Page 14

Drafting Process

Aleks

I realized two things very quickly as I washed the sand and sunscreen from my body later that evening.

There wasn’t a cold enough shower to rid my dirty mind of Mia in that yellow bikini.

And there wasn’t a day I would exist and not think of what it felt like to kiss her — even if it was fake.

A thunderstorm rolled through the bay not too long after our little stunt, and Mia and I retreated inside, both of us running through the downpour as I attempted to keep her dry with a flimsy beach towel held over her head. We hadn’t had a moment to breathe once we made it inside before Marci was grabbing Mia by the shoulders and shaking her with a high-pitched squeal of victory.

“Oh, my God — that was incredible. Isabella is calling in ten. She’s overjoyed. Everyone is losing their minds!”

I’d slipped away while Marci dragged Mia over to her laptop to show her the media attention, smirking to myself a little as I disappeared up the stairs to the room I was staying in for the weekend.

Now, I was standing under the frigid water, trying to scrub the image from my mind of Mia’s perfect body and the memory of her mouth opening for me.

But it was useless.

I’d told myself it wasn’t her I was thinking of as I stroked myself when the water was still running warm, when I’d planted a palm on the cool shower tile and grunted out a release that somehow left me wound even tighter than before.

The truth was buzzing under the surface of my skin, though — a constant reminder that I was completely fucked.

When the cold water did nothing but turn to steam after hitting my hot skin, I gave up, slamming my hand on the faucet to shut it off. I toweled myself down quickly before pulling on basketball shorts and a t-shirt, and then I made my way back downstairs.

It was quieter in the house now, nothing but the soft dripping of rain outside and the distant roll of thunder filling the open space of the giant house. When I rounded into the living area, I spotted Mia at the kitchen island, her phone in her hands, back rounded, one bare leg crossed under her and the other hooked onto the barstool next to hers.

I slowed even more at the sight of her, at the flash of a distant past that hit me seeing her in this way. She must have taken a shower, too, because her hair was wet and clinging to her tan shoulders. She wore a pair of sweat shorts, the thick band rolled once at her hips, and a strappy crop top tank showed the smooth skin at her lower back.

If I closed my eyes, I could almost remember her just like that when we were kids, sitting in her sweats at the kitchen island and eating Honeycomb cereal while she tried to figure out lyrics to a song playing nonstop in her head.

“Well, is my situation all over the Internet?”

Mia jumped a little at my voice, covering her chest with a flat palm as she spun in her chair to face me. She was wearing large, tortoise-shell, framed glasses — another visual that made me think of the past. She smiled as I made my way toward her, shaking her head and thumbing the screen on her phone before she laid it flat on the counter and shoved it my way.

That’s when I realized she wasn’t wearing a bra, and I once again felt my brain going haywire. She hadn’t been wearing one last week in the hotel, either, and it’d taken everything in me to keep my hands to myself. I knew I wasn’t good enough for her, that I was trouble in her mind and just playing my part in her carefully laid plans to get her album release on track. But that didn’t stop my thoughts from wondering what it would be like to walk my fingers up under her shirt and palm her, from wondering if she’d let me, if she’d be shocked and angry, or if she’d closer her eyes and sigh and lean into the touch.

She’d leaned in on the beach, part of my brain argued. She’d moaned and gripped and pulled.

She was doing it for the cameras, the smarter part of me argued. It was an act, just like the hundreds of other times she’s performed.

“Sure is,” she said. “And don’t worry — only half the comments are talking about how small and disappointing the view is.”

I pinched her side, right where I knew she was the most ticklish, before picking up her phone and taking in the view for myself.

The article on the screen was from Pop Star Entertainment , and though my junk had been blurred out in their photos, it was only just enough blur to not be able to see the details. There was still plenty to view, and I found particular joy in the close up of Mia’s wide eyes and her hand covering her mouth as she watched my white ass jog away from her.

“Hmm… your expression here doesn’t say small to me,” I pointed out, zooming in on her face.

Mia smacked my arm and ripped her phone from my hand, but not before I got a couple more scrolls in and saw the pictures of us making out.

The one with her leg hiked up over my hip and her chest arching into me was enough to give me another hard-on, so I rounded the kitchen island to stand on the other side of it just in case.

“Mission accomplished, I’d say.” I leaned over the countertop on my elbows, nodding to where she was now typing away. “Isabella happy?”

