Maybe This Love

by Jennifer Snow

  “Are you nervous now?” she asked.

  “In bed with you? No. Why? Should I be?” he teased.

  She pinched his nipple. “In the playoffs, smartass.”

  “Ow!” He laughed, grabbing both her hands and holding them to his chest. “Nervous in a different way. This is more like a nervous energy. It comes mostly from the fans once I step out onto the ice. Before then, it just feels like another day doing what I love.”

  “But during the playoffs, there’s more at stake.”

  “Absolutely.”

  She hesitated. “Is that why you…” How could she ask without offending him?

  “Choke?”

  “I heard a rumor,” she said, wishing she hadn’t brought it up.

  He pulled her closer. “It’s true. Both times I made it to the playoffs, my game went sideways, I couldn’t get it back, and the team ended up out in the first and second rounds.” He paused. “The first time was the month after my dad died and the second was the season Janelle left,” he said quietly.

  “Oh, Ben…”

  “I let the stress in my personal life take over.”

  “And then this season—the divorce case…”

  He nodded. “Didn’t help.” He hugged her tight to his chest, smoothing her hair away from her face. “But if it hadn’t been for the case, I wouldn’t have you.”

  She swallowed hard. He was saying all the right things, and her heart begged her to believe him, to not question it, but she was still terrified. She was so afraid of losing him now that she had what she’d always been searching for. “So, what’s the big deal anyway?” she asked, changing the subject. “I mean, I get that every team wants to be considered the best in the league, but why is the cup so important anyway? It’s just a big silver trophy.”

  He shot her a look that suggested she’d insulted his mother. “Watch it, lady.”

  She laughed. “Sorry. I know some people are crazy about it, and I find it odd, that’s all.” No doubt because she’d never been involved in competitive sports, she didn’t quite get the insane dedication and determination some of these athletes possessed. “I had one client who tried to get her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s personal day with the cup in her hometown instead of his, should his team win that year.”

  Ben’s eyes widened. “What a bitch.”

  She laughed. “I talked her out of it,” she said, pulling the bedsheet around her chest as she sat up. “Even I could see that was just being unreasonable and petty.” She looked around the room for her clothes. As much as she hated to, she’d have to leave soon.

  “You’re a good woman,” Ben said, pulling her back toward him.

  She resisted. “I have to go.”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  She didn’t need much convincing. With him was the only place she wanted to be. She rested her head back against his chest. “Okay, tell me more about this cup. Make me understand its power.”

  He stroked her bare arm as he spoke, and a tingling sensation coursed through her entire body at the simple, gentle caress. “That cup has been all over the world and has its fair share of experiences. It has dozens of superstitions associated with it, and some go as far as saying it could be cursed.”

  She turned her head to look at him. “Seriously?”

  “Not shitting you. When Madison Square Garden’s stadium mortgage was paid off years ago, the New York team managers and the building’s owners held a mortgage-burning party. Rumor has it they burned the mortgage docs in the cup, and then supposedly several teammates peed in the cup as some weird celebratory gesture.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”

  “Even worse, the team didn’t win again for over forty years.”

  “Could have been just bad playing.”

  “Most likely, you’re right. A lot of guys won’t even touch our division trophy because they think it ruins our chances of winning the real thing. I don’t believe in superstition, so I snapped a selfie with it when no one was looking.”

  She laughed. “A selfie? Really, Ben?”

  Reaching across to the bedside table, he retrieved his phone, typed in his password, and flicked through several pics. He turned the phone toward her.

  There he was, grinning while holding up the division trophy.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Maybe. Just don’t tell the guys.”

  “That you’re crazy? Pretty sure they already know.”

  He tickled her waist. “About me touching it. If we lose, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Fine,” she said, wiggling away from him. “So, will you get to take the cup home, if the team wins?”

