Page 15 of Icing the Cougar (Hockey USA Collection #7)

Trinity

Suspension from the fight for two games obviously sucks for Jasper, but not as much as the way Jasper kicks a dent in his coffee table and paces the apartment.

This is not how I pictured my Friday night: me on the couch, hoodie sleeves bunched in my fists, him stalking a rut in his living room.

Every time he passes the window, the city lights catch the curve of his jaw, the set of his mouth, the bruises still fresh along his cheekbone.

He’s not just angry. He’s fucking haunted.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” I say.

He grunts. Not words. Just a cave man noise, deep from the chest.

I try again. “Want to order something?”

He ignores me, goes to the fridge, opens it, and stares like it might fight him back. He’s still in a t-shirt from the gym—cut-off sleeves, skin everywhere, dried sweat—and I know he hasn’t showered since his extra-long “remedial” practice. There’s a mean-looking cut above his eyebrow.

He closes the fridge and turns, the storm in his eyes locked on me. I feel it in my chest.

“Are you mad at me?” he says, finally.

“No,” I say. “You didn’t kick your own ass in that game.”

He cracks his knuckles, one by one. “Maybe I should have.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I fucked it all up.”

It’s not about the fight, or even the penalty. I know this. It’s about the voices in his head that never shut up, the memories that keep him running.

“Come here,” I say, holding out my hand. He hesitates, then stalks over and drops onto the couch, knees spread, hands loose in his lap. He won’t look at me.

“Trinity,” he says, voice flat. “This isn’t going to work. I’m gonna keep screwing up. I’m gonna keep being… this.” He gestures at himself, at the wounds and the scars and the endless pacing.

I slide over and straddle his lap, even though I’m half his size and not exactly in my best “dominate the situation” outfit. “You say that like it’s a problem,” I whisper. My hands go to his neck, thumbs stroking the hollow above his collarbone. His pulse thunders.

He huffs a laugh, finally. “You’re weird.”

“So are you,” I say. “But I think I like you that way.”

He leans back, head hitting the cushion. I just watch him as the wildness tampers down to a simmer. I want to fix it for him, but I know that’s not my job.

We stay like that for a long time—me straddling his lap, hands on his neck, his head tipped back, my hands resting on the hard shelves of his pecs.

I run my thumbs over the flutter in his throat and try to memorize the shape of his face, staring at the bridge of his nose, the half-moon of his lashes, the little line where his eyebrow never quite healed straight.

When he finally exhales, it’s like he’s deflating, all the anger rushing out at once.

“Do you ever think about the future?” I ask, surprising myself.

He snorts, not unkindly. “Like, what? Retirement plans?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Or, I don’t know. What happens when hockey is over. Or when…” I gesture vaguely at us.

He looks at me, eyes narrowed as if he’s worried it’s a trap. “I mean, I want to win the cup.” He says it like a fact. “And I want…” He stops, then swallows. “I want you. For longer than a minute, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Little flickers run through my chest, a little hiccup of hope and terror. I press my thumbs into his neck, grounding myself. “I do, too,” I say. “But there’s something I need to tell you.”

He tenses, every muscle coiled. “What?”

“I’m older than you,” I say, as if he hasn’t noticed.

“A lot older, at least in baby years.” The words come out before I can soften them.

“I can’t promise you a future with, like, a house full of kids and a dog and a PTA membership.

I might not get to do any of that. I don’t even know if I can give you a kid.

I’m past my prime, biologically speaking. ”

He is silent for a long, long time. I watch his eyes, the way he chews on the inside of his cheek, the way his hands flex and unfurl in his lap.

“At least you’re not past your prime in the ways that matter,” he finally says, and it’s sweet, but I can see the gears turning in his head.

“I don’t care about that shit. I mean, yeah, it’d be cool to have a mini-me someday.

However, I didn’t have any of that growing up and I still turned out…

okay.” He chuckles. “I never thought I would get this far. And you—” he cups my face between his hands, so gentle it makes my eyes sting, “—you’re literally the only thing I want right now. ”

I start to protest, but he shakes his head. “Trinity, I don’t care if you’re forty or fifty or a hundred and ten. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I could be something better than what I am.”

“You’re not going to say that in five years when you’re picking me up from my colonoscopy,” I say, but my voice cracks with relief.

He grins, the wide, wolfish one I’m falling for. “Will too. I’ll even drive you home after your hip replacement.”