“I’m sorry, but no. The remakes are better.”
I blink at her. “Oh, you poor, sweet, summer child. Jumanji is a classic.”
“Listen here, old man, just because it came from the eighties, doesn’t mean it’s better.”
“It’s not even from the eighties! It was released in 1995, and I remember that because I took Stephanie Martinez to the dollar theater to see it and we kissed.”
A little growl escapes her when I mention that last bit, and I admit it brings me great satisfaction to see her jealous.
We had a home game tonight, which means Emilia is sleeping over. It’s been that way for over a month now. She comes over and some nights we have dinner and talk, others we fuck, and some we just go straight to bed. I don’t know exactly when it started, but we both seem to be content with not questioning it.
I’m too tired to cook after getting our asses handed to us by St. Louis, so we’re currently lounging on the couch. Emilia’s popping French fries into her mouth while I slowly eat a chicken Caesar salad as Robin Williams’ Jumanji plays in the background.
Even when she admits to having shitty taste in movies, I love having her here. It feels natural, normal—and a lot like that thing that’s been missing for far too long.
“Godzilla!” she exclaims. “Puh-lease tell me you’re at least team Godzilla and not rooting for Kong.”
I shake my head. “I am so disappointed in you. There is no way. King Kong all the way. Hell, it’s in his name—he is king.”
“No.” It’s all she says as she chucks the fry at my head. What she forgets is that I’m a pro athlete and I have no problem snatching it out of the air. I pop it into my mouth, grinning at her when she glares at me.
“Yes,” I say again.
She rolls her eyes. “You do realize there are scientists—actual scientists!—out there who agree that Godzilla would whoop that ass, right?”
“How do you know that?”
She shrugs. “I read the internet.”
“Yes, and the internet is never wrong.”
“Was it wrong about your butt?”
“What about my ass?”
“There’s an Instagram account—HockeysBestButts—and all they do is talk about hockey butts. Every year they do a playoff-bracket-style head-to-head battle with a bunch of polls to determine who has the best butt. This year, you won. Well, your butt won.”
“My ass won?” She nods. “From the entire league?”
“Yep. It was down to you and Elias Hasselback from Vancouver. It was close, but you squeaked out just ahead.”
“I…don’t even know what to say to that.”
She laughs. “It’s a compliment, trust me. Harper said Collin was very upset that you beat him in the semifinals.”
“Well, that would explain the looks he’s been sending me for the last week. I’m totally going to give him shit for following the poll.”
“Apparently he was checking it obsessively. Make sure to throw that in there too.”
I point at her. “Now that is good ammo to have in my back pocket.”
“You’re welcome.” She shimmies her shoulders, popping another fry into her mouth and tuning back into the movie.
But I don’t. I watch her shamelessly, loving the way her face changes as the movie plays out. The way her eyes spark and dim, how her nostrils flare, and even when she huffs, annoyed at something in the plot.
It’s crazy to me how well she fits into my life, how right this feels…how I could get really used to this if I let myself.
“You know I can feel you staring at me, right?”
“You know I don’t care, right?”
She laughs. “Kind of figured.” She stretches her arms over her head as the credits of the movie roll across the screen. “Okay, so what’s next?”
“Next is bed. It’s late and I’m tired.”
“It’s not that late.”
“Um, some of us are over thirty and played a hockey game today.”
“Some of us are old and boring too.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You did not just call me old and boring.”
She looks pointedly at the puzzle strewn across my living room table. I’ve picked the habit back up again, mostly due to Emilia’s insistence, and it didn’t take me long to realize I missed it. I missed how I could just shut my mind off and piece something together.
“Don’t be hating on my puzzling, young lady.”
“What are you going to tell me next? To get off your lawn?”
I glower. She laughs.
But her laughter is gone when I spring from my end of the couch and dart over, fitting my body over top of hers and pressing her into the cushions. I slide her hands above her head, gathering her wrists in one hand, holding them there.
“Are you looking to start something?” I ask, rolling my hips into hers, letting her feel the erection growing beneath my sweats. She does that to me, makes me hard and ready all the fucking time.
I know she joked about my refractory time, but with her, it’s never an issue. My body craves hers every minute of every day, and I can’t seem to get enough. Hell, I don’t know if I ever will.
“Possibly,” she admits, biting down on her lower lip.
“You’re insatiable, you know that?”
“Only when it comes to you.”
I grin, leaning down to press soft kisses against her neck. She sighs when my lips meet her skin.
“That was a good answer,” I say against her.
“I know. Do you think it’s earned me a reward?”
I laugh. “Insatiable.”
“Mhmm,” she agrees, arching up into me, seeking the friction I’m just as eager to provide.
For a moment, I wonder if I’ll ever tire of this—tire of being near her, kissing her, feeling her beneath me.
I decide right then that, no, I won’t, and somehow, that thought isn’t as scary as it should be.
I thrust against her again. “Do you want me to fuck you, Emilia?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
She sighs when I nip at her neck, careful not to bite too hard so I don’t leave any marks, her hips meeting mine in sync.