  “When. When the team wins, yes, I get a personal day with it. Jackson and Ash will love it, and my niece Taylor will take a dozen selfies with it. Of course the keeper of the cup will probably be photo-bombing in the background, but he’s become part of hundreds of families now.” He laughed.

  “Keeper of the cup? Like a guy who babysits it?”

  Ben nodded. “Twenty-four seven. Same guy now for decades. He keeps it safe.”

  “Safe? What could possibly happen to it?” she asked.

  “Well, let’s see—it’s been kicked into Rideau Canal in Ottawa, left on the side of the road in a snowbank in Montreal when the team pulled over to change a tire on the way to the victory banquet, been taken to strip clubs…”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Not by me. Peed in…”

  She wrinkled her nose again. So far that was still the worst.

  “Thrown into Messier’s pool, and recently it went to war.”

  She sat straighter. “It went overseas?”

  He nodded. “To Afghanistan for the U.S. and Canadian troops.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know it was such a morale booster.”

  “It is. The thing is actually pretty impressive up close. It takes the professional engraver over ten hours to put all of the names of the winning team’s players on it.”

  “Wow.”

  “Maybe I’ll even let you hold it once we win,” he said with the grin she’d once found arrogant but had come to love.

  Still, the urge to bring him down just a fraction of a peg was there. “Confident much?”

  He pulled her closer, his intent gaze locked on hers. “We’re only a few games away.”

  “What if you lose?”

  “We won’t.”

  “How do you know?” she whispered against his lips.

  “I always get what I want.”

  “What do you want now, Ben?” All thoughts of leaving disappeared the longer she stayed, the tighter he held her, the stronger the connection between them grew. She was in trouble if Ben Westmore had a change of heart and decided he couldn’t deliver on his promise of never leaving. So while he was in her arms, she would stay right where she was.

  “I thought that was obvious, but if not…” He flipped them over so that his body hovered over hers. “Let me make it clear.”

  Chapter 21

  The Avalanche was now leading the series 3–2, but tonight’s score hadn’t even been close. Most times, fans are happier with close scoring games, back-and-forth leads between teams. The buildup of anticipation with the possibility that their team might lose made the victory all the more sweet. But the home crowd had been wild the entire game.

  He removed his gloves, opened his locker, and wondered how much of it had to do with his time with Olivia. He’d never refrained from sex during playoffs, not believing in any of the customary superstitions. The only reason he grew his lame attempt at a playoff beard was to show solidarity with the team and his fans—and not be blamed for a Stanley Cup loss because he’d shaved. But he didn’t believe any of it worked. Common sense suggested that every team would win, if that were as magical as it was given credit for. But there was no place for common sense in the hype of playoff hockey.

  Either way, he’d never given up the pleasure of a woman’s body, and what his teammates didn’t know
couldn’t hurt their pregame psyche. But he knew it wasn’t the sex that had put his mind at ease and made his body relax. Spending time with Olivia felt different. He felt different.

  He shook his head, thinking about the time they’d spent together, picking out pregnancy books and bribing some kid with a new bike, a skating lesson that had been more of a battle of wills and each trying to outdo the other at a charity event. Not exactly his normal definition of fun, but with her, he’d probably consider watching the paint on his lake house dry to be the most fun he’d ever had on a date.

  For the first time since Janelle, he found himself truly relaxed around a woman. Olivia was herself at all times—no pretenses, no bullshit—and it forced him to act the same. He didn’t need to be Ben Westmore, the king of the ice, the MVP of the league, the charming playboy of the NHL. Those versions of him didn’t impress her. So, with her, he got to be Ben. The guy who loved what he did. The guy who felt blessed to be able to be the best at something. The guy who was humbled by his family’s complete failure to be awed by him.

  He was in love with her. Didn’t just crave her and her touch and those sexy-as-hell legs that had been wrapped around him the night before and into the early hours of morning…but her. His mouth went dry as he removed his sweat-drenched hockey gear and tossed it into the duffel bag.

  He could sense her concern about them, and he couldn’t wait to see her to continue reassuring her she had nothing to worry about.

