by Brit DeMille
“There’s really nothing to talk about Holls, truly.”
“Okay, but if you ever change your mind, I’m here.”
After we hang up I’m still left in limbo about how reach out to Evan and close the distance between us.
It’s a beautiful day, so I decide to take a run to try to mellow some of the anxiety I’m feeling. I run about seven miles before returning to the arena and heading into the ladies’ locker room for a shower. I dress in a short, black skirt, black Vans, and an off-shoulder Crush t-shirt that’s tied at one side. I pull my hair into a ponytail, put on a tiny bit of makeup, and head out into the tunnel to get some early Snapchat shout-outs.
The guys are all lined up and I can see Evan at the back of the line with Chalamet. As the team’s opening song comes on, the guys start heading out, giving me thumbs-up and waves as they pass. My heart stops in my chest when Evan passes. He stops for a moment and there is nothing but longing and want and hurt on his face. He doesn’t seem angry. He just stares into my eyes for a long time, the electricity thick between us.
“I’m sorry for everything I s-s-said to you,” I manage to whisper before swallowing the enormous lump in my throat, my heart surely cracking in two. “Go get ‘em out there.”
He nods once before skating out to the roar of our hometown fans as the pre-game ceremony starts.
I run up to my seat and find Troy already there. He pulls me into a hug and asks, “Evan joining us tonight?”
I shake my head, the lump in my throat growing larger by the second. “We’re—we’re not…”
“Okay.” He pats my knee, which is shaking like crazy. “It’s okay. We’ll talk about it.”
I nod again and the game starts. I’m so thankful, honestly, because it gives me something to focus on. But my heart continues to beat wildly throughout the whole game, especially if Evan looks up at me whenever he gets a chance.
“I’m not in any way an expert on relationships or love, Holly dolly, but I’d say he misses you,” Troy comments after the team breaks before the third period.
“You want to head off to dinner early?” I ask him. “I don’t have any post-game duties and I’ve got everything I need for social. I can post the scores and final few promos during dinner, once the game is over.”
“That’s fine,” he says, standing and leading me out.
We end up deciding to walk the mile or so to the restaurant. As we walk, I tell him all about how things went down after the incident at the bar. I fill him in on my decision to break things off, and about what Fiona said to me after the flare up with Kacey.
After I finish my story, he asks, “But are you in love with him?”
“I am.” I realize it feels wonderful to admit that out loud to another person. “I haven’t wanted to name it. It seemed far too soon or too risky. But I am in love with him. And I miss him very much, but I still don’t know how to make it right.”
“I think you just need to tell him. Tell him how you really feel.”
It’s such simple advice, but he’s right.
We eat at a small Italian restaurant that’s got a couple of screens along the bar. One has the game on, and I watch Evan pummel a guy into the glass—and get a penalty called on him. He sits in the box, seething, while Vancouver goes on a Power Play. When he comes back out on the ice, he’s all business, skating fast and tight, taking shot after shot on goal, scoring three times in five minutes.
The game ends with the Crush winning by one point.
I post our end-of-game updates on all of our feeds, and then put my phone down and ask Troy about his most recent recruiting efforts. He’s puts up a hand, though, as he peers at the television, even getting up and asking the bartender to turn it up. I follow him to the bar where we watch Chalamet take press from the ice. It’s a weird thing, because normally they let the guys shower first then head in for press wrap-up.
Chalamet talks about how exciting this season has been and how happy he is that he gets to go out on a year when the team is playing like one unit. The reporter, a guy from ESPN, turns the camera on Evan. His hair is matted with sweat and the bruise around his eye is a weird purply-green color. But he’s smiling, and his eyes are bright. None of that sadness from earlier is there.
I can see other reporters trying to clamber for position with their mics and cameras, including Kacey King, who yells out, “Where did that fire come from in the third period, Evan?”
He doesn’t look at her, he continues looking straight at the ESPN camera, and says, “I’ve had a lucky charm all season. She’s totally changed me as a man, and I think as a player, as well. Everything I’ve done this season, I’ve done with her at my side. And it was her I was thinking about when I went out there and pushed another win through for our team.”
I put my hand over my mouth as a surprised, emotional gasp escapes. I want to cry. I probably will cry. Troy puts his arm around me.
“I love you, Holly Laurent!” Evan yells into the camera. Then he gives a lopsided grin that makes my stomach flutter and says, “Tweet that!”
I laugh and cry at the same time, and without thinking too hard about it I thank Troy for dinner and start running. I run as fast as I can toward the arena to find Evan.
To tell him I love him back.
Twenty-Five
Evan
I’m looking around, but I don’t see her anywhere. I watched her slip out in the third with her uncle, and I’m just hopeful she’s catching this live from wherever they landed.
I need to see her. I need to confirm that what I saw on her face in the tunnel was real. I saw it when she said she was sorry. And I didn’t even need her to say she was sorry. I just needed to see something that showed me she still wanted me.
Kacey looks utterly disgusted right now, which makes me weirdly happy as I trail the others back down the mirrored tunnel to the locker rooms. I get ribbing after ribbing about my declaration of love, but it doesn’t bother me even a little bit. I know most of the guys are truly happy for me.
