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27

LIAM

I won’t let myself think about the kiss, however brief, that Jessica and I shared, and how I memorized the sparkling stars in her eyes. How all I can smell is her cinnamon, spice, and everything nice scent. The way she felt so soft, so close … until after the post-game team meeting.

The match against the Blizzard came down to a tie, resulting in overtime with Beau in the cage, and I give a recaptain—what we call the team captain’s take on the game. That would be me. “Unfortunately, Ronnie Danielson scored on our boy.” I clap Beau on the back.

He grunts and looks like he’s about to bite my hand off.

“Take it easy cowboy. I need that thing. We can’t win ‘em all. And they won’t either because next game, we’ll crush Colorado.”

The guys cheer, but it lacks the usual oomph.

It’s no secret that Badaszek and Vohn are assessing my every word and every move, wondering if I’m worthy of being a captain. I pick apart where we went wrong and ask my teammates how we could have tightened up the play that resulted in the opposing team breaking away with the puck and charging it down to the goal.

They shout out various technical answers.

“Good, but the way we prevent the other team from scoring on us is to play like a well-oiled machine.”

Pierre says, “Here we go. A missive on fine German engineering.”

Having been around my father in the locker room from a young age, I tell him off in Dad’s native tongue, then say, “We have to approach it systematically, but there is also nuance and a relational aspect.”

The guys lean in, probably never having heard me use so many words. Last night when I was telling Jessica about where I grew up, she looked more curious about the fact that I was saying so much than she was about the details.

Could be that she opened a door for me that I’d sealed shut long ago.

At that, I add, “Now, it’s time for us to eat cake.”

Grimaldi asks, “What exactly are we celebrating? That we lost?”

A ray of sunlight pours into the dim locker room. “No, that we have room to grow. To improve. To be better than we were tonight and show the Blizzard that when we lose, we get back up. We return stronger, tougher, more precise.”

Pierre says, “Ah, there he is. I was getting worried for a moment.”

I clap my hands together and turn things back over to the coaches.

They shake their heads … approvingly.

Badaszek says, “Go enjoy the gala. Be on your best behavior.”

As we start to filter out, Hayden whispers to Redd, “Looks like he’s in love.”

The latter holds out his hand and the former slaps a large bill into it. I glare at them but don’t argue. They’re wrong, so wrong, but I feel like I finally found my footing as captain and I’m not going to mess that up.

I’ve done enough damage in my life and everyone else’s.

Shortly after, when I meet Jessica in the lobby of the hotel to head to the event, I feel like I got punched in the face.

Her hair is in a chignon with strands spiraling around her neck. She wears sparkly earrings and light pink lipstick. The pale blue and white dress Grandma Dolly helped me pick out highlights her curves in such a way that makes me dizzy. Or it could be the sparkle accents.

I don’t know where to look without gaping, drooling, wolf-whistling.

Yeow.

Maybe I was hit in the head with a puck and don’t remember. That could’ve happened.

Jessica smiles and wiggles her fingers in a shy wave as I approach.

The whoosh rushes through me and I nearly stumble.

“Is this okay? Did I overdo it? You look mortified.”

I glance around, hoping Grimaldi didn’t hitch a ride to Colorado. Supposedly Badaszek had him stay back for remedial work since his stats have practically dropped from the charts. If he or anyone so much as breathes in her direction the gloves are coming off.

“You look …” I place my hand on Jessica’s lower back, ushering her toward the exit. She scuttles, almost at a trot, jabbering about her dress, hair, and makeup.

I stop her on the sidewalk and plant my palms on her shoulders, my thumbs kneading the soft, exposed skin for a moment. I look her up and down, taking her in, wishing this would last forever. “Jessica, you look stunning.”

She presses her palm to her chest as if taken aback. “I do?”

I nod. “Yes, you do.”

Her fingers trail my cheek. “You didn’t shave.”

My hand finds hers and I grip it, kissing the top. “I would’ve but—” I cut myself off because those sound an awful lot like words I’m not ready to say.

She grins. “I like it this way. The perfect amount of stubble.”

Well, then.

She’s so stunning that when we enter the gala on the white carpet, people do double takes. The press snaps her photo—with me and solo, which is high praise because they must like her ice princess look.

The gala is much like the handful I’ve been to since joining the league. There are a few speeches and our team is honored with an award, followed by dinner and dancing.

Jessica politely toasts and has only a few polite sips of her champagne, but that’s all. Her eyes water from the bubbles. When we take to the dancefloor, her cheeks are flushed and she cuts loose. Smile bright, she kicks it up with the girls until the slow dance when I cut in.

She’s soft in my arms. Resting her cheek against my chest, she says, “My head feels funny.”

“Maybe we should head back to the room?”

“Yeah. I’m suddenly tired.” Her yawn makes me think of a sleepy kitten.

Her burst of energy followed by a crash reminds me of when the kid used to sneak into the cookie jar, get super hyper, and then quickly flame out. At least she’s not having a temper tantrum.

I manage to get her back to the hotel, but by the time we’re in the elevator, she’s a limp noodle so I scoop her into my arms, bridal-carry style and hope she’s exhausted enough not to notice. Don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.

In her room, I slip off her high heels as she nestles into the pillows. I check her forehead, but she’s a normal temperature. Maybe the insomnia is catching up, or it’s altitude sickness from the bubbly—even the little bit she had can affect a person who’s not used to this elevation. I set a glass of water next to the bed and look at her for a long moment.

Her lashes brush her cheeks and not a wrinkle forms across her forehead. Her mouth is slack, but she’s not frowning. It’s a rare moment, not to see her smiling, and I suddenly long for it with an inner tug that almost scares me.

I contemplate kissing her on the cheek. I don’t know what I was thinking last night on the balcony. Thankfully, a conversation about the kiss didn’t come up and we both casually ignored it. Or maybe it was all in my puck-addled mind.

I’m about to leave when Jessica’s arm shoots out and flops onto the bed. Eyes closed and voice muddled, she says, “Sing me a lullaby?”

I could pretend I don’t hear, but instead ask, “Huh?”

“Just for a minute.”

“Yeah, sure.” I sit on the edge of the bed because it would be awkward to stand and sing a lullaby, looming over Jessica. Not that I know anything about lullabies, but I cannot deny this woman.

She grips the edge of my tux jacket and with surprising strength for being half asleep, tugs me toward her.

“Just a quick snuggle.”

We’re both fully dressed and I wrap my arms around her, little spoon and big spoon. She curls into me, sighs, and soon breathes softly.

I’m sure she’s asleep, but she told me to say all the things, so I do. “Don’t fall for me. I’m bad. Bad for you. Bad for everyone.” I’m the worst.

I must doze off because my thoughts turn to the awful winter night when the car went off the road and it was too late for me to do anything about it.