  “Hey, man, great game. Thanks for showing up,” Owen said, coming out of the showers.

  Ben averted his eyes quickly from his friend’s dick. Another stupid superstition—air-drying after a win, so as not to wipe the winning mojo away. “Always,” he said, grabbing a towel and his body wash and shampoo.

  “Really though, you’re playing better than ever. You were on fire out there tonight. Four goals. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but whatever or whoever it is, hold on to it.”

  Hold on to it. Hold on to her.

  “Oh, and by the way,” he said, pulling on underwear—the same ones he’d superstitiously worn for twelve days. “I want this series over in best of six…the pressure of a seventh game might kill me.”

  Ben shut the locker and patted his friend on the back as he passed him. “I’ll do my best.” Funny thing was, he wasn’t scared of a game seven. This year that cup was his. This year, the cup and the girl were his.

  Leaving the locker room, he took out his phone to text her. She hadn’t made it to the game that evening, but he smiled seeing several texts from her, as she’d obviously watched the final period on television. Her newfound excitement for the sport warmed him—a future together would be a lot easier now that she was a converted fan. Opening the last text from her, he sent a reply.

  Meet me at my place in twenty?

  Already there.

  He couldn’t get home fast enough. He had a surprise for her. Glancing into his bag, he made sure he hadn’t left the miniature-sized jersey he’d bought at the stadium pro shop in his locker. He couldn’t believe they made hockey jerseys that small, and he’d had her last name put on the back, along with his number: 77. She was going to love it.

  “Oh, Ben, thank God,” he heard to his right as he passed the last set of doors before the players’ exit.

  Turning, he repressed a sigh. “Hey, Brittany. You’re here late.”

  “Late night practice,” she said, wincing as she took a tiny step toward him. “I think I sprained something.” Her face contorted in pain as she tried to put her weight on the foot again.

  “Better get it checked by the team’s doctor before next game,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his keys.

  Brittany nodded, her blond ponytail bobbing. “I will…but…this is embarrassing to ask.”

  Right. As though the tiny cheerleader with the amazing rack he’d already examined up close would be embarrassed about anything. She hadn’t seemed exactly shy the night they’d spent together three months ago. “What’s up?” He glanced at the time on his phone. It was after ten, and he didn’t want to keep Olivia waiting. He’d be flying to Boston the next day, and he wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.

  “Could you possibly carry me to my car?”

  Was she serious?

  “You know, Derrick Marsh tore a ligament out there tonight and finished the game.”

  She cocked her head to the side, a look of annoyance on her face. “You’re comparing me to you big boys?”

  “I thought women had higher pain tolerances.” Wasn’t that what they were always claiming? Becky spouted it whenever either he or his brothers complained about legit injuries. He was stalling, but the last thing he wanted to do was carry the cheerleader anywhere. Especially this one.

  “Come on, Ben. It really hurts.” The whiny tone grated on his nerves.

  Shit. “Fine.” He shrugged his bag higher onto his shoulder, and walked toward her. Better get it over with and quick. He already felt guilty about it, knowing Olivia was waiting for him.

  He bent low and scooped her effortlessly—all one hundred pounds. Odd how he didn’t find the tiny frame tempting anymore. Sure, she was in fantastic shape, and the aforementioned rack was doctor-enhanced, but compared to Olivia’s soft curves and strong legs…He got hard just thinking about it, and the last thing he needed was for Brittany to mistake his semi-erect state as her doing. “Where are you parked?”

  She looked embarrassed for real now. “Okay, so I lied before. I also kinda need a ride. My car’s in the shop.”

  He sighed. “I really have somewhere else to be.”

  “I live like ten minutes away. East of downtown.”

  More like twenty minutes farther in the wrong direction. He hesitated. It was innocent enough, but would Olivia see it that way? She was expecting him in fifteen minutes. He was dying to get home to her.

