Lover

by Marni Mann

  Cannon, the man I’m committed to, walks in front of me with his head down. He’s the hardest working man I know, spending more time solving other people’s problems to have any of his own. But we do have problems. Problems that need to be addressed because I can’t keep living in a world where I question every move he makes, wondering if there’s someone else or if he just doesn’t want to be with me anymore.

  I need answers.

  I need to know where I stand.

  Most of all, I need him.

  But Cannon is so preoccupied. His world revolves around the courtroom. I don’t know how to make him see me. Or if he even wants to.

  Cannon used to be my everything—my life, my heart, my home. But, when I look at him, all I see is sandy-blond hair and tan skin that belonged to the boy I fell for, not the man he’s become.

  I promised myself, I’d never let our relationship die. Now, I realize that’s not something I have control over.

  If we want our marriage to work, if we love each other, something has to change.

  No matter how many times I post on social media about all the wining and dining we’re doing in Belize, all the water sports that’d make any person jealous, it doesn’t change the distance between us.

  On paper, we’re a match made in heaven. But, if we’re perfect for each other, why are we becoming strangers?

  West

  “That should be everything,” one of the movers says to me, handing me a piece of paper that shows the inventory of what they’ve packed up from our place.

  Tilly and I stand in the lobby of our building, watching one of the guys pull a dolly from the freight elevator and load a set of boxes into an eighteen-wheeler. Once he’s outside, I check the list. Hundreds of items are on the sheet—each numbered, categorized by room.

  The only things I have left of my career are boxes labeled eighty-nine through one hundred two. They hold my awards, highlight clips, the last jersey and helmet I wore during the game against Calgary. The same ones I was in when I had my career-ending injury. I tried to throw the jersey and helmet away, but Tilly stuck them back in before the boxes were sealed and numbered.

  “We’ll see you in Florida,” the same guy says to us. He waits for a nod before he walks out.

  Then, my wife turns toward me and wraps her arms around my waist. “Are you ready to do this?”

  Ready to give up hockey and leave Boston forever?

  Nah, I’m not fucking ready. Not even close.

  I’m only twenty-eight. It wasn’t supposed to end this soon. It shouldn’t be over because of an injury. It should be over because I was ready to give it up. But I’m not. I have so much fight left in me.

  Shit, I want to fight.

  I want to walk into TD Garden, lace up my skates, and hear the fans scream when I step onto the ice. I want to feel the sweat in my gloves and the stick between the thick leather and listen to the sound of the puck slapping against the toe.

  But I can’t have any of that.

  So, I have to get the hell out of here.

  “Yeah,” I say, “let’s go.”

  Tilly leads me to the front of the building where a car is waiting to take us to the airport. She steps out first, and I follow behind her. Once the glass door shuts, the crowds on both sides of us close in.

  “What the—”

  It takes a few seconds before I realize the faces staring back are ones I recognize. It’s my team. They’re holding out their fists, waiting for me to pound them, just like we do on our way through the tunnel as we head toward the ice.

  I went to practice the day after I talked to my agent and told the team I wasn’t returning. And, now, they’re here to send me off.

  My final walk through the tunnel.

  The last time I’ll ever be a part of a team.

  I whisper the name of each player as I pass him, and when I reach Viktor, he pulls me in for a hug.

  “I’ll be down to visit as soon as we hit the off-season,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “You’d better have a hell of a tan and a wicked golf game by then.”

  “I hate golf.”

  “Learn to like it because I’m going to challenge the hell out of your handicap.”

  I say nothing.

  I can’t.

  “You’re going to knock her up and take your son to daycare and coach little league. You’re going to be all right.”

  I nod, not wanting any of the things he mentioned, still unable to say a word.

  He slaps me on the back, we part, and I climb into the car.

  Tilly turns toward me and squeezes my leg. “In six hours, I’m going to be in a bikini, walking through the sand and straight into the water. No more winter coats, baby. No more snow.”

  And no more fucking hockey.

  Tilly was right. Six hours after we drove to Logan International Airport, her fingers are clung around mine, and she’s dragging me through the sand. She splashes her way into the water, kicking at the waves, diving in when she gets deep enough. She acts like it’s been years since she’s been to the beach. It’s only been a few months. I rent us a house in Cape Cod during the off-season, and I take her to the Caribbean several times a year. Hell, we even went to Bora Bora last summer.

  She grew up near the ocean, and it’s where she’s the happiest.

  But, besides my cock, I’m not sure what else makes my wife happy.

  And that’s something I’m supposed to know.

  Once I get chest-deep, she wraps her legs around my waist, hugging my neck with her arms. “You’re going to love the house I rented for us.”

  I didn’t bother to ask for a picture. Truth is, I don’t give a shit what the place looks like. As long as it’s far from Boston, I’m good with whatever she chose. But knowing that her taste has gotten expensive since marrying me, I figure it’ll be on the beach and nice as hell.

  “It has plenty of space and lots of bedrooms.”

  “All the guys will be down to visit, I’m sure,” I say, hoping she’s not hinting at anything other than having a lot of guests.

  She leans forward and kisses the end of my nose. “That’s what I’m planning for.”