I take my time in the shower, and by the time I finish getting dressed, I’m one of the last ones out. It’s okay, though, because the moment I step out of the locker room and into the hallway, I see her. She’s so cute with her Crush t-shirt and her ponytail, and it’s only heightened by the anxious look on her face, a look that fades as soon as she sees me.
She runs. Full-on runs. She jumps into my arms, her legs around my waist, her mouth on mine. I hold her so tightly as we kiss that I’m worried I might break her, but I can’t loosen up, can’t let go. The minute I let those words out into the world, my only hope was she would hear them and come back. And she has.
She eventually slides her feet back to the floor. I rest my chin on top of her head.
“You heard my message?” It’s a stupid question. Of course she heard it.
“I heard it and I loved every word of it,” she says, kind of muffled because her face is buried in my chest. She backs away—only slightly because I refuse to let go just yet. “I’m such an idiot, Evan. I’m so sorry. I was scared.”
“I know,” I say, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “I know. I get it. The whole situation was fucked up.”
“We’re trending,” she says with a beautiful Holly-smile. “You made several housewives in Iowa spontaneously combust with that big display, I’m hearing.”
I laugh at this. “I think I made Kacey King explode, too. But not in a good way.”
“Good way for me,” she says resolutely.
“So, I have a question for you.” She looks up at me expectantly. “Would you like to see my apartment, Holly?”
“Finally! I was starting to get paranoid, Evan.” She looks so sexy when she laughs, it’s all I can do to keep things G-rated until I can get her all to myself.
So, I kiss her softly once on the lips and take her hand in mine as we head out of the arena to my car. The drive is short as it always is, and Holly wastes no time picking up on the fact my commute to work is p
retty much nonexistent. “Evan! Why do you drive to work when you could walk this route in less than twenty minutes?” She’s a smart one, my Holly.
“Because I like my car?” I whine like a child, pushing my lips into a pout just to make her smile. “And I did walk to work…once.”
Holly rolls her eyes at me, a sexy smirk on her beautiful face. We hold hands as we head into the elevator, and once those doors close us in I have her pinned to the wall; my hands on her face and my tongue in her mouth. When the elevator pings and the doors open, we all but run to my door.
Inside, she takes a minute to analyze the space. It’s a really open floor plan, with a large living, dining, and kitchen area framed with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the Strip. It’s not a huge space, but it’s got a great view. I’m kind of a minimalist, so my furniture is really basic, my walls very neutral. I have a few pieces of artwork that remind me of home, lots of books on the shelves, a Peloton bike in one corner next to a rack of hand weights.
I show her around, my bedroom is big but not ridiculously so, again very sparsely decorated, with a California King bed covered in a down comforter. My bedroom has the same view as my living room, with black-out curtains to shut it all out as needed.
“This is a nice place, Evan.” She eyes the bed and grins, “And that’s a pretty big bed.”
“I’m a pretty big dude,” I say, pulling her into my arms. “There’s something else you should know, too.”
“Oh?”
“It’s new. The bedding, the mattress…all new since I got back from LA.”
Twenty-Six
Holly
Evan Kazmeirowicz is blushing. He’s just told me he replaced his whole bed in the past week, and he’s blushing about it.
I reach up and rub my thumb over the pink that has bloomed high on his cheeks. “Are you embarrassed? Why are you blushing? That’s my thing.”
“I just needed to shed the past,” he says earnestly. “I wanted to bring you here and have you know this is our space—only for us.”
“I am over all of that, truly. Your past—it was who you were then, but it’s not who you are now. I trust you.” It feels wonderful to say those words to him and to really believe them with my whole heart.
“I know.” He cups my face with both of his hands, his thumbs caressing lovingly over my cheekbones, and insists, “But it was important to me. I believe you’ll be the last woman I ever invite into this bed. It’s important to me that you know you are also the first.”
The first and the last.
I open my mouth but literally nothing comes out. What can a person possibly say to such a statement? I settle for, “I love you, Evan. I haven’t said it yet, but I do. I love you so much.”
Evan’s mouth is on mine immediately, his hands gripping my ass as he picks me up and carries me into his very large master en suite. Still kissing me, he manages to reach into his shower to turn on the water.
“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,” he says. “Shower with you. Is that weird?”
“Weird Science,” I say, then giggle. “Sorry, that was dumb.”
“I love that movie, it’s hilarious!”
We throw movie quotes back and forth and I fall a little more in love with him with each one. Finally, he tests the water and says it’s ready. My shirt is over my head—my skirt lying on the floor in a heartbeat. As I stand in front of him, clad only in the lacy black bra and panties I wore in hopes I might end up with him like this, I feel exposed in ways I never have before. I feel like he can see inside of me, and it’s so scary, but also so wonderful and freeing. I feel like there is no barrier between us at all now, as if we’re really walking a path toward something good together.
“Have I ever mentioned how beautiful you are?” Evan asks as he traces a long finger over the swell of my breast.
“Maybe once or twice,” I say, arching into his caress.
He begins undressing me as I take in the view. And my view is pretty magnificent. This beautiful man standing before me has told me he’s in love with me. It might take me a bit before I stop pinching myself to see if I’m dreaming or not.
