Page 28

Grayson

This time, when the anxiety starts to come on, the first thing I think about is Astrid, sitting on that blanket with me in the park.

Right now, I’m on the ice, and the guys are setting up for the opening puck drop. Chanting fills the arena. Once again, we’re sold out, a turnout bolstered by Sloane and the administration’s efforts to sell season passes, to get sports fans invested in the team.

The ice is all blue today, with the deep navy and yellow of the Buffalo Sabres contrasting our light, icy blue and white. This team is decent, but nowhere near the best team we’ve faced this season. Coach has had us watching film all night, looking to me, making sure I see how tricky their shots can be, the way they open up the space around the net.

After two wins, we’re fired up, the crowd is fired up, and Coach has been pleased with my performance. I haven’t been pulled from the ice since our last pre-season game.

Things are going good. I can’t risk letting him—or anyone else on the team, for that matter—see that the anxiety is still hanging around me, always in the background, ready to pounce at any moment.

The start of an anxiety attack feels very similar to passing out—at least for me. I’ve only passed out a few times in my life. Once, after going on a particularly harrowing roller coaster. Several others when I’ve pushed myself too hard during training, not hydrated or fueled myself correctly, then asked too much of my body.

But for me, it always comes on with lightheadedness. Maybe that’s because I forget to breathe, the tightness in my chest clamping down like a vice, squeezing until my lungs feel like raisins. Then come little spots in my vision, and the nausea—that’s the worst part. Feeling sick to my stomach makes everything else worse, and I’m plagued with the idea that I might throw up, alerting everyone around me to the fact that something is wrong.

Sometimes, people talking to me makes it better. The introduction of an outside person can snap me out of the oncoming attack.

But sometimes people asking Are you okay? over and over only makes it worse. It only reminds me, again and again, that I am not okay, and that there’s nothing really a stranger can do to make things better for me.

Now, the little dots come into my vision, and I suck in a breath, remembering Astrid’s words: “Just…somewhere you feel content, happy. Nothing too exciting.”

So I think about hiking with her. Watching her take the incline easily. The way she pulls her hair over her shoulder and turns to look at me, eyes wide and serious. The way Astrid always seems like she knows what she’s doing, capable and in control. With an answer for everything.

Taking deeper breaths, I think about her there in my kitchen. The hum of the dishwasher, the sound of the girls washing up in the bathroom upstairs, and Astrid standing there with me in her socks, her hand on my arm.

I think about that hotel room, the limited permission to get my hands on her. To touch her skin, a temporary pass to return to the night of the wedding. The sure, confident sound of her telling me what she wanted, what was best, how I could make her feel good.

When my eyes open, the anxiety is still there, but it’s pushed to the back, a curtain pulled over it. I can breathe again, my limbs loosening up. Gripping my stick in my hand, I ready myself for action, watching as the ref drops the puck and the game starts.

Luca hunkers in, driving his stick toward the center and scooping the puck out, sending it back to Maverick, who receives it easily, already moving, handling it and getting it to Callum, who slams into the boards and fights to keep it, but ultimately pulls it toward Buffalo’s goal.

I wait, watching, tracking the puck and keeping an eye on the edges. The moment the play starts to shift toward me, I’m ready.

The first period ends with nothing on the board, both teams battling up with even offense and defense. It’s not going to be strategy or will that put one team over or another—it’s going to be that unknown, intangible aspect. Something we’ll either have or won’t.

I grab my bottle from the net and start to drink it, tipping my head up and looking at the box on the other side of the arena. They’re small, but I see them there—Astrid and the girls.

The moment they see me looking, they explode into action, waving and jumping, looking so excited it makes my stomach twist.

Obviously, I can’t hear them, but I feel like Athena’s voice is right here, muffled through the glass, bright and happy, doing that little squeal it does when she’s really worked up. Even Callie is letting herself go, face beaming, hands in the air.

And Astrid is with them, smiling and laughing, looking more girlish than I’ve ever seen her, her hair pulled back into two braids, her eyes bright, her face flushed. Then, she turns around, and I realize she’s wearing my jersey.

The girls turn around, too.

They’re all wearing my jersey. Those girls aren’t mine, and Astrid isn’t either, but I feel something inside me choke up, emotion balling in the bottom of my throat. For a second, I think it might barrel into anxiety, but it doesn’t. It’s the opposite of anxiety—it’s the certainty that someone is here to watch me.

Someone cares about me.

Those three girls, jumping and happy to see me staring up at them. It reverberates through my bones, and I think this might be how other guys feel when they look up and see the sea of blue around them, so many fans cheering them on.

When the second period starts, I realize that while I still don’t know what that intangible aspect is, I have it right now.

And the Frost wins another regular season game.

***

This time, when Astrid opens the door to the hotel room, I can’t help myself.

She looks stunning in a pair of jeans and a knit sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders. Maybe it’s just me, but it looks like her hair has gotten darker with the change in the season.

I step inside, wrap an arm around the small of her back, haul her up to me, and kick the door shut. Astrid meets me eagerly, lifting up and pressing her lips to mine.

Time is fluid as we move, breathing, nothing but motion and touch as I run my fingers under the hem of her sweater, tuck my thumbs into the waistband of her jeans, tug her closer and closer.