  Thank fuck.

  Tilly and I have been married for two years. My parents are asking for some grandkids. Hers are, too. Probably even more now that we have moved to her hometown and will see them more often. But what I learned from Tilly’s miscarriage—her pregnancy being the sole reason we’d married—is that I’m not ready to be a dad.

  “Plus, with you being home so much now, I thought some extra space wouldn’t be a bad thing,” she says.

  I squeeze her ass, the skimpy bottoms she has on barely covering it. “I like your thinking.” I lean into her neck, tasting the salt on her skin. “And I’d like it even more if you turned around and let me fuck your ass.”

  She laughs. “You know I’m all about an audience, but there are kids in this water and tons of them on the beach, and none of them need to hear what I sound like when you’re inside my ass.”

  “You’re definitely not a quiet one.”

  “No, I’m not.” She chews on my bottom lip until I move my fingers away from her asshole. “Don’t worry, baby; you’ll get what you want once we’re back in our hotel room.”

  She doesn’t give me that hole often enough. It’s not because she doesn’t enjoy it. My wife likes every place I stick my cock. She just enjoys making me work for it, and that makes me want it even more.

  “Maybe while you’re in there,” she moans, “I’ll even turn around and ride you in reverse.” She pulls herself closer to my chest, her eyes telling me how badly she wants me.

  “You ready to go? My dick is about to shred through these swim trunks.”

  She laughs even harder this time. “In a minute.” She glances toward the horizon where the water meets the sky, and after several seconds, she asks, “I just assumed you were going to take some time off. Is that your plan, or do you have something else in mi
nd?”

  There it is again—life without hockey.

  When my agent stopped by my place a few days after our call, he said some offers were coming in for coaching and commentating gigs. They would keep me near the league, just not on the ice. I told Jesse I needed time. I’m not ready to think about any of that yet, not when I haven’t accepted that I won’t be playing anymore. Fortunately, I’ve earned enough throughout the years that I don’t have to work again. I’ve invested well, and I’m smart with my money. If I take any of those positions, it’ll be because I want to.

  But the only thing I want at this moment is to play hockey.

  “I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do,” I tell her. “Nothing feels right yet.”

  She wraps around me a little tighter, her lips pressing against mine. “I know something that’s going to feel right.” Tiny groans come through her lips after every exhale.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Mmhmm.” She licks the bottom of my ear, flicking it before tugging it into her mouth. “It’s going to be so much fun, too.”

  “You’re talking about what I’ll be doing to you when we get back to the hotel room?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s something I’ve been planning for us that’ll happen in a few weeks.”

  The last time my wife surprised me, she brought a chick back to our place. Seeing the girl go down on Tilly was so goddamn hot.

  She likes women. She likes having me watch her fuck them.

  And I like the show she gives me.

  “It’s going to involve you coming,” she breathes. “A lot.”

  Piper

  The second the hotel room door closes, Cannon’s kissing my neck. What I thought was ruined suddenly comes to life. I take two steps backward until my back is pressed against the wall. His tongue laps at a little bead of sweat the air-conditioning is trying to chase away. He likes the room freezing cold and says it keeps the humidity from destroying his hair.

  When I first met Cannon, his hair used to hang just above his eyebrows. When he was working out, the strands would nearly poke him in the eye. Sometime during the last few years, he started keeping the sides shaved and the top long enough to blow-dry into the perfect wave, swept away from his face. I asked him if it was the beginning of an early midlife crisis. He said he finally started giving a shit.

  Is that what we’re having? An early midlife crisis?

  “Piper? Did you hear me?” He bends at the waist to look me in the eyes.

  “What?”

  “You sure you’re okay? I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  “You’re not,” he tells me, like he knows me better than I know myself. He probably does because, lately, my thoughts have been my own worst enemy. He cups my jaw in his palm and whispers, “I don’t like telling you no, Piper.”

  “Then, why did you?”

  I want to understand. His reasoning has to go beyond the fact that we were in public. Because, had I begged him to touch me in the privacy of our own bedroom, Cannon probably would have touched me until I came apart beneath him. At least, I don’t think he would have made excuses, but these days, he’s been changing so much, and I haven’t been able to figure out why.

  “We were on the beach, babe.” He runs his hand through that styled hair of his. His expression is pained, maybe even a little confused, when he adds, “And…I don’t know…you’ve never wanted something like that before. It wasn’t like you.”

  “What am I like, Cannon? I always want you, and I felt how much you wanted me, too.” I hate how he makes me feel like wanting him is wrong. That we’re beyond trying new things just because we’ve always had the same cookie-cutter sex.

  After a little peck on my lips, he doesn’t bother with trying to deny how turned on he was. For a few seconds, we’re back in the alcove, just him and me.

  His eyes are focused on my mouth when he pries the beach bag out of my hand and sets it on the floor. The hair tie comes out of my hair, and he massages my scalp with his fingertips. My eyes close, and I rest my forehead against his chest, his skin still warm from the sun.

  “Tell me what you need, Piper. I’m sorry. I do want you.”

  “Touch me. Don’t stop touching me,” I tell him as a tear slides down my cheek.

