Page 20

Chapter 20

Cyn

I wake to the gentle press of Garrett's body against mine, his arm a heavy comfort across my waist. Morning light filters through his blinds, casting thin stripes across the rumpled sheets. His bedroom smells like him—clean soap and his woodsy cologne. My body feels deliciously languid, satisfied in ways that make me want to stretch like a cat in a sunbeam.

Garrett's breath tickles the back of my neck in slow, steady rhythms. I carefully turn in his arms, not wanting to wake him yet. His face is softer in sleep, the lines around his eyes relaxed. I trace the outline of his jaw with my gaze, a small smile playing at my lips.

I hadn't planned on staying over. But after dinner and a movie at his place, followed by his talented hands massaging my perpetually aching feet, one thing led to another. It feels different now. Not just the sex—which is fantastic—but this morning-after closeness. No awkwardness. No urge to grab my clothes and rush out. Just comfort.

His eyes flutter open, those chocolate browns focusing slowly, until they find me.

"Morning," he says, voice gravelly with sleep.

"Morning yourself." I can't help but smile.

"Sleep okay?" His hand drifts up to smooth my hair back from my face.

"Better than okay." I stretch my arms over my head. "Your bed is dangerously comfortable. I might never leave."

"That's the plan." His smile is slow and deliberate, sending warmth cascading through me.

His hand drifts down to rest on my stomach, a gentle question in his touch. I nod, and he leans in to kiss me. The kiss deepens slowly, his hands exploring carefully, as if mapping territories that have shifted overnight.

"Is this okay?" he asks, fingers tracing the curve of my breast through my t-shirt.

"Very okay," I breathe.

His kisses trail down my neck, hands gently tugging at the shirt I borrowed from him to sleep in. He moves with patient deliberation, as if we have all the time in the world. And maybe we do.

"Tell me if anything's uncomfortable," he says, moving down my body.

"I'm pregnant, not breakable," I reply, but the care he takes makes my heart flutter.

He grins up at me. "Noted. But I still want to take my time."

And he does. He takes his sweet time peeling away my clothes, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin. His hands cradle my hips as he settles between my thighs, looking up at me with a hunger in his eyes.

"You're beautiful," he says, and I believe him.

His mouth finds me, and I gasp, fingers clutching at the sheets. He knows what he's doing—dear God, does he know—but there's something different about the way he touches me now. More deliberate. More attentive to my reactions. My body feels both familiar and new, more sensitive in places, and he discovers each change with delighted curiosity.

I feel the scrape of morning stubble against my inner thighs, the wet heat of his mouth, the gentle pressure of his fingers. My hands find his hair, not guiding, just needing to touch him, to ground myself as pleasure builds.

"Garrett," I breathe, the only word my brain can form.

He hums against my clit, the vibration sending sparks through my core. My hips rise of their own accord, and his hands steady me, strong and sure.

The tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter. My breathing turns ragged, my thighs trembling against his shoulders. When release finally comes, it washes through me in waves that leave me gasping his name, back arched, hands fisted in his hair.

He stays with me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, pressing soft kisses to my inner thigh. When I can focus again, he's looking up at me with undisguised satisfaction, chin resting on my hip, eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Good morning indeed," I manage, my voice breathier than I intended.

He chuckles, crawling back up to lie beside me. "The best kind."

I curl against him, my body buzzing in the afterglow. His arms wrap around me, one hand splayed protectively over my stomach. Something shifts in me—a recognition of how right this feels, his touch both arousing and comforting. I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

"Thank you," I murmur against his skin.

He tips my chin up, eyes serious now. "For what?"

"For being careful with me. For being here."

His smile changes, softens into something that makes my chest ache pleasantly. "Always," he says, and kisses me again, tender and unhurried.

The buzz of our phones—both going off at the same time—cuts through our post-orgasm haze like an alarm clock. Garrett groans, his arm tightening around me briefly before he reaches for his device on the nightstand.

Garrett's already squinting at his screen. "It's a group text from management."

My stomach does a little flip. Group texts from Blades management rarely bring good news. Usually, they mean schedule changes, emergency meetings, or some crisis with a player that needs immediate attention. I grab my phone and unlock my screen, bracing for whatever fire needs putting out this time.

