25

nova

Gio: Dang, everyone is dropping like flies. Start taking lots of Vitamin C, Babineaux barfed at practice today. Don’t want you to catch anything.

B abineaux barfed at practice today?

Luca is sick?

Or—no. Wait. Barfing doesn’t necessarily mean sick. It could be exhaustion. Dehydration. He could’ve eaten something weird. He could’ve overheated. Didn’t eat breakfast.

Pushed too hard, right?

Right?

My hands are clammy. I hate this life of lies!

I type back something breezy, trying to keep Gio from sniffing out my rising panic.

Me: Thanks. I take my vitamins every morning like a good girl but I’ll take extra so I can see your precious little angel baby 3 Don’t want to get my niece sick.

I love saying ‘my niece. ’

Gio isn’t wrong when he said I need to visit them more; I can’t expect Austin to schlepp the baby all over the place for my benefit—I vow to do better now that I know it’s bothering my brother. It’s the least I can do considering how much he has done for me.

I suck—but only a little. And maybe it wouldn’t be this bad if Luca and I had some kind of plan. A timeline. A clue what we’re doing.

Are we keeping this a secret forever?

Is this some kind of romantic hostage situation where we keep sneaking around until someone—aka: Gio—inevitably blows a gasket? Or are we just delaying the inevitable because it’s easier to roll around in the sheets and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist?

I haven’t texted Luca all day—on purpose. I knew he had practice. I didn’t want to be annoying. Didn’t want to hover. I figured I’d wait for him to reach out first…

Screw that!

I’m done waiting.

Me: You okay???

I stare at my cell until the three little dots appear next to his name, screen burning into my eyeballs.

Three dots appear and I exhale. He’s typing—thank God.

He’s okay.

He’s alive!

Hello, dramatic much?!

Luca: Yeah. Rough day. Nothing to worry about.

That is literally the most Luca thing he could’ve said.

Always trying to carry the weight by himself. Always trying to make me feel better, even when he’s the one bleeding out.

Nope, not today .

I press my lips together and type fast.

Me: You threw up at practice and never told me about it. We’ve slept together. Your wiener has been INSIDE Mavis—pretty sure that gives me the right to worry.

Ha ha. I said wiener.

This time, the dots don’t come right away. They come. They go.

They appear again.

I can picture him now—sitting there with his head in his hands, maybe slouched on his couch with Nugget next to him, ideally watching TV.

Luca: I’m just tired, Nova.

Luca: And maybe…

Maybe…

Maybe WHAT?!

Is this him waving a tiny white flag?! Is this his cry for help? DOES HE NEED ME but is too proud to beg?!

SOS!

I launch off the couch, my body moving before my brain can catch up with it. I race to my bedroom like a tornado, yanking open the closet doors and digging through piles of clean laundry I never got around to folding.

I hate laundry…

My hands move on autopilot—sweatpants? Joggers? No, jeans. Hoodie? Wait—no, too warm.

Hair?

Still a mess.

Ugh, it's a damn disaster.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror affixed to the wall, running a brush through my tangled bun, trying to look presentable without looking like I tried too hard.

We all know this is a delicate art.

If Luca is sick. Or hurting—even if he won’t say it out loud—I would like to be there. I NEED TO BE THERE FOR MY MAN! and don’t care if he looks like hell or smells like barf and Gatorade!

Hear me roar!

I want to be the one who shows up for him.

I am bringing loyalty, a newfound emotional stability, and possibly—Pedialyte.

Grabbing my keys from the table next to my front door, I shove my phone in my jeans pocket. I am a woman on a rescue mission. No cape, just high-key anxiety and determination.

I go to my location app and pull up my last location—his house—poke on the address and let the navigator guide me.

It takes forever.

Every slow driver in the universe decided today is a great day to leisurely tour the city at twelve miles per hour!

UGHHHHH!

By the time I pull up to Luca’s place, my fingers are tapping anxiously against the steering wheel and I barely remember putting the car in park before yanking the keys out of the ignition.

I don’t even give myself a second to second-guess showing up at his place unannounced.

I just beeline up the walkway to the door—which, thank the lord above—is unlocked.

The place is quiet.

“Hello?”

I pause, listening for signs of life. No obnoxious video games blaring. No TV. No men’s voices.

No dog.

Nothing.

Okay. Phew. Thank God his roommates aren’t home. Don’t appear to be, anyway…

When I reach his bedroom door, my hand hovers over the knob. My heart is still pounding. What if he’s asleep? What if he’s mid-vomit? What if he’s actually dying and this is my last chance to be like, I like you I really, really like you.