  “Ben, you’re not honestly thinking about leaving me stranded are you?”

  Yes.

  “Everyone else has left already. Please, Ben.”

  “Owen’s still here.”

  She shuddered. “That big furry thing hits on me at least eight times a game.”

  “Fine.” He walked toward the players’ exit, and headed out into the rain. Damn. This was not a good idea. He jogged toward the Hummer and handed her the keys.

  She unlocked the vehicle and he lifted her into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Climbing behind the wheel, he took his phone from his pocket and, feeling guilty as shit, texted Olivia to say he would be late.

  Chapter 22

  How are you today?” Dr. Chelsey asked the next morning.

  “Hoping to be pregnant,” Olivia said with a nervous laugh. Since taking the home pregnancy test two weeks ago, she’d resisted the urge to take another one. Her lack of symptoms so far was starting to worry her, so she’d booked the appointment yesterday. Now, she was nervous. She wished Ben hadn’t had to fly to Boston that day.

  She brushed the thought away. She could do this on her own. After all, that had been her original plan.

  Still, she’d feel better with him there.

  The doctor smiled. “Well, we just have a few more minutes to wait.”

  The nurse had handed her a cup the moment she’d entered the clinic, and she’d been waiting to see Dr. Chelsey in the examination room for almost twenty minutes. “The at-home kits took less than thirty seconds to register. Come on, doc. You’ve got to have better technology than that,” she said with a nervous laugh. She had expected him to have her results by now.

  The doctor’s face took on a slightly worried look. “You took more than one?”

  She nodded. “I took two a couple weeks ago,” she admitted, feeling slightly embarrassed by her eagerness. She just needed a real confirmation. Her period was now a week late, so her confidence had increased, but she needed to hear it from him.

  “At the same time?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “We recommend taking them a day ap
art for better accuracy, that’s all. And results that early in the process are less accurate.”

  “Oh.” Her chest tightened.

  “And it was morning when you tested? First pee?”

  She shook her head. “Evening. Had to struggle for even a drop.” She bit her lip. “I’m starting to feel as though I failed a test I thought I’d aced.”

  He gave a reassuring pat on her shoulder, which actually just made her feel worse. “Don’t worry. We’ll know in”—he checked his watch—“twenty seconds. I’ll be right back.”

  She swallowed hard as he left the room. Morning pee, first pee—she’d had no idea there were different types of pee. Maybe she should have read the instructions on the box after all. She forced a deep breath. She wouldn’t worry until there was something to worry about. She just needed to be positive.

  She reached for her phone and reread the text from Ben—the last one he’d sent before boarding his flight to Boston.

  Try not to worry. Everything will be fine. Wish I could be there with you. I’ll call as soon as I land.

  She clutched the phone in her hand. Ben was right. Everything was going to be fine.

  But fifteen minutes and still no doctor later, her attempt at staying positive was fading faster than a summer tan in winter. She reread the charts on the wall—the ones outlining the stages of pregnancy—and she leafed through the parenting magazines on the table. She started to pull up the email app on her phone, but decided the emails would only stress her out and put the phone away.

  Feeling faint and slightly nauseous, she lay on the examination table and closed her eyes. Everything would be fine. She pressed a hand to her stomach, hoping that the absence of any physical signs to date—no cravings, no sickness, no breast tenderness—were not indicators. It was just too early maybe…Or maybe she’d be one of those lucky women who didn’t experience morning sickness…Or maybe…She stopped. She couldn’t keep stressing herself out. If she was pregnant, the stress could affect the baby’s brain development. Ben had told her that.

  Unexpected tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of him. Thank God his season was almost over. If she missed him this much now and longed for him to be a part of all of this, she could only imagine how tough it would be later in her pregnancy. Anxiety made it harder to breathe as she thought about what he’d said about his career taking a toll on relationships and families. All of the marriages she’d watched dissolve in part because of the pro athlete lifestyle flashed in her mind, making her stress levels rise.