The message is from Doug Pearson, the facilities manager:

ATTENTION ALL STAFF: Due to an overnight failure in the cooling system, the ice rink is currently non-operational. Maintenance crews are working to resolve the issue, but all team activities at the facility are CANCELED for today. Staff and players will be notified by 8PM regarding tomorrow's schedule.

I blink, reading it twice to make sure I understand.

"The rink's down," I say, turning to Garrett.

"Yeah." His brow furrows. "That's not good. We've got the Avalanche on Friday."

"How long do you think it'll take them to fix it?"

He shrugs, setting his phone down. "Depends on what happened. Could be a quick fix, could be a day or two. Nothing we can do about it now."

A slow smile spreads across Garrett's face. "Looks like we've got ourselves an unexpected day off, Lockhart."

The realization hits me all at once—a free day in the middle of the hockey season is as rare as a penalty-free game. My schedule, usually packed with appointments, treatments, and paperwork, is suddenly wide open. And even better—Garrett's is too.

"What should we do today? The possibilities are endless.”

"Endless possibilities." He pulls me back down beside him, pressing a kiss to my temple. "I like the sound of that."

I snuggle against him, mind already racing with possibilities.

"So," I say, tickling his chest with my fingertip, "what should we do with our stolen time?"

Garrett captures my wandering hand, bringing it to his lips. "Any ideas?" he asks, eyes crinkling with mischief.

"Movie day?" I suggest, still comfortably nestled against his side. "We could marathon something ridiculous and not move except for snack breaks and bathroom runs." My fingers dance across his chest, tracing the amazing muscle definition. Part of me just wants to stay here, in this bed, discovering more ways our bodies fit together.

"What kind of ridiculous are we talking?" Garrett asks, toying with a strand of my hair. "Like bad sci-fi ridiculous or romantic comedy ridiculous?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of the 'Fast and Furious' franchise. The physics alone are worth the price of admission." I grin up at him. "Unless you're a secret Nicholas Sparks fan?"

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine. "Hard pass on Sparks. Though I wouldn't say no to 'Fast and Furious.'"

"Or…" I stretch, considering other options. "We could go for a hike? The weather's supposed to be decent today."

"A hike could be good." Garrett nods thoughtfully. "Starved Rock? Or maybe Waterfall Glen?"

"Both nice options." I sit up, suddenly more enthusiastic. Getting out in nature sounds refreshing.

Garrett sits up too, running a hand through his rumpled hair. "It's just—" He hesitates.

"What?"

"If we go somewhere like that, we might run into someone from the team." His eyes meet mine, concern evident. "Reynolds goes to Waterfall Glen all the time when he's rehabbing. And Martinez took the whole defense to Starved Rock for some kind of 'bonding exercise' last month."

"You're right," I sigh. "The last thing we need is to bump into Reynolds or Barnesy, God forbid, while we're holding hands on a nature trail."

"It's not that I don't want to be seen with you," Garrett clarifies quickly, taking my hand. "It's just?—"

"I know," I reassure him. "I get it. We’ve got to let the cat out of the bag first to management." I chew my lip, thinking. "So we need somewhere out of town.

Garrett's eyes light up. "How do you feel about Long Grove?"

I picture the quaint streets I've seen in photos but never visited. "That sounds perfect. We could explore the shops, get lunch, pretend we're tourists for a day."

Our fingers intertwine on the sheets between us and I feel a bubble of excitement growing in my chest. It's such a small thing—a day trip to a nearby town—but it feels like an adventure. Just us, away from hockey and responsibilities, discovering something new together.

"I need to stop by my place first. Oscar needs a walk, and I refuse to spend our romantic day trip wearing yesterday's clothes."

“You got it.”

I hope Oscar is doing okay. I texted one of my neighbors last night, who helps me out with him sometimes, and she agreed to let him out last night and this morning as well as feed him.

"Give me ten minutes to shower, and then we'll head to my place?"

"Take your time," he says, eyes warm. "We've got all day."

When we get to my apartment, thirty minutes later, I hear a crated Oscar's excited barking. I drop my keys in the dish by the door, their jangle setting off another round of frantic woofs from my over-enthusiastic Bernedoodle.

"Someone's happy to see you," Garrett says, following me inside.

"He'd be happy to see a burglar if they'd feed him," I reply, moving toward the crate. "Fair warning—he's going to lose his mind when I let him out."

