Page 37

THIRTY-SEVEN

Jethro

Clay goes still. But I know him well and sense the panic flaring behind his facade. His vibe reads trapped animal.

“We were teammates,” I offer. “And roommates for a short time. But not every friendship survives a season with the Busker Brutes and a cramped apartment.”

“ Huh ,” says the psychologist.

Clay clenches his jaw. He’s still scrolling through the photos which are, thankfully, mostly of Fuckson’s stupid friends.

At the end of the gallery, another shot of us rolls into view. I don’t remember this moment, either. We’re at the rink, wearing practice gear and standing in the dressing room. I’m smirking, like maybe I just chirped another player and made the other guys laugh.

As incriminating evidence, the photo wouldn’t turn heads except for one thing. Clay’s expression in the pic stops my heart. He’s watching me with naked adoration. Like he’s never met anyone as perfect as me.

I can’t look away. I’ve never seen any photos of us together. Honestly, the look on his face is hard for me to process. Although Clay has been very clear with me, until this very second, I don’t think I believed him. Not all the way down to my gut.

Now I’m staring at the evidence. If love had a face, it’s the one he’s wearing. It shouldn’t shock me, but it does. At twenty-two, I clearly wasn’t ready. Nobody had ever loved me before—not selflessly—and I hadn’t loved anyone, either.

I didn’t know what it felt like to fall for someone. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. And Clay’s love scared the hell out of me.

It’s all so obvious now. I let myself believe that I couldn’t date a guy, because that was easier than facing a scary new thing.

I look up at Clay at the same time he looks up at me. Our gazes clash for one potent second, before he looks away. He bends down and kills the tab, then snaps the laptop shut. He hands it to Tate. “Thanks for showing me this.”

“Sure thing,” the publicist says, snagging a pretzel. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Right,” Clay says quietly.

Doc Baker looks between us, a question in his eyes. But he follows Tate out of the room, leaving me alone with Clay.

As soon as the door closes, Clay drops into a chair, a dazed look on his face.

I sit down opposite him and wait for him to speak. But he doesn’t. “Clay, are you seriously freaking out?”

He sighs. “No.”

I’m not convinced. I push the pretzels toward him. “Here, taste these. Toby insisted I bring them to you. He’s proud of them.”

Clay looks at the tin like he’s never seen it before. He takes a pretzel and bites it. “All right. Good work, team. Although it’s not really baking.”

“Oh, please ,” I complain. “Even this was a challenge for me. It took me a minute to figure out that we needed to chill them on wax paper. The first batch is permanently glued to one of our plates. And it was super messy. There was chocolate, like, all over my body.”

Clay’s eyes heat. “Jethro.”

“It’s a literal fact. You’re the one who made it weird.”

He rubs his forehead. “Tell Toby the pretzels are great. But you could have called me. I promised him I’d help out with the next bake sale.”

“Seriously?” I flop back in the chair and look at the ceiling. “I couldn’t call you. I wasn’t going to put us in that position. You’d feed me dinner again, and then I’d hump your leg like a horny animal.”

“ Jetty .” He takes another bite and shakes his head. “Yeah. Fine. I get it.”

“Do you?” I press. “Did you know I also called the travel department and told them I prefer hotel rooms on lower floors?”

He squints at me. “Why?”

“So we don’t end up in bed together!” Jesus . “Don’t be dense. You told me you needed distance, so I’m giving you distance. All the distance, Clay. There ought to be a championship I could win. Because you’re not the only guy who has a lot of distractions. I fucking dream about you.”

He stops chewing. “You do?”

“Of fucking course!” It comes out shouty. “I know I’m some kind of late bloomer, and I already fucked up my chance with you. But I’m coping, okay? I want to win you a damn Cup, too, so you can have what you really want in life. I don’t get why you’re freaking out about an old photograph. There’s no scandal. There’s no us to terrify anyone. So calm your tits already.”

He stares at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You seriously told travel you like the second floor, so we never end up in adjoining rooms?”

“Well, yeah.” I shrug. “Because if we did, I’d be knocking on your door again, looking for a loophole. I’d be dragging you over to the bed and tying you to the headboard.”

He swallows roughly, and his Adam’s apple bobs.

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “That would be a terrible idea, because you’d just run from me in the morning, and we’d start this whole pain loop over again, am I right?”

Those clear eyes edge away from me. “Probably.”

“Yeah, I thought so. But that brings me around to a very important point. For the love of God, don’t give Duckson any power over your headspace. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s just a smack talker. He doesn’t actually know we were once a thing. And now we’re not a thing, no matter how many dirty dreams I have about you, or how often I wonder what it would be like to be your dishwasher in chief again. So. Why. Are. You. Worrying?”

He props his head in one hand. “You make a few good points. It’s just…” He trails off. “I don’t spend a lot of time second-guessing my job or the decisions I make in this building. But lately I spend a lot of time second-guessing my personal life.”

I study his frown, wishing I could kiss it away. I know my strengths, and I’m better in bed than I am at discussing the heavy shit. “Are you second-guessing your whole life because I showed up in it? Or is it because Newgate came out? Or is it because you’re almost forty, and you’re having a midlife crisis?”

“All of the above?” He eats another pretzel.

“So you’re having a difficult year. Aren’t we all.” I kick him under the table. “But screw Fuckson and all his stupid pictures. He played, what, three NHL games before he got bounced back to the minors?”

“Did he?” Clay asks distractedly.

“Yeah. But that’s my point—every guy in those photos left hockey a decade ago. They’re still dining out on their old war stories, because that’s all they’ve got. You have a big career and a team that could win you a championship ring. You can’t get all up in your head over Duckson, because, as I reminded you earlier, you gave me the worst hard time about reacting the same way to him fifteen years ago.”

The corner of Clay’s mouth tips up for the first time. “Fuck me, I did, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. And secondly, if you don’t do the crime, you shouldn’t do the time. If you let him get to you, then my sacrifices here count for nothing.” I spread my arms apart and flex. Ridiculously. “This is what you’re missing. So there better be a good fucking reason.”

“God, will you stop?” He gives me an exasperated glance and swats across the table at me. “I get it. Point made.”

I do another ridiculous flex because the room’s sole window looks out on the running loop, where exactly nobody is standing. “You gonna calm down now?”

“Yes,” he says grudgingly.

I push back my chair and get up. “Good. I gotta go do some squats, so I can out-lift the youngsters who want me to retire. And also, so I can look good naked.”

Okay, maybe that last comment was a little over the top. But on my way out the door, Clay gives me a hungry look that makes it all worth it.

If I have to suffer, so does he.