by Lynn, Stacey
That has to mean something, right?
Stop getting ahead of yourself.
Right. I’m the one who offered to keep this easy. He agreed. He’s even admitted he doesn’t know what he has to give. And there’s the chance I could still be a fun way to pass the time so he’s not alone all the time.
All the logic in the world can’t penetrate my heart that’s falling for him. But the view of him dropping a towel, standing several feet away, unashamed in every glorious inch of what God gave him, makes it totally worth the heartache that might be coming my way.
Gah. He’s so… everything perfect in a male specimen.
Rippling muscles. Perfectly curved pecs. Arms that show his strength without being overly bulky. As for everything below the sexy as sin V-shaped muscle at his hips? Utter perfection.
He’s also holding my phone, and it’s clear he’s said something I missed during my visual stalking behavior because he’s grinning.
I turn off the hairdryer and drop both it and my brush.
“What?”
“You were getting a call, from an unknown number.” He hands me the phone. I glance at it and see they left a voicemail.
“I’ll check it later. Probably some stupid robocall or something. Thanks, though.”
I’m still staring at him. Can’t help it. “You should get clothes on.”
“I like the way you look at me when I don’t.”
To prove it, he puffs out his chest and places his hands on his hips. God. He’s showing off for me.
Ridiculous.
He’s also stolen my quick comebacks and sassy words. The sight of him like this in front of me leaves me speechless.
“Stare any harder at me and something of mine is going to demand its own attention.”
“I can’t help it. Your body is just… well… wow.” I exaggerate for effect and in return, get the reaction I was hoping for.
A full-on belly laugh with rippling, naked abs, is the perfect way to start my day. Better, maybe, than coffee.
“You are definitely good for my confidence.” He moves toward me too quick for me to jump out of his way, not that I would, of course and grabs my hand pulling me to him. “You can always make me laugh.”
“I like hearing it when you do.” I tip my head back. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
“My laugh?”
“Yeah, because you don’t do it often.”
“Hmmm.” There’s humor lingering in those gorgeous green eyes of his that quickly turns heated in a different way. “What else do you like about me?”
“Your hair.” To prove it, I run my fingers through his shaggy, almost shoulder-length long wavy locks and then drag my hand to his chest. “Your chest is a pretty nice thing about you. Along with your abs.” My hand drifts along every body part I mention until it curls around something lower, something hard. Hot. Steel and silky. “This is one of my favorite parts, too.”
“Is it?” he murmurs, eyes slowly closing. His hips press against my hand and a low groan tumbles from his beautiful lips. “God, I like it when you do that.”
“I know,” I tease, moving my hand back and forth, sliding it up and down his length.
His face falls forward, forehead hitting mine and he cringes. “I really, really want to see where this will lead, but I have to get to the arena.”
“Hmmm. Pity.” I stroke him once then twice more and when I release him, a stuttered breath comes out.
“Damn it.”
“At least now maybe you’ll be thinking of me later.” I wink and step back. Too much of us too close together with one of us wearing absolutely nothing is the perfect equation to equal trouble.
“I always do,” he says, and I’m so shocked by the admission and the way his eyes darken, my lips are parted when he kisses me which means his tongue easily slides inside.
God. The way he can kiss. My toes sizzle as the fire he can quickly stoke inside me with the lash of his tongue and his scent and his mouth and the scrape of his scruff.
He pulls back, ending the kiss slowly but oh, much too quickly, and kisses my nose. “I should get going.”
“I know. Good luck tonight.” My hands squeeze the warmth of his hips. The man really needs to put some clothes on.
Like he can read my thoughts, especially the dirty ones, he steps back and reaches for his athletic pants.
I gape at him while he dresses. Watching him cover his body is almost as sexy as being the one to uncover it.
“You should come to the game tonight.”
“What? Me?”
“Yes.” He laughs. “You. And your dad. Or his friends. I’ll like knowing you’re there.”
I want to cry out yes. It’s the first time he’s asked. This must mean something, right? Something beyond what we originally agreed to? He’s looking at me so earnestly, but it fades as I don’t answer.
“Sebastian, this isn’t…”
He silences me with a scorching kiss. He’s still hard and even though he’s now dressed, he can’t hide that from me.
He ends the kiss abruptly, leaving me wanting more.
And then shocking the hell out of me when he continues.
“This isn’t just about having sex anymore, and I think we both know that. I’ll have tickets for four at will-call. I want you there if you can make it or have someone cover the bar.”
I’ll close the bar down—business be damned—for a chance to see him play live.
This isn’t just sex.
Does this mean it’s more?
No way am I ruining this moment by asking.
“I’ll be there,” I say, ignoring the rest of what he’s said. “I’d love to watch you in action.”
“You see me in action plenty.” He kisses me and grabs his keys. “See you later, Georgia.”
A delightful shiver skates down my spine.
I love it when he calls me by my given name.
I love it even more that somehow, he seems to be liking me maybe as much as I already like him.
Hopefully?