Oscar's eyes are visible through the crate bars, dark and eager, his fluffy body vibrating with anticipation. When I unlatch the door, he explodes outward in a tornado of fur and excitement. His paws scrabble against my thighs as he jumps, his whole body wagging.

"Hi, buddy! Yes, I missed you too," I laugh, scratching behind his ears. "Sorry I didn't come home last night."

Oscar finally notices Garrett and redirects his enthusiasm. He approaches with caution at first, then seems to remember Garrett and begins dancing around his feet.

"Hey there, buddy," Garrett says, crouching down to Oscar's level. His big hand nearly spans Oscar's entire head as he gives him a scratch.

Oscar flops onto his back, presenting his belly with shameless begging. Garrett obliges with belly rubs, and I stand watching them, a warm feeling spreading through my chest.

"He really likes you," I say.

"The feeling's mutual." Garrett looks up at me with a smile that makes my knees weak. "He's a good boy."

"The best. I'll just be a few minutes to change—feel free to raid the fridge if you want anything.”

I head to my bedroom, pulling off yesterday's clothes and quickly sifting through my closet. I settle on a pair of jeans and a soft green sweater. A quick brush through my hair, a touch of mascara, and I'm ready. Comfortable but cute for our day out.

When I emerge, Garrett's sitting on my couch with Oscar pressed against his side, looking completely at home.

"That was fast," he comments.

I grab Oscar's leash. "Ready for walkies?"

Oscar nearly pulls my arm out of its socket, getting to the door. Outside, the fall morning feels fresh, the air crisp but not cold. Oscar trots ahead, nose to the ground, while Garrett and I fall into step beside each other.

We complete a loop around the block, our conversation flowing easily. There's something about this moment—walking my dog with Garrett beside me—that feels almost domestically perfect. When Oscar finally does his business, Garrett takes the bag duty without complaint, another small gesture that makes my heart flutter.

Back at the apartment, I fill Oscar's food and water bowls while Garrett pets him one more time.

"Sorry, buddy," I tell Oscar as I lead him back to his crate. "We'll go for a longer walk when I get home." His sad puppy eyes are almost enough to make me feel guilty, but he settles onto his bed with a dramatic sigh.

"Ready for our adventure?"

"Absolutely." I lock up, giving Oscar one last wave through the window. As we walk to Garrett's car, his hand finds the small of my back—a gentle, protective gesture that makes me feel both safe and seen.

Garrett drives to Long Grove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting comfortably on my thigh. The city gradually gives way to suburbs, then more open spaces as we head north. The radio plays softly—some indie station he tuned to after asking what I liked.

"Did you go on a lot of road trips as a kid?" I ask, watching his profile as he navigates traffic.

"Some. My dad would take me fishing up in Wisconsin a couple weekends every summer. Four-hour drive each way."

"Sounds nice."

"It was. Mostly quiet. He wasn't much of a talker. But I remember those silences better than most conversations." He glances at me. "What about you? Any family road trips?"

"Not really. Mom worked most weekends." I look out the window, watching the scenery change. "But sometimes, on her day off, she'd surprise me with what she called 'adventure days.' We'd hop on the L and pick a stop we'd never been to before."

"Your own urban exploration." His smile is warm.

"Exactly. Once we found this amazing Thai place in a neighborhood we'd never visit otherwise. It became our special occasion restaurant." The memory makes me smile. "What did you and your dad talk about on those long drives?"

"Hockey, mostly." He laughs. "Even before I started playing seriously. But also fishing techniques, school..." He pauses. "The tough stuff too, sometimes. Easier to talk about hard things when you're both looking at the road instead of each other."

I think about that, about how vulnerability sometimes needs the right setting. "I get that."

We fall into comfortable silence until Garrett announces, "Almost there," as we turn onto a road lined with trees, just starting to burst into fall colors.

Long Grove appears like something from a storybook—historic buildings with wood storefronts, brick sidewalks, and hanging flower baskets preparing for warmer weather. Garrett finds parking easily—a weekday perk—and comes around to open my door.

We wander down the sidewalk, window shopping. Garrett's hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining naturally. The streets are relatively quiet, just a handful of other visitors and locals going about their day.

"Oh, we have to go in here," I say, tugging him toward a shop with handmade crafts in the window. Inside, it smells of cinnamon and wood. The owner greets us warmly, then leaves us to browse.