“Thrilled. I’m sure Giana is, too. You should check your phone — it’s been blowing up.”

I followed her gaze to where I’d left my phone in the kitchen earlier.

“You sound a little jealous,” I noted. “Want to go through my phone, Strings? I promise, you’re the only girl I’m texting.”

“Shut up,” she said without looking up at me, but I didn’t miss the way her cheeks turned red.

I chuckled, unlocking my phone and thumbing through the texts quickly. There was, indeed, a few from Giana telling me that sponsorship offers were rolling in and she wanted to meet tomorrow to discuss. She also asked if it would be possible to not flash my goods for the whole world to see next time.

There was a text from Richard Bancroft, too. He was giddy to report that we’d already sold out every suite in the arena for the first seven home games. He was expecting some high-profile guests to be in attendance.

Carter had added me to a group chat with the guys, and there were about a dozen texts from them ranging from dick jokes to not-so-subtle pleas for details of what the fuck was going on.

But all those texts faded to the background when I saw a missed one from Mia’s father.

Charlie Conaway: Hello, son. Been a while since we chatted. Got some time this weekend?

My asshole clenched at the sight of the text, which to anyone else would have seemed pleasant enough. But I knew Charlie. I knew that behind his love and respect for me as a hockey player and as a man, there was a fierce layer of protection over his daughter.

And I had a feeling that — whether he knew it was fake or not — he was not happy about the photos circulating online at the moment.

“Gopferdami ,” I muttered under my breath before texting him back that I could talk tomorrow.

“What?” Mia asked.

I let out a sigh, tossing my phone face down on the counter once I’d shot off the text and ignored the rest. “Nothing. Just pretty sure your father is preparing to skin me alive.”

“Dad texted you?” Mia waved me off. “Oh, he’s fine. He and Mom are both aware of the situation. I’m sure he’s just pulling your leg.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You two are so weird sometimes. He acts like the sun rises and sets with you when you’re not around, you know,” she pointed out. “Pretty sure he brags about you to his friends and co-workers more than his own Grammy-award-winning daughter.”

I didn’t respond, mostly because I wasn’t sure what to say. Charlie Conaway had saved my life in more ways than one. He’d given me a home, a ticket to a career that was otherwise out of reach, and a chance to make something of myself.

He didn’t just demand my respect — he’d earned it. There was no one in this world I wanted to make proud more than him.

But I also held a deep, confusing resentment for the man who had given me so much.

Because as much as he believed in me, as much as he maybe even loved me, he also saw me as a threat to his daughter.

He always had.

I cleared my throat, deciding tonight was not the night to dwell on any of it. I’d get my lashing from Charlie in the morning.

For now, I was alone with Mia, and I planned to make the most of it.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“Marci has some family who live in St. Pete, apparently. She’s going to dinner with them and then staying at their place tonight. James is asleep, I think, and Hunter is on guard. The rest of their team is on the perimeter.”

Suddenly, Mia’s stomach growled so loudly it overshadowed the thunder outside.

I arched an eyebrow as her cheeks turned pink.

“And what are your dinner plans?”

“A chef was supposed to come to the house, but I canceled her.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Not hungry.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, her stomach growled even louder.

“Clearly,” I said on a laugh.

She sighed, finally locking her phone and sliding it away. “Okay, I just didn’t want to have another stranger in the house. If it was my chef back home, it would have been different. I know her. I don’t have to perform for her. But I’m…”

“Tired,” I finished for her, my voice soft.

Her shoulders slumped a little, and she nodded.

I couldn’t imagine it. Sure, there was some fame that came with being a professional hockey player, but it was nothing compared to the life Mia led. I still held onto a bit of normalcy. I could live alone, could go out without getting mauled, could shop for my own groceries without having more than maybe a few people asking me for autographs.

But Mia? She had an entire team of people who were around her constantly.

Security guards. Agents. Publicists. Stylists. Label reps… the list went on and on.

Even if she stayed in the privacy of her own home or a vacation rental like this, she still had people around her all the time.

I didn’t blame her for wanting a night of peace and quiet.

But I felt my chest tightening like a protective bear at the thought of her not eating.

“I was going to order something in,” she said. “But I might just go to bed and eat in the morning.”

“It’s six o’clock,” I said.

Her stomach rumbled again, and I chuckled, knocking my knuckles on the countertop.

“I’ll cook for you.”

