Page 35

THE SAbrINA ZONE

Tyler

It’s not my place to tell her what to do. It’s definitely not my place.

I repeat that over and over all day long.

Two nights later, I’m back on the ice, and frustration chases me as I slam an opponent into the boards, playing rough, aggressive—because fuck anyone who gets in my way.

Like Chicago’s center, barreling down the ice. Not on my watch.

But I get tangled up in a battle along the boards. Before I know it, I’m called out on a penalty.

Miles tugs me away from the Chicago player. “Chill, man,” he says. My brother hardly ever loses his cool.

I mutter a curse and skate toward the box, jaw tight as I sit and stew. Chilling feels impossible. I should be getting my head on straight. Instead, the idea of Sabrina dating is lodging deeper in my skull.

By the time I’m back on the ice, we’re down by one. And I play like an asshole. A few minutes later, Miles is yanking me away again, telling me to chill again. And I’m back in the box. Again.

Chicago scores on the power play. Serves me right. But this screws the team. By the third period, we’re scrambling.

But the worst part?

We lose, and as I skate off the ice, when I should be thinking about the game and what to do differently next time—I’m still mulling over Sabrina’s love life.

I look up toward the family suite, forcing myself to wave at my kids, to blow them a kiss, to make a heart sign. It makes me feel better. They always do.

Luna waves right back at me, making a heart too. Sabrina’s with them, though, and I’m right back in the Sabrina zone.

Even though I remind myself—it’s not my place to feel anything for her. It’s not my place to tell her what to do.

In the locker room, I yank off my shoulder pads with a certain amount of fury.

Images of her going out on her off nights, laughing as some guy picks her up at the door of my house , smiling, kissing him as he brings her back after the date to my home —are gnawing at me relentlessly.

Why didn’t I think of this before?

I toss my gear into the stall, then chuck my uniform into the laundry bin.

Rowan glances at me. “Pissed much?”

“Too much,” I admit.

“I guess it’s a good thing the kids are coming with me tonight,” he says. Since it’s a Friday, and our daughters are friends, he’s taking everyone home for a sleepover. He also has his sister’s son for the evening, so Parker’s tagging along too.

Probably for the best .

I shouldn’t be around anyone tonight—not with this dragon of jealousy breathing fire down my neck.

But when I leave the locker room, Miles tugs me aside before I can say goodnight to the kids. “Hey,” he says, in that calm, take-charge voice he’s used since our deadbeat dad took off with barely a word. It reassured me as a kid. Right now, though, I’m in no mood. For anything.

“What is it?” I bite out.

He sets a hand on my shoulder and looks me straight in the eyes. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I mutter.

“You didn’t play like yourself,” he says, and that’s the thing about my brother. He won’t let things slide.

I breathe out hard through my nostrils.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I mutter.

Miles stares at me like he can see through my lies. “Is it Sabrina?”

What the fuck? I practically jump away from him. “Are you a psychic?”

“Just your older brother.”

I try to let go of my irritation. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You do that,” he says, then nods down the hall toward Leighton, who’s waiting for him. “I’m going to take Leighton out. Need a ride?”

The last thing I need is to be near happy people. “I’m good.”

He takes off, and I head down the corridor to say goodnight to the kids. I find them hanging out with Rowan already, while Sabrina chats with Isla, Josie, and Everly several feet down the hall, all turned away from me.

Sabrina’s blonde hair is loose, shiny against her pink sweater.

Will she wear that sweater on a date ?

I clench my fists.

“Let’s get you on the apps,” Josie says, tapping Sabrina’s arm, and I dig my fingers into my palms. “We can write you an amazing profile.”

“And Isla can help you weed through everyone,” Everly says, clearly excited by this idea. Then she looks to Isla. “Or did you want to matchmake her?”

Bad idea.

Sabrina laughs. “I don’t think I could afford you,” she adds lightly, while I breathe in harshly.

“I am very exclusive. But you know I’ll help you for free. Do you want that?” Isla asks, earnestly.

“Yes, tell us what we can do for you,” Everly adds.

