by Elise Faber
“Char.”
Rolling her shoulders, she said, “I was thinking about how she’s found a new respect of the crazy sport of strapping precariously thin blades to one’s feet and adding sticks and regular fights.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Log—” She paused, considered the thread of emotion weaving through her. “Yes, I am sad. Part of me continues to wonder and worry what I missed out on.”
“Because you walled yourself off.”
A sigh. A nod.
“Because of me.”
She froze then admitted the truth. “Yes.”
Pain washed over his face, darkened his emerald eyes to nearly black. He sat up, and an instant later, his arms were around her. She felt rather than saw his hands clench into fists.
Then she told him the rest of it.
“But also because of me, baby. I—” She struggled for a minute, trying to put to words what was in her head. “I’ve always felt a bit distant, as though I were slightly on the outside, struggling to find where I fit in. With my family, with my friends, with my relationships, as though there was this inner wall I was just too scared to let down.” She sighed. “And they respected that barrier, never pushed fully through.”
“But I barreled through like a bull in the china shop?”
“No,” she whispered. “I let them down with you. You didn’t have to push or shove your way into my heart. It was just like you were always there.”
A sharp inhale. A clenched jaw. “Starlight—”
Fuck. She was hurting him, and that wasn’t what she wanted. “I didn’t need the walls with you then,” she said. “And I don’t need them now. I think that’s why it’s so easy to be with you, why I missed our closeness so much when you’d gone. I can just be with you, Log. I’ve never found that with anyone else.”
“Char—”
The emotion in the broken off statement had her gaze flying to his, seeing the deep emotion and dampness at the edges.
And she knew.
The truth that had always been. The truth that would always be.
This man owned her heart.
He always would.
The terror from before disappeared. She didn’t need more time. She just needed . . . Logan.
“I love you,” she whispered.
He froze, his body gone ramrod stiff. “What?”
“I love you,” she said, placing her hand over his heart, feeling the organ thundering beneath her palm. “Truthfully, I don’t think I ever stopped loving you. Even when I tried to hide behind my walls, to pretend to be untouched, you were always there, always in me.”
“I—” A sharp shake of his head. “I—you can’t, Char. I need to prove that I—”
“I don’t need you to prove anything, baby.” When it seemed as though he’d protest, she captured his cheeks between her palms. “I just need you to be you—to spend time with me, to let me bitch about my job, and for you to complain about all the lousy parts of yours. I want us to spend time in the kitchen trying to figure out how to cook something more complicated than omelets and to show you all the gloriousness of my myriad reality shows.”
“Sweetheart.” He swallowed hard.
She kept her hands in place, pressed a firm kiss to his lips. “I don’t want us to go back, I want us to move forward. I want us to find what we can be now.”
His palm dropped her cheek. “I want that, too.”
“Good.”
He brushed the back of his knuckles down her throat. “You love me?”
Nuzzling into him, safe in the circle of his arms, she said, “You had me at the slippers.”
Laughter burst out of him, shaking the bed, vibrating through her. Then his arms tightened, and he lay back onto the bed, hauling her on top of him. “Let’s stay in our pajamas and play hooky for the rest of the day. You can show me those reality shows, and I’ll make you my world-famous omelet.”
Delight trailed through her.
But she didn’t miss the tension just hinting at the edges of his expression. Part of him still worried she’d turn away from him. Or maybe he thought he deserved to be punished, that regardless of his words and convictions of having done the right thing that he needed to be put through the wringer.
She was done with that nonsense.
But words weren’t going to do it in this case.
He needed to be shown that she’d put the past behind her, had forgiven him, was truly ready to move forward. Just as her heart needed the time to keep learning all the small things about this wonderful man.
Because he’d spent the last season showing her that he was good and kind and stable, a great teammate, a proper addition to the organization.
And he’d spent the last weeks showing her he was the type of man who cared and paid attention.
The lock on her gate.
Meals when she worked through lunch.
Breakfast and strong arms and dessert he didn’t want but was willing to make time for in case she did.
Reality shows and hair oil.
Omelets.
Those celestial slippers.
Showing love rather than just giving her words.
So really, how could she have not fallen in love with the man?
Which is why she leaned down to kiss him, putting every bit of what she felt into that touch. It was heat and sleek darts of tongue. It was lips pressed tight and fingers digging into her hips. It was desire and pleasure and . . . this man.
His hips thrust up against hers, his erection an iron brand of heat. The towel he wore and the robe covering her body were the thinnest barriers.
She wanted him.
But she wanted to put his heart at ease even more.
Pulling back, she smiled down at him, reached for the TV remote on the nightstand. “Okay, now get ready to have your mind blown while I bring you the gloriousness of Britain’s bouncers—ah!”
He tumbled her over, his towel coming loose. “How about I show you some of my gloriousness first?”
Affection for this man swelled within her, right along with desire as he untied her robe and spread his slightly roughened hands on her. “I—ah—” Her breath hitched when he cupped one breast. “I’m fine with that.”