* * *
It’s well after lunchtime where I’ve spent hours at a coffee shop getting caught up on editing some of my more recent photos, responding to messages on Instagram and emails. I’ve had a few requests for sponsors, companies who want me to try their products. They usually include everything from sunscreen to outdoor clothing to food preparation delivery kits up to cameras and accessories or gear to carry it all on in. It usually takes me a while to research the product I’m being offered. I only agree to accepting their offer if they’re willing to understand I will only share it on my feed if it’s truly something I can promote without feeling like I’m selling myself to make a quick buck or two on the reward codes.
After Sebastian left, I spent the time doing a little bit of picking up and cleaning of my apartment. He’s quit teasing me for my housekeeping skills and yet, for some stupid reason, I actually like making my place look nice now.
Odd.
Afterward, I headed into NoDa where I wandered the streets, finding little to be inspired by but I took a few pictures of trees beginning to bud and bloom. I quickly edited them and uploaded them with cheesy captions about the city feeling alive in the newly spring sunshine.
I’m packing up all my gear at the coffee shop when a text comes through my phone.
I grin, seeing Sebastian’s name and open it.
Tickets are ready for you. Can’t wait to see you later. Cheer loud for me.
I quickly type back, Will do, hotshot.
Immediately, I receive back a kissing emoji.
If I were a teenage girl, I’d squeal and hug my phone to my chest. Possibly scratch out our initials inside a heart with an arrow pierced through it. As it is, I’m in my late twenties and I still feel heat spreading to my cheeks.
Sebastian Hendrix uses kissing emojis.
Adorable.
When I go to slide my phone back in my satchel, I see the notification of my voicemail
I haven’t checked or cleared. It’s probably nothing, but I always check voicemails just in case although usually it’s only to hear about how I’ve won a free vacation, how I should make sure I’m registered to vote, or the most annoying of all… the grating tone from what sounds like an old school fax machine.
Still, ever since I missed my aunt’s calls in Europe to tell me about my dad, I always check them.
I pull it up, and as soon as the voice starts talking, a rushing sound roars through my ears.
“Hi Georgia Barnes, this is Pam Wilson from Dr. Marie Connor’s office. Our records indicate you were due…”
Oh dear God in heavens.
No.
No way.
I end the voicemail, blood racing through my veins and pull up my calendar app.
I’m not overdue for my birth control shot. It’s supposed to be April third. I’ve known that since I made the last appointment.
Except.
“No.” I blink repeatedly as I stare at the calendar and the appointment listed. The one I missed.
March fourth. Three-four, not four-three.
Holy freaking crap.
Almost a full freaking month late?
“This can’t be,” I mutter. This can absolutely not be right.
It has to be.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I repeat to myself.
Sebastian can’t have children.
He’s clean.
But ever since that day in the shower, we started foregoing condoms. Which means we’ve been having sex. A LOT OF SEX.
And I was supposed to get my shot weeks ago.
Which still, it’s fine. FINE. It can take several weeks past this for the shot to wear off. It’s not like you miss it and you’re instantly fertile myrtle.
Right?
Right.
I pull up my recent calls and call them back.
Ten minutes later, I have an appointment for Friday because they couldn’t squeeze me in today or tomorrow and twenty minutes later I have a small box in a white bag shoved to the bottom of my satchel from a convenience store down the street from my apartment.
There’s absolutely, positively, no way in hell I’m pregnant.
But I might as well take a test. Just to settle my nerves and confirm what I already know for a fact.
Sebastian can’t have children.
Therefore, there’s absolutely no way in hell I’m pregnant.
* * *
I’m squished between my dad and Steve, both of whom jumped at the opportunity to see the Ice Kings play live. The game is going on in front of us, fifteen rows up from center ice across from the team’s benches. The seats are incredible. Low enough to feel the energy on the ice with the perfect views of both sides. I can still barely keep my eyes on the puck as it flies across the ice and every time a player is thrown into the boards, I jump in my seat much to Dad and Steve’s amusement.
Why they insisted on squishing me between them is anyone’s guess when they keep leaning in front of me to talk.
I’ve known from watching games on TV that the Ice Kings aren’t only a great team, but that Sebastian is an incredible player. Seeing him live conjures an entirely different sensation in my stomach. He’s fast. Strong. He has no problems checking an opponent into a wall and he’s stolen several seemingly well-aimed passes, cleared the net and protected Maddox from having to save a shot on goal.
And still, with all the excitement, the energy around us and the happiness I feel at Sebastian’s parting words, I can barely focus.
I have an unanswered text from him burning a hole in my coat pocket.
Tickets are ready for you. Your place or mine after the game?
What in the heck am I supposed to say to him? Should I tell him what’s happening? Should I wait to see if there’s anything to tell him at all? He leaves tomorrow for their last road trip before playoffs. I won’t know anything for certain until I either grow a pair of lady balls and take the pregnancy test I bought this afternoon or go to my appointment on Friday.
By then, he’ll be in Vancouver, making a quick trek across the western half of Canada before flying back home from Calgary.