“But, Smith?”
“Hmm?” I say into her.
“I call top this time.”
And I let her have it.
“Yo, Smith, your girlfriend is here.”
My head snaps up at Miller’s words just in time for him to step out of the way and see Emilia standing behind him.
“Shut up, Miller,” she mumbles, and I laugh at her uncharacteristic act of unprofessionalism. She shakes her phone my way. “I’m just here for content.”
“Again?”
She rolls her eyes, and it physically makes my hand twitch with the urge to walk over there and smack her ass for the gesture. “Yes, again.”
“Here?”
She knows what I’m really asking. Are we going to be alone, or will there be an audience?
“Wherever you’re most comfortable.”
I glance around at the guys sitting at the table. Rhodes’ face is buried in his lunch, Wright’s focused on his phone, Miller is staring off into space, and Lowell is nowhere to be found.
Nobody is paying a lick of attention to us, but I still don’t want to be around them.
I want to be alone with Emilia.
“All right. I’ll meet you at the truck in five.”
She tries to hide her grin, but I still see the corners of her lips twitch just before she turns and struts away.
Against my better judgment, I watch.
And apparently, I’m wrong about nobody paying any attention because Miller says, “I saw that.”
I glance over at him. “Saw what?”
“Your eyes on her ass.”
I narrow my eyes at him, then shrug it off. “It’s a nice ass.”
“Yeah, but you’re like a gentleman and shit. You don’t look at women’s asses.”
He’s so fucking wrong that it’s almost funny.
I’m no gentleman. Especially not where Emilia’s concerned.
“Shut up, Miller,” I echo her earlier words, rising from the table.
I grab my trash from my lunch and toss it, then dump my plate with our kitchen staff.
“In a hurry?” Greer asks, stepping up next to me as I quickly scrape my leftovers into the trash. “I saw that hot piece of ass head out of here. Meeting her for a quickie in the parking lot?”
I want to knock his fucking teeth in for talking about Emilia like that, but I know retaliation will be more telling than not.
“We’re just working on that stupid player profile.”
“Right. Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
“Fuck off, Greer.”
He laughs, but I ignore him.
I try to keep my steps steady and unhurried as I make my way toward the parking lot.
I’m annoyed with Greer, but my frustration melts away the moment I see her waiting at my truck, and I can’t help the grin that stretches across my face.
She’s leaning against it and—a rare occasion for sure—her red hair is blowing in the wind. Her toned legs mirror her crossed arms as she waits.
She’s peering down at her phone with her brows pinched together in concentration, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth, something I’ve come to notice that she does often when she’s really focused.
Her head lifts when she hears me approaching and that grin that teased her lips in the dining hall comes back full force when she spots me.
I don’t stop. Not until I’m crowding her against the truck.
“Hi,” I say, pressing into her.
“Hi.” She looks left, then right. “You do know we’re in public, right?”
Shit. I forgot.
“I know. I’m just getting your door.” I reach around her and pop open the passenger door.
“Smooth,” she says, ducking under my arm and climbing into the truck.
“I know we’re in public, but am I allowed to tell you that your ass looks incredible in those pants?”
She laughs. “I’ll allow it.”
I jog around to the driver’s side and hop in. I fire up the engine, then pull out with a little more gumption than I typically do.
Neither of us speaks.
Not until I swing into a random parking lot just half a mile down the road.
“What are you—”
I don’t even bother whipping into a spot. I just throw the truck into park and lean across the center console, pulling her to me and pressing my lips to hers.
She sighs against me the moment our lips meet like she’s been waiting for this all day too. Never mind that I just saw her this morning when she was leaving my bed at six AM. It feels like it’s been years since I’ve touched her rather than hours.
I have no idea how long we kiss. It could be only seconds, or it could be thirty minutes. I just know when we part, we’re both gasping for air.
“Is it too soon to say I missed that?” she asks.
“Only if I can say it too.”
She grins. “Do you mind if we stop by my apartment? I want to grab different shoes. My feet are killing me today.”
“You want to go to your apartment?”
“If that’s okay?”
“Of course,” I tell her, putting the truck back into drive and pulling from the lot.
I know the general area she lives in but I’ve yet to go to her place. This will be my first time and I’m anxious to see it.
She directs me to her place—which isn’t too far from the rink—and I find a spot to park out front.
Hand on the door, she turns to me and says, “No funny business. We’re just here for shoes.”
I hold my hands up innocently. “Wasn’t even thinking about it.”
That’s a lie.
I totally was.
I follow her up three flights—very much enjoying the view—then wait patiently as she unlocks her door.
“It’s not much,” she warns unnecessarily as she pushes inside.
We step into the place she’s been spending a lot less time and she’s right, it’s not much. But it’s hers, which makes me automatically love it.
That and the distinct hint of lavender that I can smell at every turn.