I suck in a breath, turn the handle, and?—

Luca is lying in the middle of his bed like a prince. Shirtless. Arms folded behind his head. Watching TV like he’s not the reason I practically drove here in emotional distress with electrolytes in my purse and murder in my heart.

I blink, slowly, like my brain needs a second to reboot. I was ready to cradle him. I was ready to hold his hair back and whisper reassuring things and Google electrolyte solutions. I had mentally prepared to see puke.

Instead, I get…

Abs.

Abs. For. Days!

What the hell is going on?!

“Hey!” He sits up, pointing the remote to pause the television. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re sick.”

“I am?”

“You barfed at practice!”

“Oh.” He tosses the remote to his comforter. “Yeah. I mean—I did. But it wasn’t real barf. It was stress barf. Temporary barf. I bounced back.” He spreads his arms wide. “See?”

“You tired?”

Cause he does not look tired .

In fact, he looks annoyingly recharged for someone who barfed their guts out a few hours ago.

Luca’s cheeks have color, his eyes aren’t red, and his hair is doing that tousled, just-rolled-around-in-bed-like-a-Disney-Prince thing that should never not ever be allowed.

He shrugs, unabashed. “I took a nap. Had some crackers. Watched two episodes of Deadliest Catch . I feel fine now.”

I stare at him like he’s just told me he discovered a new planet .

“Luca.”

He grins. “Nova.”

“You made me think you were DYING.”

“No one said I was dying,” he protests. “Gio exaggerated. Classic goalie drama.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re the one who texted back all vague and moody. Tired. Maybe…. What was that all about?!

“I was being honest.”

Oh.

Well.

He goes up on his knees and comes closer to the edge of the bed, reaching for me. “I love that you raced over here like I was having a medical crisis.”

“I hate you.” I rear back. “Wait. Did you brush your teeth?”

No one wants to kiss a guy who has puke breath, no matter how much they like him.

He laughs. “Of course I brushed my teeth. I barfed.”

Ew. Don’t remind me.

“Want to stay with me? Even though I’m not a dying mess?” He laughs. “I can fake cough if it’ll make you want to play doctor.”

My ears perk up. Play doctor?

Now there’s an idea.

I tilt my head and put a hand on my hip. “You need medical attention?”

Luca smirks, clearly amused but playing along. “I mean, I did puke this morning. That’s got to earn me at least a wellness check.”

I step forward, my hips pressed against the mattress and rest my finger along his jawline. “Patient appears responsive. Color looks good. Breathing seems normal.”

He opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue. “Ahhhh.”

I lean in, squinting to look inside his mouth. “Hmm. No obvious swelling. But I should take your temperature just to be safe.”

He grins. “Orally or the up-the-butt kind?”

I roll my eyes, snatching a throw pillow off his bed and whacking him with it.

“That’s disgusting. I’m the doctor here—show some respect.”

He laughs, but he lifts his hands like he’s surrendering. “Sorry, Doctor. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

I grab his wrist and feel for a pulse. “Hmm. Heart rate elevated. You got anything you want to confess?”

He raises one eyebrow, the amusement in his expression giving way to something softer, more curious. “Depends. Do you believe in patient confidentiality seriously?”

“Always.” I press the back of my hand to his forehead, checking for a fever. “You’re not warm, but I’m prescribing bed rest.”

“What kind of bed rest?” His hands go around my waist, dropping to my ass. “The fun kind?”

“Mmm,” I hum. “Not sure yet. I’m still waiting on that confession.”

His fingers flex around my waist, and I feel the shift in his mood—how the playfulness hasn’t gone away, but now it simmers beneath the surface, layered with something darker, deeper.

“I confess,” he murmurs, low and slow like honey . “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

My breath catches. “Even while barfing?”

He groans. “Maybe not while I was actively vomiting, obviously. But before? After? Yes. Absolutely.”

“Hmm.” I make a show of scribbling on an imaginary note pad. “Mental note: obsessive thoughts. May need prescription.”

Luca grins, lips twitching. He likes this game…

“Can you kiss it better?”

I tilt my head. “Where exactly is the injury? ”

“Everywhere,” he moans in mock misery. “I might need a full-body examination.”

I crawl over him slowly, straddling his waist, palms flattening against his bare chest. “You’re damn lucky I make house calls.”

“One lucky bastard.” He groans again, this time not so dramatic. His hands slide up under my sweatshirt, calloused thumbs grazing the skin at my sides. “God, I love when you’re bossy.”

Which is most of the time.

Ha!