We walk backward together, and when we hit the desk, I cup her ass in my hands, lifting her up. With her on the desk, I can step between her legs and grind my hips to hers. She gasps against me, opening her mouth to me, and I have to pull myself back before I go too far. Ending the kiss, I press my forehead to hers, giving her a moment to recover.

Astrid breathes hard, and it takes a moment for her to gather herself.

Then, she says, “Okay, A-plus. You have officially passed the kissing portion of the course.”

For some reason, something in my chest twists—it doesn’t make sense. I should be pleased to hear that I’m doing well, that I’m a good pupil. And yet.

And yet that comment is a reminder that none of this is real. That kiss between us meant nothing more to her than what it was—physical touch between two consenting adults.

It’s especially confusing when the feeling continues to grow inside me that there’s something more here. Something more than kissing or grading my performance.

“What’s in the lesson plan today?” I ask, hoping my tone doesn’t betray the thoughts in my head.

Astrid pauses, tipping her head a bit at me. “I think…our next lesson is on touching.”

I suck in a breath. Obviously, we’ve been doing plenty of touching, but I know exactly what she means by it. The thought of it makes my entire body flush with anticipation, the build-up going straight to my cock.

An awkward beat passes as we stay right where we are—Astrid sitting on the desk, me standing between her legs, then she lets out a shaky breath and says, “Well. We should probably move to the bed. The desk might be kind of tricky.”

I glance impulsively down at the waistband of her jeans, swallowing, thinking about what it would be like to slide my hand into her pants right here, to feel her against me, have her legs clamped around my hips.

But she’s right—if I struggled with this before, the desk isn’t going to be the best set-up for me.

We move over to the bed, and I flip off the lights, feeling they’re too harsh, too bright. With them dimmed and turned off, the room turns soft, glowing. Astrid moves to one side of the bed and I go to the other, feeling strangely like we’re newlyweds in some old movie, getting ready to make love for the first time.

Letting out a quick breath, Astrid reaches for her pants, unbuttoning them and making quick work of the zipper. I should do something—Take off my own pants?—but the only thing I can manage is staring at her, eyes caught on her every movement as she unfastens the pants and peels them down her legs, pulling them off and tossing them to the floor.

Then she climbs into the bed, pulling up the cover and sliding beneath it. I decide to leave my sweats on and climb in with her, turning and facing her on the pillow. It’s oddly intimate, like we’re kids having a sleepover.

“Okay,” she says, closing her eyes, like she’s still trying to convince herself that this is a good idea. I feel the urge to tell her that she doesn’t have to go through with this, but I remember what she told me last time—if she doesn’t like it, she’ll tell me.

I stare at Astrid, waiting for her to go on. I feel every shift of the sheets, hear every rustle of the blanket around me, skin ultra-sensitive, sensing every single touch, every potential point where we might connect.

Without thinking, and before she can say whatever comes next, I reach out and wrap my fingers loosely around her wrist, just under her sweater, wanting that connection. In the bed but not touching, we feel like two drifting bodies, untethered.

The moment my skin hits hers, her eyes fly open, and she sucks in a breath that I feel fills her lungs, inflating her chest. We stay like that, staring at one another, nothing but the sound of our shallow breaths and the AC unit in the background as I slowly slide the tips of my fingers along her hand, down her fingers.

When I leave her hand and find her stomach where her sweater rides up, she keeps her eyes on me, wide and shining in the low light. I trail my fingers along her navel, stopping to press the pads of my thumbs against each of her hipbones, liking the way they feel like an anchor.

I think of the jack points under a car, the most secure place to lift it up in the air. That’s what her hips feel like to me. Solid, secure.

My mind goes blank as I let my hands wander, palm flattening over her stomach, so I feel once again, the breath she draws in at the touch. She’s nothing but smooth skin and warmth, and I drink her in inch by inch, addicted to her sounds and sighs, how she reacts to me.

Was it like this that first night at the estate after the wedding? No—it couldn’t have been. When I think back to it, it’s hard for me to remember much, mind skipping right to the part where she cuddled into my chest. I’d been so in my head I hadn’t thought about taking my time, progressing through each step of the dance with intention.

Did touching her like this even cross my mind that night?

“No,” Astrid laughs breathily, her eyes flying up to meet mine, and I realize I’ve asked the question out loud. “I don’t think you did. I remember you were…eager. And a bit rough.”

“Damn.” I shake my head, wondering how in the world I could be so quick to waste something like this, to brush over the best parts. “What a waste.”

When I slide my hand down to the waistband of her panties, she stutters a breath, pauses, holds my gaze. Slowly, I twist my hand, pushing my fingers just two inches under the band, sliding along her skin, the stubble there.

“It’s been a minute since I shaved,” she says, matter-of-factly. It doesn’t sound like an apology, so I don’t tell her that it’s okay. There’s nothing in the world I care less about at this exact moment.

Time stretches out, my heart throwing itself violently against my chest as I reach for her, and when I finally part her, slipping one finger into the wet warmth, I have to drop my head against her shoulder for a moment.

My cock is harder than it’s ever been—this is sublime torture. Moving slow, teasing, raising everything by half a degree, wondering when the pot will finally get to boiling.

Astrid gently wraps her fingers around my wrist, slides them down, cupping her smaller hand over mine.

“Okay,” she says, voice choked. “I’m going to show you how I like to be touched.”