I pick up a hand-carved wooden box, admiring the craftsmanship. "This is beautiful."

"You like it?" Garrett appears behind me, peering over my shoulder.

"I do. My mom had something similar for her jewelry."

He takes the box from my hands, examining it closely before heading to the counter. Before I can protest, he's purchasing it.

"Garrett, you don't have to?—"

"I want to," he says simply, passing me the wrapped package. "Something to remember today."

We continue exploring, drifting from store to store. Garrett patiently waits while I try on a scarf, then helps me choose between two nearly identical pairs of earrings. In a store full of quirky kitchen gadgets, I discover he's surprisingly knowledgeable about cooking equipment.

"I got into cooking after I retired," he explains, examining a specialized pasta maker. "All that free time. I needed a creative outlet."

By noon, our stomachs are grumbling, and we find a small bistro with outdoor seating. The host seats us at a corner table beneath a gorgeous red maple.

"This is perfect," I say, settling into my chair. "I'm starving."

"I am so happy to hear that," Garrett replies with a wink.

Over lunch—a hearty sandwich for him, soup and half a sandwich for me—our conversation deepens.

"Do you think about going back to New York?" I ask.

He considers this, taking a sip of his water. "Sometimes. I've got friends there. But it never felt like home, not really. Even when I was playing there."

"And Chicago does?"

His eyes meet mine, steady and warm. "It's starting to."

Something in his gaze makes me blush and look down at my soup. "What about you?" he asks. "Ever think about leaving Chicago?"

"Not seriously. My mom's here. My job's here." I hesitate. "Now other things are here too."

His smile is soft, understanding what I'm not explicitly saying.

After lunch, Garrett insists we visit a chocolate shop we walked by earlier. It's a charming place with glass cases displaying handmade truffles in dozens of flavors.

"Let’s buy two of each," he says, watching my eyes widen at the selection.

"Don’t think I won’t," I warn.

I select an assortment—dark chocolate with sea salt, dark chocolate with caramel, dark chocolate with raspberry—while Garrett chooses a few others. The shopkeeper packages them in a pretty box tied with ribbon.

"For later," Garrett says, tucking the box into a shopping bag. "I have other plans first."

Those plans include walking to the covered bridge that serves as the town's landmark. It's a beautiful wooden structure spanning a small creek. Inside, the light filters through in golden slats, creating a dappled pattern on the wooden planks.

"People used to think covered bridges were good luck," Garrett says, his voice echoing slightly in the enclosed space. "Some called them kissing bridges."

"Is that so?" I raise an eyebrow, stepping closer to him.

"Historical fact," he says solemnly, but his eyes are playful.

"Well, we can't argue with history." I reach up, pulling him down to me.

His kiss is gentle, his hand coming to rest on my waist. When we part, something feels shifted, cemented.

After the bridge, we find the ice cream shop down the street. Despite the chocolates waiting for later, I can't resist the call of hand-scooped nondairy chocolate in a waffle cone. We sit on a bench in the small-town square, people watching.

Garrett trades me a bite of his salted caramel, which is also nondairy, for a taste of my chocolate. The simple act—sharing ice cream on a bench on a Wednesday afternoon—feels precious. He laughs at something I say, his whole face transforming, and it hits me with sudden clarity:

I love him.

The realization doesn't come with fireworks or dramatic music. It's quiet, certain, like recognizing something I've known all along. Watching him lick ice cream from his fingers, joking with a shopkeeper who passes by our bench, gently wiping a drop from the corner of my mouth—I love all of it. I love him.

The knowledge sits warm in my chest, new but somehow familiar. I'm not ready to say it out loud—not yet—but I hold it close, this precious certainty.

As afternoon stretches toward evening, we reluctantly decide it's time to head back to the city. Garrett carries our small collection of purchases to the car, his free hand never leaving mine for long.

"Thank you for today," I say as he opens my car door. "It was perfect."

"Even better than a 'Fast and Furious' marathon?" he teases.

"Much better. Though there's always this weekend for that."

His smile at the casual mention of the weekend—the assumption that we'll spend it together too—makes my heart skip.

"I'd like that," he says simply.

As we drive back toward Chicago, the setting sun painting the sky in pinks and golds, I rest my hand on his thigh, a mirror of his earlier position. The words "I love you" hover on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them back. Not yet. But maybe soon.