Since I have no idea what to say to him and I know he’ll catch on to something being wrong if I see him tonight, I haven’t answered the text.
Does that make me a sissy? Probably.
Do I have a better option? I haven’t been able to figure that one out yet.
Steven jostles my knee as he shoves forward in his chair. His hands are wrapped around his mouth, creating a megaphone while he shouts at the players, cheers for them. I only wish I could be this excited about everything.
It’s only the first period. I have forty-five minutes left of the game tonight to figure out a response.
Forty-five more minutes to sit here, in the stands, wishing I was cheering on Sebastian with abandon like the rest of the home crowd, trying to figure out what in the hell will happen to me, to us, if I actually am pregnant.
It’s torture.
I might be snuggled between two of the men who love me most in the world and in an arena of thousands, but I’ve never felt more alone. Or lost.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sebastian
I charge Maddox on the ice, slamming my body into his and almost taking us off our skates. It’s Sawyer Chauncy, the third man to slam into our huddle but not the last that does it.
I fall onto Maddox and roll to my side, right before Mikah Lutzgo joins us and soon, the rest of the team has dog-piled on top of us on the ice right in front of the goal Maddox has spent the last hour defending with perfection. Tradition has us skating to the goalie after a win and slapping him on the helmet, but this game, this moment, is too big for a simple congratulations.
“We did it!” someone shouts.
“Hell yeah!”
“Championship bound, baby!”
We’re all cheering and shouting at the same time while around us, the small amount of Ice Kings fans that have cheered for us in Calgary refuse to leave their stands.
Climbing to our feet, my cheeks have never felt so tight. It’s this damn smile. This team and this season that does it. We’ve just beaten Calgary, securing a first-round bye for the playoffs. Two weeks off of practices and conditioning before we start round two of games with the home advantage in Charlotte.
This is it. Our moment.
Jason comes up and slaps the side of my face, pulling me to my feet as we skate to Calgary and fist pump gloves before they take off the ice.
We head down our own hallway, cheers echoing, congratulations being shouted from all the members of the Ice Kings who handle all of our behind the scenes work.
Tessa, who has traveled with us is there, tears streaming down her face, hands clasped together. Jason doesn’t even break stride when he shoves his arm behind her, lifts her into the air and kisses her to even more raucous cheers and jubilation.
In the locker room, champagne is shaken and uncorked, glasses are filled. Bottles are dumped over Coach Woods before we have the time to remove our skates or helmets.
Fucking hockey. It’s the best damn thing in the world.
“All right! All right!” Coach Woods shouts, champagne dripping from the tips of his graying hair, champagne glass raised in the air. “Y’all did this! And you should be proud of yourselves, right?!”
Everything he says is cut short by another whoop or holler that bounces off the walls in the vast space.
“Now. Take the night. Celebrate responsibly. Enjoy the long weekend off because next week, we’re back to work so we can end this year the best!”
More shouts. More celebrations that eventually fizzle to a dull roar while guys start stripping off sweaty and now champagne-soaked gear before we’re showered and re-dressed in suits, ready to catch the bus on the way back to the hotel.
During all of this, guys are on the phones, calling wives and girlfriends, and in my hand, I frown at the blank screen of my phone.
; Gigi.
There’s been a time change and while I’d like to blame our lack of conversation over the last week on that, it’s bullshit. For weeks while I traveled it was never an issue since she was usually at the bar so late anyway. We’d connect after my game, or before she went to work the next day.
I’ve barely spoken to her since the night I gave her tickets to my game. It was late, right after the game. I got back to the locker room when I got a text back from her congratulating me on our win, but saying she was wiped and heading home with her dad and Steve.
No invite to go to her place.
Which wouldn’t have bothered me except since then, she’s been distracted on the phone and while she’s answered my texts, they’ve been brief.
Something is bothering her and for reasons I’m not willing to delve too deep into on a charter bus with dozens of guys, it’s bothering me as well.
Holy crap.
I’m falling for Gigi. In a way that’s been slow, and yet steady, taking minute steps forward until I don’t know if I can turn back now.
That’s why this hurts so much. Why it’s kept me awake this week. Why I’ve done extra workouts to work the worry out of my brain before I take to the ice for games.
I don’t just like Gigi.
Love, though?
It’s too soon. Has to be. I’m only a couple months out of a divorce to the woman I loved over half of my life. It’s not possible to be falling in love again so quickly, is it?
And what did we agree to? Something easy, something uncomplicated… because I was the one who didn’t know how much I have to give.
Well. Shit just got a whole lot more complicated now.
I slide into a seat on the bus, smacking Klaus’s forehead as I pass him. “You headed out later?”
He’s grinning down at his phone, but when I smack him he flings his hand in the air and hits mine away. “Yeah, dipshit. Unless you keep assaulting me.”
I grab the back of his headrest and peek over his shoulder. “How’s Jillian?”
“Good.” He swipes the text screen closed and looks up at me to glare at me. “Mind your own business.”