Page 23

Chapter

Twenty-Three

André

They were tied. Five-five. Third period, under a minute to go.

André’s lungs burned even though he hadn’t smoked for a week. His thighs were on fire, though that could’ve been because of the impromptu game of mini sticks they played in the hotel hallway after the water park.

He was too old for doubleheaders, they all were, but not one of them said a damn word of complaint. They’d earned a bye in the morning with their season record, then won their first game two to one in overtime. Now, the crowd inside the small Edmonton arena sounded like they’d been chugging gas station energy drinks and screaming into a blender.

Every guy on the Snowballs’ bench gripped their stick like it owed them a safe word. The team from Winnipeg, Prairie Fire—which sounded more like a hot sauce than a hockey team—was fast. Chippy. Their first line had two guys fresh out of juniors, and damn if they weren’t skating like the scouts were in the stands.

André wiped his glove across his face, shoving his helmet back down over his sweat-slicked hair. His jersey clung to his ribs. His mouthguard tasted like bile and Gatorade.

He loved this shit.

“C’mon boys. Play from your balls,” Sean snapped.

André slapped Country’s shoulder. “It’s okay, I can lend you mine.”

They both jumped over the boards and set up in Winnipeg’s zone fast—Curtis digging into the corner, Country screening low, André circled high, hunting.

The puck bounced off a bad deflection. Winnipeg’s D whiffed it. Just a split-second of chaos, a messy half-second where everyone shifted wrong, and André saw his shot.

He jumped on it. Cut inside. Dragged it left. One defender bit hard. André pulled it through his skates like Zegras, kicked it up, and flipped it backdoor. Tyler’s slap was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

Buzzed past the tower.

Bar down.

Game.

The Snowballs’s bench erupted. André didn’t even hear the buzzer, only Sean’s string of curses, Curtis’s screaming, and Boyd howling from the crease.

Country tackled him into the glass. “That shit was pretty, Leclerc!”

André threw his gloves, tossed his helmet. The team mobbed him and Tyler in the corner. He skated the victory lap with his jersey flapping loose, adrenaline buzzing so hard it felt like his veins were plugged into the scoreboard.

Snowballs: 6

Prairie Fire: 5

Tournament Champs.

“Making me look good out there, bud.” Tyler pulled him into a hug.

“Someone has to.” He smacked him on the back, and they made their way to the bench. Before he sat, André looked up into the stands and found her. Scarf. Navy coat. Grace stood cheering with the others, her hands cupped around her mouth.

“Seems like she’s into hockey all of a sudden.” Tyler grinned. “Lock that down, Leclerc, or get the hell away from her.”

_____

André’s legs were buckets of cement by the time he made it back to the Fantasyland Hotel. Every muscle ached. His ears were still ringing. He’d downed half a protein bar on the ride back and had a Gatorade sloshing somewhere near his spleen. The boys were heading for the hotel bar to “rehydrate,” which was a generous word for whatever the hell Suraj was ordering.

They’d pushed for him to stay, but he’d begged off muttering something about indigestion. He hadn’t told them the real reasons. One who was currently—hopefully—on the other side of his hotel room door. The second sitting in the pocket of his hockey bag.

He’d found the pack of cigarettes there while searching for his tape. Didn’t realize he’d left one in there when he purged everything the week prior. If he stayed at the bar, he wasn’t going to make it. He’d grab one and take it outside within fifteen minutes. But if he went upstairs, even saw her face, he thought he could get through. The strategy had worked twice already.

Grace hadn’t been at the bar, which wasn’t a surprise, considering. He doubted he’d catch her awake. The ceremony had run late, and it was nearly midnight. But some dumbass part of himself couldn’t stop imagining tapping the key at the door and stepping inside to find her reading in bed, hair messy from her pillow, her lips parting as she turned her head.

But, nope.

He opened the door to total darkness. Quiet.

He turned on his phone flashlight and carefully set his bag in front of the door, locking the dead bolt. André padded toward the bed.

Grace was out cold. She lay curled on her side, blankets tangled around her legs, one arm draped over the pillow like she was holding it hostage. That soft little crease between her brows barely relaxed, even in sleep.

He swallowed hard, then tiptoed into the bathroom, took a piss, washed his hands, and brushed his teeth. He moved back into the bedroom and stripped off his joggers. Grace wasn’t watching. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

He clicked off his flashlight, plugged in his phone, and slid under the covers. Just as he exhaled, sinking into the mattress, she shifted.

He froze.

Grace moved again, her leg brushing against his. André went still as stone. Was she awake? Moving in her sleep?

He moved, resting his arm in a defencible position that also happened to cross the midline of the bed. Grace drew in a breath and changed position, her hand landing directly beside his.