“What?” Mia instantly shook her head, her brown eyes wide as if the idea horrified her. “You don’t need to do that. I’m sure you have plans.”

“I’m here for the weekend, remember?” I asked her, gesturing my arms wide. “Besides, you know you love my cooking.”

“I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that. It’s rush hour, and you’d have to go to the store.”

“Oh, what a crisis.”

“You’ve already done so much for me today.”

“Yeah, because kissing you was a real hardship.”

“It’s storming, and—”

“Woman,” I growled, flattening my palms on the granite countertop and lowering my gaze to meet hers. “Shut up and let me feed you.”

I arched a brow when it looked like she was going to finish her argument, warning her without words not to even try. And only when she let out a sigh of resignation did I push back off the counter.

“I’ll be back before you know it. You just relax,” I said, shoving my feet into my sneakers and swiping my keys out of the bowl by the door.

“Relax,” she echoed. “What’s that?”

I smirked, pointing at her from the doorway. “It’s an order. Give the phone a rest. Don’t think about the album or the tour for the whole half hour it’s going to take me to get what I need.”

The corner of her mouth tilted, and she hopped off her barstool before meeting me at the door. Surprisingly, she wrapped her arms around my neck, crushing me in a fierce hug.

Jasmine and honey.

I held her tight, my arms wrapped full around her, nose buried in the scent of her wet hair. Her body was small and soft and pliable against mine, everything about her in that moment making me want to hide her away from the world. I wanted to hold her on the couch while we watched a movie. I wanted to rub her shoulders and run her a bath. I wanted to cook for her, and the fact that me offering that seemed so wild to her, that she didn’t believe anyone would want to take care of her without being paid to do so… it only made me want to do it more.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I swallowed, the hug over too soon.

“You know I’ve always got you.”

· · ·

An hour and a half later, Mia was moaning for the third time, her chin dripping with cheese in the most unattractive way possible as she took another too-large bite of the dish I’d prepared.

And yet, it was hard not to be turned on.

“ Guh, ish sho fucking good, ” she said, shoveling in another forkful.

“You keep moaning like that, and Hunter is going to have a hard time believing anything innocent is happening in this kitchen.”

“This is anything but innocent,” she said, pointing her fork to the cheesy pasta and potatoes topped with caramelized onions and bacon that was left on her plate. There was a side of apple puree to her left, too. “This is a downright sin. What’s it called again? I can never remember.”

“ ?lplermagronen, ” I said, taking a bite of my own. “And it’s not nearly as impressive as you’re making it seem right now. It’s quite literally macaroni and cheese.”

“Was this one of Annaliese’s specialties?”

I stiffened a bit at the mention of my foster mom, of the closest person I’d ever had to a parent in this world. I wanted to smile, but something in my heart blackened the day she died, and I couldn’t seem to release the grief even ten years later.

She’d done everything for me.

She’d sacrificed her time, her money, her energy to make my life a good one.

And as soon as she could, she got me a ticket to the States, to a better life.

She never once told me she was sick.

And I was too young and selfish to notice.

I nodded, my throat tight, and Mia’s chewing slowed a bit as she took in my expression.

“When you go back to Switzerland,” she said. “Do you think you’ll go see her?”

Go see her . As if I could just show up on my old doorstep in Berne, push through that old door that had rusty hinges, and see her sitting there in her rocker with her latest crochet project in her lap. As if I could just hug her and laugh as she told me I was too skinny and that she needed to feed me immediately.

I would give anything for that. Anything. I’d give up hockey, even, for just one more day with her.

But what Mia meant was would I go see her grave ?

I had always planned to. Mia and her parents offered to go with me. But I was scared, and sad, and frankly didn’t want to face the fact that she was actually gone.

So, no. I hadn’t been back yet.

I hoped one day I’d be strong enough to change that.

“Maybe,” I answered.

I knew Mia wanted to ask more, but she didn’t push. She reminded me of Annaliese in that way — neither one of them ever asked me to be anyone I wasn’t. Instead, Mia just swallowed, stacked up another bite, and waved it at me before popping it in her mouth.

“Well, all I know is this is orgasmic.”

My brow ticced up at that. “I don’t remember you calling it that when we were teenagers.”

“That’s because I was a perfect little angel then,” she said with a shimmy of her shoulders. “And because I didn’t have my first orgasm until I was twenty-three.”