“I’m a professional,” I tell him, leaning down to brush my lips against his jaw. “This is strictly medical.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice is husky. “Do you always straddle your patients?”

“Only the ones with the best abs.”

His hands tighten on my hips, pulling me closer until the heat between us is undeniable. It pulses, thick and electric, charging the air around us.

“I think,” I whisper, nose brushing his. “You need to be monitored closely.”

“For symptoms?”

“For compliance .”

He flips us, fast and smooth, the motion knocking the breath from my lungs in the best way. Suddenly I’m on my back, Luca hovering over me, dark eyes dancing.

“I’m very obedient,” he promises, kissing the corner of my mouth. “You want me to stay in bed?”

I nod, lips parting. “Mmm. Strict bed rest.”

He kisses my jaw. “No strenuous activity?”

“None.”

His mouth grazes my throat. “But what if the doctor initiates it?”

“Then it’s allowed,” I whisper, arching into him. “But only if I say so. ”

His mouth finds mine and everything else fades—the room, the day, the worry. It’s just him and me, wrapped up in soft cotton sheets and quiet hunger. The kind that builds with every touch. Every unspoken word. Every shaky inhale.

He takes his time.

My shirt is lifted slowly, his hands dragging up my sides, mouth trailing heat over newly exposed skin. I’m not wearing anything underneath—no bra, not enough time before I stormed out the door—and the sound he makes goes straight to my core.

Fuels my ego.

“Jesus,” Luca mutters against my sternum, like I’ve just performed a miracle. “You really came over here dressed for an emergency.”

“I told you,” I whisper, threading my fingers through his hair, “I thought I’d be tending to a half-dead, feverish, pale-faced man clutching a bucket.”

“Plot twist,” he says, kissing the swell of my breast. “I’m miraculously cured. You have healing powers.”

“Don’t joke,” I murmur. “I take my fake doctoring very seriously.”

He smirks, eyes roaming over my skin like a man absolutely not taking anything seriously. “Should I call you Doctor Nova?”

I hum thoughtfully. “Doctor Montagalo, actually.”

“Oh, that’s hot,” he says, hands still sliding beneath my shirt, thumbs teasing the curve of my breasts. “Wait—should I be faking symptoms?”

“Yes.” I nudge his shoulder until he rolls to his back, eyes wide as I straddle his waist with full medical authority. “Lay back. I need to continue the full examination.”

“Ma’am,” he says solemnly, hands tucked behind his head. “I should warn you, I’ve got a history of being a very difficult patient.”

I nod, clicking my tongue. “I’ll have to note that in your chart.”

“Will there be a punishment? ”

I nod again. “Obviously.” I pause. “You probably just have a mild case of horniness.”

He clutches his chest. “Oh no! What will happen to me?”

I shake my head sagely. “We’ll have to administer a very thorough, very hands-on treatment.”

His eyes flare with mock panic. “Is it…in va sive?”

“Extremely,” I say, biting my lip. “Side effects may include heavy breathing, loss of clothing—and moaning.”

Lots and lots of moaning…

“This keeps getting worse and worse,” he whispers. “What’s the recovery time?”

“Unknown.” I run my fingers lightly down his chest, dragging my nails over his pec muscles. “Depends on patient compliance, which you already warned is terrible.”

“But…but...I’m a good listener!”

I quirk a brow. “Are you?”

“Yup.” He nods. “Especially when naked.”

“Perfect,” I say, grabbing the waistband of his sweatpants. “Because I’m about to check your reflexes.”

He blinks. “Is that code word for naked?”

“It is now.”

He grins but lets me push the waistband lower. “Wait—shouldn’t you take my blood pressure first?”

I drag my nails down the lines of his abdomen, smirking. “Oh, babe. I already am.”

He makes a strangled sound, which I take as medical confirmation to proceed.

“I’m going to need you to rate your pain on a scale from one to ten,” I say with a stern expression.

“Zero,” he says immediately. “I feel incredible.”

I cock my head. “Not even a tiny ache?”

“Well—my heart hurts a little.”

I pause. “What?”

Is he being serious or are we still in character? Is his heart ache a good thing or a bad thing ?

Luca is smiling but his eyes aren’t playing around anymore.

“You know…” his voice trails off. “From all the pining I did for you knowing I couldn’t date you.”

Pining for me. Oh my God.

Mavis tingles.

He lifts one brow. “ Years of sexual tension. Sleepless nights. Unfulfilled longing. You know—the usual symptoms. I’m more than just some guy who knows how to handle a puck.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, unsure what to do with my hands or what to say. We went from teasing to be serious in a matter of seconds.