A laughing kiss.
Gentle palms skating over her body.
Joy in her heart.
Char wrapped her arms tightly around him, met him caress for caress, touch for touch, stroke for stroke, and let him love her with the same intent focus she then turned onto him.
Because . . . together.
That was the only way forward.
“I’m not entirely sure about this,” Char said.
“Oh, come on,” Brit coaxed. “You’re fine.”
She was not fine, decidedly not fine. She was wearing ice skates in someone’s insane idea of a good time.
Sharp metal blades instead of heels. What had she been thinking?
“I’ve seen those death traps you call shoes,” Sara Jetty, Brit’s good friend and wife of former Gold player, Mike Stewart said.
As she skated by.
Gracefully.
Not at all like a wobbly deer, a la Char.
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. The other woman had scored a gold medal in figure skating in her younger years. That kind of skill didn’t exactly disappear. “Why did I think this was a good idea?”
“It’s for charity!” PR-Rebecca shouted.
Shouted because she was on the bench. Pregnancy gave her an out.
Hmm.
Maybe Char could lie and—
“Don’t even think about it,” Calle said, swooping up next to Char and taking her arm.
The single reason she didn’t end up on her ass was because Calle had a solid grip on her, and Char’s assistant coach had spent her younger years playing for the national team.
Once again, she circled back to: how in the fuck had she allowed this to happen?
But just as she was working up a really big
panic, a gaggle of giggling girls swarmed the ice, circling Brit and Calle and Sara.
“Remember,” Calle said, releasing Char’s arm as the swarm took her away. “Bend your knees and fall forward if you’re going to crash—that’s where all the padding is.”
“Fall forward,” Char said, skating tentatively forward. She’d had a few lessons from the guys over the years, but she wasn’t what anyone would call skilled.
And that was before she’d been dressed in the bulky hockey gear.
“Knees bent,” she whispered, adjusting her helmet and nearly eating shit.
Her eyes went to the stands, and she saw Logan was signing autographs, along with Mike, Coop, Blane, and Stefan. They weren’t there for any other reason except to watch their significant others play some hockey with girls from the local teams. The Gold hosted many of these events during the year, drumming up excitement for the sport, especially among those who might otherwise miss out on hockey’s awesomeness.
Mandy was on the bench with Rebecca, armed with the pseudo-baby shower gift Char had bought for her—a fancy first aid kit on wheels and emblazoned with snarky statements. She was prepared for any spills. Though, in reality, Char was likely to be the only one in need of its contents.
The girls were skilled enough to skate circles around her, even the younger ones, who were just six or seven.
But Char wasn’t the major draw.
She’d been roped in to relieve PR-Rebecca after her pregnancy announcement, but Char would have accepted the request to participate anyway. Empowering girls aside, this was her putting her money where her mouth was when it came to making that family in the Gold.
“Knees bent,” she whispered again, tearing her eyes away from Logan and his adoring fans, trying to ignore the way her heart pitter-pattered when she saw him talking to a tiny little girl.
Aw.
Shit!
She almost ate it, remembering at the last minute to bend her knees. “Good grief, Harris,” she muttered. “Focus.”
“I can help you!”
Char smiled at the girl. “Yes, please.”
Without missing a beat, the girl helped Char hold her stick properly and was teaching her how to propel herself across the ice within minutes.
“Hey, Calle,” she called, coming close to the coach. “I think you’re out of a job!”
Calle grinned, and she ran a passing drill practically with her eyes closed. “I’m fine with that.” She blew a kiss to the man who held her heart, who smiled at her and made it clear she held his just as tightly. “I’ll just go off and make more babies with Coop then find another team to coach.”
“Rude,” Char teased.
“Coach us!” one of the girls shouted.
“Yes, Calle! Come to our team.”
Another grin from the statuesque blonde. She winked at Char. “Looks like I have plenty of job offers.” She passed off another puck. “Sorry, girls. I’ll be with the Gold for at least a few more years.”
“Boo!” the collective shouted.
But it was short-lived because Calle stopped messing around and got into Coach Mode. A trill of her whistle called them to attention.
Another had the girls separating into different stations.
Then all the moving parts got moving—the girls completed a series of different drills, overseen by far better skaters than Char, though she did her best, and her cheeks actually hurt from smiling.
Full disclosure, her knees hurt from falling, too.
But not as much as her ass did from the one time she’d landed on it.
Calle’s advice had been solid.
The hour on the ice ended with a short kids vs. adults game, and the only goal the adults scored was Char’s.
On Brit in net.
Her goalie tipped up her helmet and shook her head, eyes narrowed.
The girls cheered.
The men at the glass cracked up.
Calle gave her shit. Sara, graceful, lovely Sara who definitely didn’t score on her own goalie, patted her on the arm consolingly and whispered, “She’ll get over it.”
Brit didn’t look like she’d get over it anytime soon.
