Page 43 of Goalie Secrets
The concert resumes. We’re treated to hit after hit of pure emotional gush. Like me, Jeremy is riveted. We sing-hum to “The Phantom of the Opera.” Both of us lean back with satisfied sighs. When “Memory” hits its peak, I squeeze a pillow with glee. I realize all these overwrought sentiments are probably embarrassingly cringy to most people, but I don’t care. No one can stop me from enjoying this unexpected treat after a long day.
The PBS hosts return for more tote bags and CDs to entice the viewers into automatic membership renewals. Jeremy’sshoulder brushes mine, but there’s none of the usual tension. We’re two people appreciating a spectacular show with some of the most gifted singers of a generation.
“Rose mentioned that you’ve been going to Musical Mondays since you were a kid.”
“Yup. Unless there was a hockey game on Mondays, my mom would bring me.”
“That is so sweet,” I say. “Since you’ve been exposed to theater all your life, were you a drama club kid as well as a hockey player?”
“I was inMamma Miaat my community center one summer. I must have been seventeen? It was fun.”
“You can sing?” How has this never occurred to me? I might not be able to carry a tune to save my life, but lots of people emulate the artists they watch. “Sing something!”
“Nope,” he says before jumping off the bed. “I’m gonna scrounge the pantry for snacks.”
“Aw, c’mon. No need to run off,” I call out.
“I’m not running off, I’m looking for popcorn.”
The opening and closing of the microwave door confirms that Jeremy is successful in his mission of pantry scrounging.
“It’s back for the finale!” I call out.
Jeremy rushes over with a bowl of popcorn, barely looking at me as he parks the snack between us. When the show finishes, neither of us turn it off because we’re watching the performers mingle on the stage as the credits roll.
If you told me this morning that I would be in a bed with Jeremy Lopez, stuffing my face with popcorn and relaxed as can be, I would have considered you delusional. But here we are, enduring a Chicago blizzard, canceled flights, and hotel shortage like two peas in a pod.
I’m immensely grateful we can be together without getting awkward. It’s unexpectedly wonderful to be with a mannotashis doctor andnotas his date. My past attempts at pursuing a relationship never stood up to the demands of studying and working. Add to that my inept social skills, it’s a miracle I have any friends at all. But right now, Jeremy feels like a casual companion who happens to enjoy the same things I do. There’s no pressure or expectation to do anything except watch television and keep my popcorn debris off the bed.
The PBS fundraising program is followed by “Moonflower Murders” onMasterpiece. We let it play on instead of scrolling around for something more interesting. The droning British accent and slow pace reminds me that I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since Ashley’s visit. I slide down my side of the bed and mumble goodnight to Jeremy’s back as he heads to the bathroom. I’m asleep within minutes.
Supple warmth fills my hands. I lean into a sweet, herbal fragrance and take in a satisfying inhale. Wakefulness trickles in to reveal a smooth cheek pressing against my chest and black hair tickling my nose. The leg wrapped over my thigh rubs up and down.
Without opening my eyes, I know I am where I shouldn’t be: tangled up with my doctor.
It feels incredible to have her locked in my arms. I’ve got one shoulder under her neck so my arm can wrap all the way around her back and grab her curves. My other hand pulls at her elbow to keep her close. Did I say tangled? That’s not it at all.
We fit. We fit perfectly.
When I came out of the bathroom last night, Vanya had already passed out. It was difficult not to look at her resting form, but I managed to keep my eyes to myself. I put one of the pillows between us, huddled on my side of the bed, and stared at the wall.
It didn’t matter that she was both the cutest and the sexiest woman I’ve ever shared a bed with. Last night, I kept it PG-13. She was adorable while silently mouthing the words to songs. I allowed myself a passing glance at those full lips. And even if I noticed she had ditched the bra under her clothes, did I dwell on it? No. No, I did not. My thoughts and my distance were fucking wholesome.
Focusing on the concert was the best distraction. In fact, it might have been the most fun I’ve had aside from winning hockey games. Having Vanya relaxed and happy beside me feltlike a secret treat. One that’s almost as much of a prize as kissing her again.
But now those heavy breasts are rubbing my side. And the lips I’ve dreamed about have migrated to my neck. I don’t want her to stop nuzzling and hugging me, but there’s no way I’m taking more than what she willingly and consciously offers.
Without moving a muscle and with a calm I don’t feel, I whisper, “Vanya. Vanya wake up.”
She makes a muffled sound that is more like a moan than a word. When her head buries deeper into my neck, I suck in my breath quickly in an effort to hold back my own moan. Awareness stiffens her body a split second before she leaps off me and scrambles to sit.
“What are you doing?” she says, alarmed.
“Other than staying on my side of the bed? Absolutely nothing,” I mutter, staring at the ceiling because the sight of her messy hair and disheveled shirt is sexier than the last time a woman took her clothes off for me. I grab a pillow and put it over my rock-hard cock.
Her eyes shift quickly and recognition dawns. “I’m sorry. I move a lot and I didn’t mean to, um, crowd you.”
“Some call it cuddling, but I’m not picky on semantics,” I say lightly, partly to tease her and partly because it’s a damn fact. Doctor Kapur is a morning cuddler, and there is no way she can deny it.