“You are.” I press my palm against his cheek. “And I love that about you.”

Luca clears his throat like he’s trying to pull the moment back from the brink of actual feelings— which is hilarious , because the feelings are already here, setting up camp and roasting marshmallows.

“Well,” he breaks the silence. “As my doctor, I feel like I should mention my shirt suddenly feels super restrictive.”

Oh! “Help a girl out.”

He sits up just enough to let me peel it over his head, and tosses it somewhere over his shoulder without looking. His eyes never leave mine.

“I feel better already,” he teases.

“Don’t get cocky,” I warn, shifting so I’m straddling him. “You could be experiencing a placebo effect.”

“I most definitely am.”

I lean forward, chest brushing his bare skin, and whisper, “You’re my favorite patient.”

His mouth curves into a smile, but it fades a little as he looks up at me—like he’s trying to memorize this moment. The way I’m sitting on top of him. The way my hands are curled against his chest like I never want to move.

“I want you to know I’ve been thinking about you every single night since I saw you on the dating app.” He is struck with a case of honestly, blurting out his truth. “Every single one.”

“Luca,” I whisper, overwhelmed.

He tilts his head, mouth brushing the corner of mine. “It was never just a crush, Nova.”

What is he saying?

What does that mean?

I stare at him, breath caught in my throat, trying to process what he's telling me—that all this time I thought we were playing a dangerous game of don't get caught while he was genuinely longing for me. Missing me.

Falling for me.

I kiss him before my eyes swell with tears.

Kiss him hard.

Deep.

Pour all the pent-up emotion and need into this kiss to explain what I can’t say out loud.

He groans against my mouth, hands sliding up the back of my hoodie.

“You’re overdressed,” he murmurs.

“Help me then.”

He doesn’t hesitate. His hands slide under the fabric, warm against my skin, and he lifts it slowly. I raise my arms to let him pull it over my head, and suddenly we’re skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart, and I can’t remember a time I didn’t want this.

He drops a kiss on my collarbone, then another between my breasts, and I shiver as he touches me, fingers caressing my nipples.

I arch into him, every nerve ending lit up like the Fourth of July, and it still isn’t enough. I need more. I need all of him. Not just his touch—but his heart.

“Tell me again,” I whisper.

“That I’ve been thinking about you every night since I saw you on that app?” His mouth brushes my jaw.

“Yes,” I breathe .

“The first time I saw you was at the ESPY awards that year you were with Gio. I hadn’t been drafted yet, but my friend Karl played for the Bruins and I was his plus one. You were there with your brother and I thought, ‘Damn. That’s the kind of woman I want to end up with.’” His hand makes a slow descent down my arm. “You were blonde then.”

I was wearing a red dress, with red lips, and had only gone with Gio because his girlfriend had dumped him two days prior.

I blink at him, heart stumbling over itself like it’s tripping down a flight of stairs.

“You remember that?”

His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, sending sparks straight to my ribs. “You’re hard to forget.”

I laugh softly, burying my face against his neck because the heat creeping up my cheeks feels ridiculous.

“That was the worst night. Gio was sulking the entire time. We got stuck at a table next to a defensive lineman who wouldn’t stop talking about his protein powder endorsement deal.”

“You were sitting two tables away from us during dinner. I kept hoping you’d turn around.”

There’s a beat of stillness.

“I would see you in the stands at games—don’t think for one second I didn’t know where your seats were. At events. You were always in the room, lighting it up, and I never stopped wondering what it would be like if?—”

He stops.

“Tell me something else about that night,” I whisper. “Something you remember.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “You were wearing heels you hated. You took them off halfway through the after-party.”

My jaw drops. “How did you know that?”

“I saw you dancing barefoot in the corner with some girl in a sparkly yellow jumpsuit. ”

“Sadie.” I grin. “That was Sadie Spellman.” NFL player Jack Spellman’s wife—and her jumpsuit was gold.

Luca’s hands cup my breasts. “You were laughing so hard you almost spilled your drink.”

“I did spill my drink. All down the front of my dress. It stained.”

He runs his hands down my ribcage. “Still the most beautiful girl in the room.”

God.

How am I going to survive him?

Emotion rises in my throat, thick and hot. Because he’s not just good with words—he remembers me. The pieces I thought were forgettable. The details no one else kept.

He never had me, and yet he didn’t stop wishing.

Is that creepy?

Who cares.

He cups the back of my head and presses our foreheads together. “This isn’t just sex, Nova.”

“I know.”

“I want all of you.”

I know that, too.