us breathe just a little easier. We’ve been playing hard, and tonight we played even harder. Our defense was top-notch, and our goal-scoring was even better. We walked out with a five-to-nothing win.
We’re officially on Christmas break, and despite how I felt before hitting the ice, I feel like I’m flying right now. On a total high from a good game, I take my time standing under the hot water to help work out the soreness I’m definitely feeling from a hard checking game against Chicago.
Much like I enjoy being the last in the room before a game, I like being the last to leave after, so by the time I turn the water off, it’s just me and two other guys left. One wraps up his post-game routine and gives me a wave before heading home to his wife and three kids, and the other is Greer, who looks like he’s about to take off too.
“Nobody to run home to, old man?”
I glare at him because he knows nobody is waiting at home for me.
Miller invited me out to Slapshots tonight, and for a moment I consider taking him up on it just to show this little prick that I do have plans. Then I think better of it. I’d rather just go home and get a good night’s rest. We’re leaving right after Christmas for a six-game road trip, and if I’m not sleeping in my bed for that long, I’m getting as much time in it now as I possibly can.
And I don’t give a shit how old that makes me sound.
He laughs, then stuffs the last of his things in his cubby. “See you after the break, Apple.”
It’s very bah humbug of me, but I flip him off behind his back. Feeling satisfied, I finish getting dressed, then make sure I have everything before finally heading for the parking lot. I round the corner to leave—and run smack into someone coming the opposite way.
I reach out to steady them, and only then do I realize it’s the last person I’m expecting to see tonight. I drop my hands and she takes a step away from me, and I fucking hate that she does it.
“Smith,” she says, sounding like she’s out of breath. “What are you still doing here?”
“I’m always the last to leave,” I explain.
She nods, glancing left and right, likely checking to make sure nobody is sulking around. “I’ll make a note of that for the player profile,” she teases. She clears her throat. “Good game tonight, by the way. Not far into the season and you’re already racking up those assists, Apple.”
I don’t hate the nickname as much coming from her, and that’s because she genuinely means it. She’s not poking fun at my age or anything else; she’s actually excited about my accomplishments.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
Then, we stand there awkwardly. Neither of us makes a move to say anything, but we’re also not running to get away. We’re just standing here. I stare down at her, and she meets my stare with a steady one of her own.
And then all at once, we both start talking.
“So I—”
“Listen, I—”
We laugh, and I motion for her to go first.
She looks unsure as she brushes her long red locks from her face and rolls her tongue along her lips, taking a deep breath as she shoves her shoulders back.
“I want to apologize for what happened at the coffee shop yesterday, for bringing up our…history. It was unprofessional, and I shouldn’t have done it. We’ve been doing a good job of pretending it never happened, so there was no reason we couldn’t have kept doing that, no reason for us to keep dragging it up. You were right—it was just sex.”
Her eyes flick away at her last words, and she folds her arms around her stomach, almost like she’s protecting herself. I don’t like it. I don’t like her walking around thinking that weekend meant nothing to me. It did—a lot more than it probably should have.
Before I even realize what I’m doing, I haul her farther down the hallway until I’m certain we’re alone. Then, because I can’t fucking help myself, I box her in with my arms. She peers up at me with wide eyes, her gaze growing dark and her breaths coming in short spurts like her lungs are hungry for air.
“W-What are you…”
“I lied.”
“W-What?”
“I lied. What I said yesterday…I lied.” I lean into her. “It wasn’t just sex, Emilia.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said, and I fucking lied.” She gulps at the harshness of my words. “Do you really think I could just forget our weekend together? Do you really think there is any possible way I can look back on that and think it was just sex? After knowing what you feel like…” She sucks in a sharp breath. “Taste like…it’s impossible.”
She’s panting now, her eyes full of confusion and lust and so many other emotions that I’m sure match what’s in my own gaze.
“It was never just sex. It’ll never be just sex. I wish it could be. I really do.” I drop my forehead to hers. “Because I can’t forget you, Emilia. No matter how hard I try…I can’t.”
Her breaths come in sharp, and I can feel them ghosting along my lips.
Half an inch…that’s how close I am to tasting her again, and I want to taste her again so damn badly.
Her breasts brush against my chest with each heavy inhale she takes, and I have to try hard to convince myself to not press my body against hers. If I do, I’m a goner.
“Owen…”
My head snaps up.
She said my name.
It sounds stupid, absolutely ridiculous, but I’ve always been Smith, never Owen.
It’s just four letters, but they roll off her tongue like a poem, and it’s the best one I’ve ever heard.
I like it. Entirely too much.
I lean into her, and that familiar scent of lavender and vanilla fills all my senses, making my mind spin with the memories of before. Of her naked. Of her on her knees. Of her spread across my bed as I devoured her.
I want it all again.
There’s a distant thud, and we’re so lost in our own little world that it sounds a million times closer than it likely is. Whatever it is, it’s enough to break whatever is happening between us.
Her tongue slides across her lips again and she looks up at me, so much regret in her eyes for the words she hasn’t even said yet but that I know are coming.
“We can’t.”
Two quiet words that sound like an anvil dropping.
I could kiss her. I could kiss her, and I know she’d kiss me back because she wants this too.
But…she’s right. We can’t do this.
Because if we do this, I won’t be able to stop. Not when I know how good we can be together.
So, I don’t.
Instead, I push off the wall, creating space between us that I wish didn’t have to be there. She stays with her back pressed against the wall, her chest heaving up and down like she’s breathing for the first time in hours.
“I…”
I shake my head, cutting off whatever it is she’s about to say.
She nods, rolling her tongue across her lips again and pushing off the wall. She runs her hand through her hair, straightens her blouse, and then slips past me.
I don’t move.
I don’t even watch her leave. The click of her heels against the floor is the only indication I have that she’s stopped.
Quietly, she says, “Good night…Smith.”
I hate that I’m no longer Owen.