“I don’t think she’ll get over it.”
Calle giggled. “She’ll get over it during Mia’s self-defense class.”
Remembering Liam talking about being the test dummy getting laid out on his ass, Char murmured, “I think I’ll be busy that night.”
Sara’s tinkling laugh filled the air.
Calle put the puck on her stick. “Make it worth your while at least.”
“Char,” Brit warned.
“Screw it,” Char said and shot the puck hard in Brit’s direction. So hard she ended up wiping out and having everyone laugh at her before she declared, “Attack!” and pointed at Brit.
Dozens of pucks began flying in Brit’s direction, chaos ensuing. Teasing and laughing echoing across the rink.
She glanced at the boys, saw they were laughing, too.
She looked toward the bench, saw Mandy and Rebecca bent in half as they roared with laughter.
But that was okay. Char would take the crap.
Because teasing and hilarity, because competitive spirit and consoling looks and spending time together. Because . . . family.
And Char was becoming part of the Gold’s.
Thirty-One
Logan
Oh, the joys of family time.
So. Much. Fun.
Which meant he was wondering again why he’d come home.
Despite his intentions to visit his folks when Char went home to her family, he’d almost blown off the trip, nearly caving to the desire to hide in his cabin and hold on to the bubble of nirvana he and his Starlight had created over the last week.
A weekend spent in bed, watching bad TV and ordering in groceries. They’d trolled the web, had picked several recipes they’d been convinced they could master.
Then they’d nearly set the kitchen on fire because he’d gotten distracted.
By the tiny shorts Char had slipped into that were masquerading as pajamas.
Luckily, she’d surfaced from the haze of desire that had kept Logan in its clutches, realizing they’d turned the bread in the oven into charcoal and the pasta and sauce on the stove into briquettes.
He’d gone out on Monday while she was at work and had bought her a brand-new set of pots and pans.
The other ones had made it as far as the trash.
They’d spent one more night together, not attempting to cook, not watching bad TV shows. Instead, Char had picked him up at his house and coaxed him into her car and driven him to the coast.
Heart swelling because his non-nature woman had taken time out of her busy day to research something for him, he’d kissed her long and deep.
She’d taken him there, just because he would love it.
A narrow slice of land.
A steep staircase winding down and down and down.
Moonlight and stars overhead, immune even to the light pollution of the city to the north.
And a blanket spread out over sand. His woman cuddled to his side.
They’d sprawled on that blanket, talking well into the night about nothing and everything, and then he’d taken her home to his house and loved her until the sun came up.
After which he’d handed her the silk scarf to tie around her hair. He’d bought it after the incident with her curls, when she’d been too exhausted to put it on. And after seeing her fight with her hair the next morning, watching her wince as she attempted to put it to rights, he’d promised himself she wouldn’t ever go without one again.
He wouldn’t do anything to cause her hurt. Not if he could help it.
And in this case, he could help it. He now had a stash of her favorite brand of wraps and had watched numerous YouTube videos to learn how to put it on.
If she didn’t have one, he now had plenty.
If she was too tired, he would do it.
She hadn’t compl
ained about the lack of sleep, even though she’d had to get up in just a few hours in order to make her flight to the East Coast. She’d just shared his bed, cuddled against him, and then fallen asleep in his arms.
Then she’d gone.
And the next day he’d gone, too.
His parents lived in Wisconsin, on a large swathe of property that held a fishing hole for his father—a top priority and must-have that his dad had needed, and his mother despised on principle—and a craft room filled with wall-to-wall shelving that his mom had insisted on having custom made that his dad refused to pay for with his hard-earned money.
The last had been a major point of contention between his parents over their lives, and one, frankly, he’d lost a lot of respect for his dad over.
His mom might not have worked in an office, but she’d given her job up for them, managed Logan and Cecily and Josh’s school and extracurriculars, had cooked and cleaned and been there. She’d lived her life for them for many years, and the comments about money had increased tenfold when his mom had gone back to school for her degree without consulting his dad.
Now she worked at the local nursing home, part-time as a receptionist and part-time as the activities coordinator.
His dad, on the other hand, had retired and found himself at loose ends.
Hence, the fishing hole.
But Logan could see he was trying.
He’d spent a lot of time in the garden, particularly concentrating on those spots outside the window of the craft room, trying to make it look lush and green so she would have something pretty to look at. And he made himself lunch when Logan’s mother was at that job, instead of asking her to—a point that he’d lost any ground on by declaring it far and wide.
But he wasn’t going to win any gold stars for his behavior, not when he seemed incapable of understanding how he was hurting Logan’s mom.
And on that track, it wasn’t like his mom was going to get any either. She just bottled it up, played the martyr, and held on to that anger.
Anger and cluelessness weren’t a pretty combination in a thirty-seven-year marriage. Which was how Logan had found himself the referee more and more over the years, how interfering and placating had become his typical standard of dealing with his mom and dad’s arguments.