Every hair on his body lifted. He wasn’t going to do anything. He wouldn’t touch her, not if she didn’t say something. If she didn’t?—

Grace’s fingers twitched against his, and then her pinky lifted. She brushed it over his knuckle, then curled it around his.

André struggled to breathe, any exhaustion he’d felt seconds before completely obliterated. He was wide awake. Buzzing. His blood pumping so hard, he couldn’t hear himself think.

He traced his thumb over her palm and pressed against her wrist. Her breath caught. She uncurled her finger and slid her hand into his, palm to palm.

André rolled onto his side, and the heat from her body reached him before he touched her. His fingers trailed up her arm, grazing along the dip of her elbow, the curve of her shoulder. He swore he could feel her heartbeat in the tips of his fingers. Or maybe that was his. Hard to tell.

Grace shifted closer. Her thigh brushed his under the blankets, and his pulse jackknifed. She felt bare. Warm and soft. Her hand slipped behind the hem of his shirt, fingers spreading over his ribs and pausing, then tracing, mapping.

The silence between them buzzed. Electric. Holy. His palm found the dip of her waist, then followed the soft rise of her hip, thumb dragging beneath the elastic of her shorts. She gasped, a small sound, but he felt it all the way down to the base of his spine. She smelled like vanilla and something faintly floral. He wanted to bathe in it. To drink it.

Grace’s hand moved to his chest, then trailed down his stomach, slow and deliberate. He flinched when her pinky grazed the edge of his waistband. His stomach clenched. His breath hitched. She didn’t go farther, just let her hand rest there. A question.

André didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He didn’t trust his voice. Instead, he slid his hand up to her collarbone and followed it to her throat, gently brushing her pulse point with his thumb. Her skin was silk, flushed, alive beneath his touch.

He pressed in another inch, and her lips were so close he could feel the shape of them in the dark. Her breath mingled with his, and he stilled, not sure where to go next. He knew where he wanted to go, but her hand held him like a tether.

Just like the first time, he didn’t know who moved first, but the kiss was featherlight. A brush. A thousand volts right through his bloodstream.

Grace paused, then dragged her lower lip over his, her hand tensing at his waistband. He was going to split at the seams. Then she deepened the kiss, her hand dragging over his stomach, tugging at his shirt while her other hand looped around his back, tangling in his hair, nails skimming his scalp. His body damn near folded in on itself from the heat of it.

She kissed like she argued. Zero to a hundred. Intentional, relentless, and with a wild, focused control that made his head spin.

He grabbed her hips and brought her body flush against his. Warm. Nearly bare. Her chest was soft against his. No bra. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her on top of him, groaning into her mouth as she straddled his hips.

Every slow grind made his vision blur. Her heart raced against his chest, and his hands roamed. They slid up under her shirt, over her back, memorizing every dip of her spine. Every shiver he caused. Her thighs tightened around his hips, and he was drowning, completely undone, unravelling in the dark.

André kissed her harder. Every flick of her tongue and sigh into his mouth driving him out of his damn mind .

His hand slowed at her waist, his breath catching. Was she fully awake? Had she gotten a drink with the girls before coming up to bed? Was this really what she wanted?

He pulled back, just barely, mouth brushing hers. “You with me?” he whispered, throat raw.

Grace exhaled, her forehead pressing to his. “Yes.”

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and strained, every inch of him fighting his body for control. “Because I don’t?—”

“You were right,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to let go. I want to let go.”

That hit like a knife between his ribs. Not what he wanted to hear. This wasn’t about him. Grace wanted a release. She felt safe enough with him to try, so that was something. But was it enough for him?

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, knowing full-well he wouldn’t deny her. “I can help with that.”

She kissed him again, her fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, trailing fire across his stomach, and that was it—his restraint snapped like a twig under a boot.

His hands skimmed her thighs, her hips, her ribs, until he was tugging the shirt over her head and tossing it somewhere into the dark. Her skin was soft and flushed, goosebumps blooming everywhere he touched.

Their mouths crashed together, frantic now, messy and open and starving.

She pulled his shirt off in return, her hands exploring like she was memorizing muscle and bone, fingers curling against his shoulder blades as she gasped into his mouth.

He rolled, hovering, pressing a kiss to her throat, to her collarbone, to the delicate line beneath her ear.

“André,” she murmured, and his lungs struggled for air.

Their limbs tangled beneath the sheets, hot and slick. Her fingers found the waistband of his boxers, and that time, she didn’t stop. He fumbled with the edge of her shorts, his mind going blissfully blank.

André sucked in a breath, closed his eyes, and tumbled with her over the edge.