I nearly choked on my next bite, and Mia smirked at me as I chased it down with a sip of the white wine I’d poured for both of us. “You’re joking.”

“Not all of us lived with our hands in our pants the way you did, Aleks.”

“Maybe you should have.” I shook my head. “Let me guess, perfect boyfriend Austin Westbrook made you come as he made sweet, sweet love to you in a bed full of rose petals?”

Mia narrowed her gaze, picking a piece of bacon off her plate and flicking it at me. “Why do you always have to ruin it? Just when I think you’re not a prick, you go and prove me wrong.”

“I have a reputation to uphold.”

She sucked her teeth, stacking a few penne noodles on her fork. “If you must know, it wasn’t him.”

I couldn’t hide my genuine shock at that confession. “Um… but didn’t you two start dating when you were twenty-two?”

She nodded, swallowing her bite and reaching for her wine.

“Don’t tell me you really did cheat,” I said, but couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Not that I was a fan of cheating, but I was a big fan of that golden boy asshole getting what he deserved.

“Of course I didn’t cheat,” Mia spat back. She couldn’t look at me as she toyed with the food on her plate. “But he wasn’t responsible for my first orgasm. I was.”

“Oh, I like where this is going,” I said, leaning in for more.

“Well, too bad for you, that’s all of the story you’re going to get.”

“Come on! You can’t leave me hanging like that. What’d you use? Your hands?”

“Aleks!”

“A vibe?”

“Stop,” she dragged out the word on a grin, her face turning bright red as she covered it with her hands.

“It was a vibe, wasn’t it. Dirty girl.” I smirked. “What kind was it? Was it big, or just one of those little clit ticklers?”

Mia laughed, throwing another piece of bacon at me. “You’re such a perv.”

I drank my wine with a grin, watching her over the rim of my glass. My smile faded as my curiosity got the best of me. “What’s the real story of what happened between you two?”

“What, you don’t read the tabloids?” She waved her hand toward her phone. “Obviously, I’m a crazy, neurotic, jealous drama queen, and he couldn’t fix me.”

I just waited, watching as she ran her finger through a glob of cheese and slipped it into her mouth.

“I don’t want to bore you with my relationship woes.”

“I asked,” I reminded her. “And we used to talk about relationship woes all the time.”

Her eyes flicked to mine then, and she didn’t have to say a word for me to know what she was thinking.

That was before.

Before I was helping her stumble into her room after getting too drunk at a party. Before she confessed she wanted me. Before she tried to kiss me.

Before I’d told her I couldn’t.

The memory of that night had haunted me since, the little devil on my shoulder always whispering and wondering what would have happened if I’d have given in. But she wasn’t sober enough to give any kind of consent that night, and when she was sober again — she’d laughed it off, making light of it, pointing out the fact that she was drunk and being silly.

And by the time we were out of her parents’ house and I was settled in Seattle, it was too late for me to make a move of my own.

She was moving to Los Angeles.

And then, she was dating some pretty boy rock star five years older than us.

That was just the first of her relationships with men who were nothing like me. After him, there was the DJ, the activist, and finally, Austin.

And I got the picture loud and clear of what her type was.

Good . Every single one of them was good. You’d never see them on the news for fighting, getting thrown out of a bar, getting a DUI, or flipping off a ref during a charity game for kids.

They were the poster boys, the ones you take home to mom and dad. And she deserved that.

But I’d be lying if I said a part of me didn’t rejoice every time they fucked up and lost her.

Mia was quiet for a moment as I succumbed to my memories, and I let my eyes wash over her clean face. Even tired, she was so gorgeous it was hard not to stare. Her skin was sun kissed from the afternoon, the beauty mark beneath her left eye almost blending with her complexion now. Her lips were as plump and inviting as always, eyes the most intoxicating hue of blue behind her glasses. They sparkled in the low light of the kitchen as she topped off both our wine glasses before she finally answered.

“He wanted me to be someone I’m not.”

I took a swig of the wine to hide how my jaw tightened at that, and to keep my mouth shut so she’d continue.

“The further we got into our relationship, the more he… changed. He used to compliment my success — ask about my music, help me write when I was stuck, tell me how talented I was. He would praise my success around his friends, make me feel like a million bucks.” She shook her head, finger tracing the rim of her wine glass. “But the longer we were together, the more he’d make these little comments that felt like backhanded compliments. He’d not-so-subtly hint to how his career was more important than mine, that he was so thankful that when we got married, he knew he could count on me to support him and take care of our family.”