  He says nothing about the tear, just kisses it away as I cling to him.

  “I’m sorry, Piper,” he says over and over.

  But my tears aren’t because of the beach or the alcove. They’re coming from someplace darker. Someplace I’m afraid to shine a light on. Because, once I do, I don’t know if Cannon will still be kissing away my tears. I don’t know if he’ll be in my life at all. That thought alone has me gripping his shoulders so hard.

  He picks me up and sets me on the bed. Looking down, he stares at my stomach and pauses. Right away, I know he’s mistaken my efforts this week. Wanting him has nothing to do with children. But I let him say it anyway because I need to hear this.

  Finally, he says, “I don’t know if I’m ready yet, Piper. I want to be, but I’m not there yet.”

  “We’re our own family, Cannon. I just need you,” I tell him.

  I didn’t plan this trip to convince him that it was time to try to get pregnant. That’s an entirely different issue we’ve glossed over. And, if the time ever comes, we’ll discuss it again. But, right now, all I care about is us. Everything about Belize has been meant to bring us closer, to find our footing after months of coming and going left us feeling more like strangers than lovers. And, if we can’t find solid ground, then nothing will fix us.

  Not a baby.

  Not a break.

  “I want you, Pipes.”

  As I lift my hips, giving him the okay, he slides my bikini bottoms down my legs and unties the top from around my neck.

  “Spread your legs for me, baby.”

  One at a time, I lift each leg until my feet are flat on the mattress, my knees spread as wide as they’ll go. A low growl builds in his throat, and he can’t get his swim trunks off quickly enough. The second he springs free, he’s between my legs, guiding himself toward my warmth.

  But the buildup is lost when he slides inside me with so much patience and tenderness that I ache for more friction. He stays buried to the hilt when I need him to move. God, do I need him to move.

  “Please, Cannon.” I try rocking back and forth, but he holds me still, his breathing already shallow. “Please,” I say one more time.

  “Don’t beg, Piper,” he says.

  I want to ask him why, but I already know the answer. Sex with Cannon is nearly the same each time, a dance that’s become as predictable and routine as the rest of my life. Every kiss, every movement—it’s almost planned to perfection. Only it’s not perfect, not even close.

  When he’s ready, he starts to move and grabs me by the hips, where his hands will stay. With my ass slightly off the bed, my hips tilted upward, and my thighs clenching his waist, he fucks me with a familiar rhythm, the same tempo I’ve memorized.

  “Is this what you want, baby?”

  I tell him, “Yes,” even though I want it harder and faster.

  His pace barely changes as he chews on his lip and watches my chest bounce. My nipples are so hard that all he’d have to do is flick one, and I’d scream, but his hands rarely roam or explore.

  “Keep your legs around me, understand?” he says.

  I nod because I know this is how he wants me—on my back, gripping him. Other than a few kisses on my lips every few seconds, Belize sex remains as standard as Florida sex.

  “You feel so good, Piper,” he says through gritted teeth.

  He’s as hard as a rock inside me, and I know he’s close.

  Three more pumps, and he’s on the edge, his entire body tensing as he kisses me hard on the mouth. I kiss back even harder, holding on, as he spills inside me.

  When his muscles relax, I wait for him to pull out and cuddle me against his chest, like he al
ways does. But his phone rings inside the beach bag, and he stands up, running his fingers through his hair, as he looks around for it. I don’t know why I’m surprised he’s going to answer the call. I guess I hoped that, just this once, he’d put us first.

  I watch him dig into the pocket of the beach bag, pull the phone out, and then glance at the screen. And then he holds up a finger, letting me know he needs a minute. Normally, I’d give him all the time in the world, but it’s Saturday, and the office is closed. Only dire emergencies are handled on the weekends, and considering we’re in another country, Cannon couldn’t be much help.

  Something inside me snaps, and I get up from the bed and storm across the room. Without thinking, I grab the phone out of his hand and hang up.

  He glances back and forth between the phone and me and then stares at me in disbelief. “What the hell, Piper? That was a work call.”

  “Was it?” I ask him, no longer taking his word for it.

  “Who else would it have been? Everyone knows I’m on vacation.”

  “You’ve been taking calls the entire trip, Cannon. We just had sex, and you got out of bed to answer a work call. Do you even get how messed up that is?”

  I wasn’t expecting it, but remorse fills his eyes, and he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

  But that’s the thing, I stopped believing him.

  “No, you’re not. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t keep doing it.”

  “I can’t help it,” he says. “I’m under a lot of pressure.”

  “I don’t care!” I yell.

  He takes a step toward me, and I take a step back. We’re both completely naked, and I feel so exposed, like he can see my heart beating out of my chest and feel the fear in the pit of my stomach. My confidence disappears, and I sink to the floor, curling into a ball.

  “Piper,” he says when I start to cry, “please don’t.”

  Through tears and a throat so clogged with emotion that it burns, I manage to speak the words I’ve been holding inside for so long, “Something has to change, Cannon. You’re always at the office. Always on the phone. And, when you’re not, you’re distracted. I brought you here to get us back on the same page, but we’re not even in the same book anymore. I don’t know what to do.”