The first thing I notice is how different it is from my place. I’ll admit that my apartment is decorated like a museum with very, very little décor, but not Emilia’s. There are touches of her around every square inch of the place. From the vintage typography posters hanging on the wall to the pictures of her and Hollis attached to a corkboard, to the bookshelf that’s overflowing with romance novels. It’s exactly what I pictured when I thought of her.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, peeling her heels off, then darting down the hall.
I follow her, watching as she slides open the door to her closet and drops to her knees as she begins rifling around her shoes.
I’d be lying if I said naughty thoughts didn’t filter through my mind the moment her knees touched the carpet.
But I push them aside.
Since she has no interest in showing me the comfort of her bed, I help myself.
She turns when she hears me flop down and narrows her eyes.
“I thought I said no funny business.”
“I’m not here for funny business.” I bounce up and down on the bed a few times. “Just testing it out. For the future.”
“Uh-huh.” She still sounds like she doesn’t believe me, not that I blame her.
“I promise. I have a game tonight. I have to preserve my energy.”
She shoves to her feet. “I suppose that’s fair.”
“Wait. Are you disappointed that I’m not trying to hit on you?”
She lifts her shoulders. “Maybe a little.”
I laugh. “Like I said, insatiable.” I pat the spot beside me. “Come. Lie down.”
She eyes me skeptically.
“I meant what I said. No fooling around. Not right now.” I wink and she shakes her head with a smile.
But she doesn’t argue anymore. She hops up onto her bed, lying down.
“What are you…”
Her words die when I lift her feet into my lap and begin massaging the right one.
She moans as I press my thumb into the middle.
“Oh god. That feels incredible.”
“Why do you wear those heels if they hurt? I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’re incredibly sexy. But if they’re painful, why?”
She shrugs. “They make me feel powerful. Important.”
“You don’t need heels for that. You’re already powerful and important.”
Another grin plays on her lips. “I’m glad you think so.”
“Know so,” I argue, pressing deeper into the spot.
She moans again and I do my best to subtly adjust the growing erection in my shorts.
If she notices, she doesn’t say anything. She just lies there and lets me massage her feet.
I have no idea how long I knead my thumbs into her feet.
No idea how long I watch her enjoy every single moment of it.
But however long it is, it’s worth every single second just to see the pure bliss that’s melting over her face.
I’d do anything she wanted to keep it there because seeing her happy and making her feel good makes me happy and feel good.
“You keep this up and I just might start to like you, Owen,” she murmurs quietly.
“Yeah? Might be a little late for me in that department, Emilia.”
She tucks her lips together like she’s trying not to smile at that.
The craziest part? I mean it.
Wright passes the puck to Rhodes, who drags it around the back of our net and sends it up the boards to Lowell. We race into Minnesota’s zone with numbers. Lowell dekes around two players, winds it up, and fires.
The puck goes wide, and I race to it, beating the Minnesota player, but he shoves me against the boards, battling for the free puck. I win it back, then swing it back over to Lowell, who takes another shot, and this time he scores.
This ties the game three to three, but twenty seconds later, Minnesota scores again, and it’s a real fucking bummer for us, because the game is over just five seconds later.
“Fuck!” Lowell screams out, beating his stick against the boards as he heads down the tunnel.
He’s upset, and I get it. I’m pissed too. There was no reason we shouldn’t have walked out of this game with two points we desperately need. We were more rested. We were hungrier.
But in the end, it wasn’t enough.
The race for the playoffs is tight, and we’re sitting in a wild card spot now. We don’t have many more games on the schedule to get our shit together, which is something we really need to do. We’re sinking, and we’re going down fast.
I plop down onto the dressing room bench, sucking in gulps of air as I try to catch my breath and mentally go over everything that went wrong in the game. If we can’t get it together, this season is going to be over sooner than any of us want.
“That fucking sucked,” Miller complains, dropping down next to me, his gear already halfway off.
I’m still fully dressed, too pissed to move just yet.
“Tell me about it,” I grumble. “We keep this shit up and we’re losing that wild card position.”
He makes a noncommittal noise next to me, his brows drawn tight.
“It’d help if you caught a pass,” Greer mutters. “Stopped daydreaming about a certain redhead.”
It’s said quietly, but I don’t fucking miss it.
I flip him off. “Just like it’d help if we didn’t have to play like there was nobody in our net.”
He scowls, not liking the fact that he let in two soft goals when Minnesota caught him sleeping.
It’s stupid to get into a battle with him about it because really, it was all of our faults that we lost. Miller could have taken more shots. Rhodes could have had more hits. And Lowell and Wright could have worked harder together.
Me? I could have stopped daydreaming about Emilia and what it would be like to just be open and free with her.
We all fucked up, and it blows because every lost game is another lost chance at the game. It’s another game wasted in a season where I should be savoring them, not squandering it all.
There’s a damn good chance this could be my last year in a Comets uniform. Hell, this could be my last year in any hockey uniform. I wanted to go out with a fight, but it’s really beginning to look like I might not even get that chance, and I’m really not ready for that.
I’m not ready for a lot of things.
Especially not admitting that maybe—just maybe—I’m steadily falling for Emilia.
