Page 44 of Goalie Secrets

Rushing out of the bed, her body gets tangled in the messy blankets. Vanya turns away from me, but part of her shirt is tucked tight under me. The sound of ripping fabric fills the room, followed by the clang of buttons on the concrete floor.

“Shit,” she utters hurriedly. “I—”

“Did your shirt rip?” I ask in disbelief.

She clings to the fabric around her front, speechless and flushed.

Unsure what to do, I mutter “sorry,” because what else is there to say? She scrambles to the bathroom and doesn’t hear me, which is probably for the best because where would I even start with my apologies?

I’m sorry you got dragged to Chicago.

I’m sorry there’s a storm that kept us here.

I’m sorry there’s only one bed.

I’m sorry I had more fun last night than I did on my last attempt at dating.

I’m sorry we cuddled through the night and our bodies felt like they belonged wrapped in each other.

I’m sorry holding you is an instinct as natural to me as my next breath.

I’m sorry my massive crush isn’t ending any time soon, no matter how fucking wholesome I’m trying to be.

But here’s the thing: I amnotsorry.

Finding myself on a bed with Vanya, her curves pressed to me and her sighs warming my body, feels right. How can I apologize for something I want to happen again?

“Can you grab my blazer, please?” she asks through a crack in the door.

“You can have my hoodie,” I offer.

“It’s OK. I can get something at the airport.”

“And if they don’t have anything for you to buy? They make you take off coats and blazers at security.”

The thought of her stripping down in public gets me off my feet. When I pass her the hoodie, she mumbles thanks before shutting the door.

She comes out with her chin up. God, she’s cute right now with my hoodie stretching over her breasts and sitting snug against her hips. But as good as she looks in my clothes, I’m just as tempted to pull her back onto the bed and get all that fabric off.

What is it about Dr. Vanya Kapur that makes me want to get closer all the damn time? I managed to keep my hands to myself last night because we were sitting side by side, enjoying a show together. But with the light of day penetrating the dirty windowpanes, reminding me that our time alone is about to end—and with the awkward distance she’s keeping between us—the need to pull her near intensifies.

“I can see what you’re thinking. How ridiculous do I look?” she asks self-consciously as a flush crawls up her cheeks. Pressing her lips together exaggerates her cute dimples.

I shake my head because for all of her strengths, Vanya is shit at reading my expression. “That’s not what I was thinking.”

“Anyway, thanks for letting me borrow your hoodie,” she indicates the sweatshirt by self-consciously pulling the fabric away from her chest. “Are you sure you’ll be OK with just your shirt under the coat?”

“I’ll be fine, Vanya.”

She tucks her hair behind her ears and sighs. “Our flights aren’t till noon. Should we get coffee? Not that I’m fit to be in public.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I look like the cat dragged me in and you look like…you.”

Is she kidding me right now? How could she say that about herself when it’s been impossible to keep my eyes off her any time she’s in a room. Does she really have no idea how gorgeous she is? How much I want to pull her over my lap and keep her there?

“Ask me what I was thinking,” I blurt out.