He kisses my neck as his hands reach around to unhook my bra. The sound it makes as the snaps separate before it falls to the floor, makes me shiver beneath his lips. I feel his big hands drawing down my panties, so I help the process along with a shimmy. Completely naked, we step inside the steamy shower. I put my head under the shower head, letting the water soak my hair wet before I push it all back and away from my face. I find Evan staring at the way my breasts jut toward him when my back arches. He looks a little wild and it only makes me hotter knowing he might lose control a little. I love everything about my dominant lover.
He puts some shampoo into his hand and starts working it through my long hair. He massages my scalp, my temples, my neck. I arch back under the spray again to rinse away the soap and feel his fingers playing at my nipples. It’s so good feeling his hands on me. My nipples bud up tight, the tips pebbled almost to the point of pain until he takes one in his mouth and twists the other between his fingers.
I hear my cry at the exquisite mix of ecstasy and pain. I want to come, but I want this pleasure-torture to go on forever. Choices.
Evan’s massive cock is fully erect and jutting in my direction, so I take some body wash and rub my sudsy hands along the length of that huge, beautiful part of him that owns me. He groans and moves closer, putting his forehead on mine as we touch each other. Our hands go where we want and need them to go.
He spins me around after a long, quiet moment of touching. He rubs bubbles and suds all over my breasts and stomach, working his fingertips over my ultra-sensitive flesh before moving down to my sex. He starts outside, his fingers massaging just the folds and my inner thighs. I sag into him because it feels so good I can barely stand. But my body wants more; the ache of want strong and hot between my legs. I open for him, just enough, and his fingers push inside. My hips move in a seductive dance against his fingers, welcoming him to explore at will.
Just as I feel the quake of orgasm begin, he removes his fingers, and spins me around to face him once more. He picks me up as if I’m a feather, lifts me over his twitching cock, and slides his way up into me deep. I wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist. With him buried as far as he can go, we’re as close as humanly possible.
He moves slowly, in no hurry for our connection to end. He kisses at my neck, along my jaw. Our tongues connect. My breasts press against his chest. His hands splay along my backside.
His movements grow faster, harder. I urge him to give me more. I want him wild and uncontained.
I flex my pelvic muscles, pushing my body toward that perfect and divine precipice. When I fall, I fall hard, my breath stopping, the noises escaping my throat nearly inhuman. I focus on what Evan is saying to me and then I hear it.
“Holly—Holly—Holly...” My name becomes his mantra, flowing from his lips repeatedly as I struggle to stay earthbound. “I love you,” comes out in harsh breaths as he empties himself into me.
He holds me for a long time afterward, until his ragged breathing finally calms. When he finally sets me down, I feel wobbly as jello and have to brace my hand on the wall to help me return back down to earth.
As the hot water pours down upon us, he says, “I will never get tired of you like this.”
“Neither will I.” And I know I won’t as he tilts my chin up to meet his lips for more kisses. I remind him how much I love him.
Evan kisses me until the water goes cold.
Afterward, we curl up in his brand-new bed with pizza and beer, and even find Weird Science on demand.
The perfect night.
Twenty-Seven
Evan
Three minutes until buzzer. Three minutes until that cup is mine.
New York versus Las Vegas. Viktor Demoskev is back on the ice for this final, championship game. He’s played well, though the fire has gone o
ut from the hate between him and Georg since the incident in Los Angeles.
We are tied one-one. This is a big game, and while everyone is fired up, no one has gotten past the defensive lines tonight. The goalies have been on fire, diving for saves, keeping access to the goals limited. They are the game MVP’s for sure. But I have another MVP title in mind.
I need to score another goal and win this championship.
A high sticking penalty is called on a New York player and seconds later, a cross-checking penalty that puts us into a sizable Power Play.
This is it.
I look up at the owner’s box and see Holly up there, jumping and cheering. I grin and get my head back in the game, taking a pass from Georg and practically flying down the ice. The goalie looks ready for me to slam it at him, but I don’t. I do a quick pass to rookie Mikhail over on the other side and before the goalie even realizes I don’t have the puck, Mikhail wings it right in behind his back.
The crowd goes nuts. Georg looks shocked that I let that goal go to a rookie, but I feel good about it. He was in the right place at the right time and that is how you play the game.
We set up to finish out the last minute, which goes by without another score, but in the end, I don’t care. We won.
Georg and I are selected to “hoist the cup,” so we shoulder it and skate around the rink as the crowd cheers. I can see the management and media team freaking out up in the box. Max Terry might even be ugly crying. I can’t wait to celebrate with my girl.
We do our usual shower-first-media-second routine, but this time, the whole team is invited in. We all line up, and of course they put Chalamet and me in front of the mics.
A reporter yells out, “Did you engineer that breakaway and fake?”
I shake my head. “Not really. We’ve played extremely well as a team all season. We have a good sense of space and of how each other’s minds work. Those goalies were on fire this game and I knew I wasn’t getting a straight shot, no matter how fast I skated. Not tied up and with only minutes left, he wasn’t letting a thing through.”