I wrinkled my nose, and Mia laughed a little.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s cringe. But… ugh , I feel silly even admitting this but… I was excited about the idea of marriage, of being a mom one day. Not now , obviously. But… one day.” She shrugged. “I just didn’t think it would be a traditional kind of marriage. I mean, you know my parents. Mom had her career just as much as Dad had his. They had their own friends and their friends together. They still travel, still laugh and play and kiss each other to this day like they’re each other’s everything. That’s what I wanted. What I still want.”

She grew quiet for a while, sipping her wine as the rain slowed outside. The more I saw the utter despair in her every feature, the more I ground my teeth.

I took back what I said about the fucker earlier.

He was anything but good.

I’d only met the prick a couple of times. Once was on the Fourth of July two years ago when I’d spent the weekend with Mia’s family and she’d brought him home. That had been a nightmare weekend for me. I was on thin ice with my coach in Seattle, frustrated by the boundaries they were putting on me, and then I had to go and have a front-row seat to Mia being in love with Austin fucking Westbrook. It was my own personal brand of torture, and I’d drank myself into a stupor because of it.

I’d almost done much worse, but her father had been there to stop me.

I was sure that was part of the reason he wanted to talk to me. He was probably thinking to himself that I was some drug-crazed punk who could steer his little girl off course at any moment.

Or maybe he just wants to check in on you , a soft voice in my brain whispered.

I never listened to that part.

The other time I was in the same place with Austin was after one of Mia’s shows. I’d only stayed long enough to give her a hug and tell her she was amazing before I’d made an excuse about needing to fly back to Seattle for something team related. She hadn’t questioned it, and I’d gotten the hell out of there before I had to witness that punk kissing her.

I couldn’t handle it after seeing it in person on the Fourth. It was bad enough to see it in the tabloids.

“It didn’t happen overnight,” Mia said, her voice softer now. “But slowly, discreetly, our relationship went from passionate and exciting to feeling like I was just living in this numb, performative dance. We smiled and laughed and answered interview questions like we were the perfect couple, but when we were alone, we didn’t talk, we didn’t touch, we didn’t play.”

She shook her head, and I wanted so badly to reach for her that I had to fold my arms over my chest not to do it.

“He acted surprised when I said I wanted to take some space. And then, when he realized I was done… he just wanted control of the narrative. He wanted control of everything.” She sighed, swirling her wine before taking a long drink of it. “And, thanks to his connections, he got it.”

“He doesn’t control you.”

“He controls the public perception of me and our breakup.”

“Bullshit.” I leaned forward, hooking my foot on her barstool. “He may have his little groupies who hang on his every word, and maybe he gets the media to eat out of the palm of his hand sometimes. But I’ve been to your concerts. I’ve seen your fans in action. Trust me, Mia,” I said, covering her wrist with my hand. I waited until she lifted her eyes to mine. “If anyone is writing your story, it’s you.”

She smiled, but it was a sad smile, a pathetic tilt of her lips. “I’m doing a pretty shit job of it.”

“Nah, you’re just in the drafting process,” I assured her. “Like when you used to work on lyrics when we were kids. The best is yet to come in edits. I mean, I think making out with a hockey player on the beach is a pretty great addition.”

I smirked, and she smiled sweetly at me. She kept that sweet smile as she covered my hand that rested on her wrist, twisted out of my grip, and moved so quick it was a tornado of hair.

Then, she had my arm in her grip.

It was a move I’d taught her in high school when I’d felt like she needed to know how to protect herself, and I barked out a laugh when she was standing behind my barstool with my arm angled behind my back and my chest forced down onto the countertop.

“Say uncle,” she teased against the shell of my ear, and although I could have easily escaped her grasp and had her pinned on this countertop, I relented.

“Uncle.”

She wore a victorious smile when she released me, and I spun on my barstool to face her, folding my arms over my chest.

“See?” I said. “You’re not some poor little thing who needs the approval of your ex or his little posse of parasites. You don’t need the media to tell you you’re doing great. You’re Mia Fucking Love.”

I stood, and when I did, my chest brushed against hers, her eyes staying locked on mine until I was towering over her. I tapped her nose with a grin.

“Don’t let them steal your pen when you’re just getting to the good part.”