Sabrina shrugs lightly, but her voice is upbeat. “I think the apps are probably fine.”

Fuck me. She’s into this. My muscles are as tight as a steel cable.

“I’m totally going to help you,” Isla announces. “I’m screening all your matches, and I’m giving you all the tips. I mean, I am a dating coach.”

Sabrina laughs.

But I don’t.

Because if I thought I was pissed off before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. I am not good at all. I’m going to blow a fuse.

I barely manage a quick goodnight to my kids before I storm out of the arena.

I drive home faster than I should, more aggressively than I’m supposed to—the way I’d never drive with my kids in the car. The way I shouldn’t drive.

I slam on the brakes at a red light, pissed and seething.

She’s going to date.

She’s going to date, and I’ll have to see it .

She’s going to date, and some other guy gets to romance her.

Worse.

Some other guy gets to give her all the things she asked me to give her on her wedding night.

I hate him with the fury of a thousand fiery hells.

When I reach the foyer, I kick off my shoes, strip off my tie, then pace along the first floor like a caged lion because I can’t fucking stand this jealousy clawing at me.

I don’t even go up to my room to change out of my suit. I’m too wound up.

I have to do something.

I have to find out what her plan is—so at least I can learn how to handle it.

I need to understand what she’s going to do so I can live with it.

The second the garage door rumbles, signaling she’s home too, I march to the top of the stairs to head her off before she can duck into her apartment for the night.

Once the door creaks open, I call out, “Do you want to watch a TV show?”

I’ve never asked her that before. But it’s a casual pretext. A way to find out more.

“Sure,” she says from the bottom of the stairs, a little tentative. “Let me just put my things down.”

“Good idea,” I say as nicely as I can, since I don’t want to lose this opening.

I beeline for the kitchen, toss my jacket onto a stool and yank off the tie. After I grab a bag of popcorn from the pantry, I dump the sea salt air-popped contents into a bowl.

There. That’s nice, right? I can be nice as I hunt for answers.

I bring it to the couch, set it on the table. A minute later, she pads into the living room in that pink sweater, with black leggings now and fuzzy socks.

Fuck, even her socks are cute.

White with pink hearts.

“What do you want to watch?” she asks curiously as she sits down, like she’s still trying to figure me out.

Join the club.

I grab the clicker, tune into Webflix, and hunt through shows on the main menu, trying my damnedest to ignore how pretty she smells.

Like orange blossoms and something clean.

Her shampoo, maybe?

Her lotion?

It’s flowery, and it’s scrambling my brain.

I can’t focus on the menu on the screen, so I hit something—I don’t even know what. As the credits roll on The Dating Games , I figure this will be the perfect show to ask her what’s next.

We’re silent during the opening scene.

It’s awkward since the two assistants who work together are walking on eggshells around each other at the office after hooking up the night before.

Then it’s even more tense when the woman meets her friends for coffee, and they ask if she’s going to see the guy again, and she hems and haws.

I grab a handful of popcorn and crunch down hard.

Sabrina reaches for some too and stares straight ahead.

We chew.

I stew.

One dating scene rolls into the next, and I can barely take it another second. And once the characters walk down the streets of New York City, gabbing about their worst swipe-right experiences, I snap my gaze to her, frustration boiling over .

“So, are you?” I ask, breaking the silence.

Sabrina looks at me, seeming confused, a cute little furrow digging into her brow, and I just want to touch it and kiss it.

And I’m so pissed that I feel this way as she asks, “Am I what?”

I hesitate, trying not to let annoyance and jealousy own me, as I say as calmly as I can, “Dating. Are you on the apps? Are you already seeing someone?”

But it doesn’t come out evenly at all. It comes out full of unchecked irritation. Bursting with green-eyed jealousy.

Her face tightens, but she’s not mean. She’s never mean, even as she folds her arms over her chest and looks away. “Why do you care?”

“Because I should know.”

She jerks her head toward me. “Because you’re my boss?”

Sure, let’s go with that. “Yeah.”

Her jaw tightens. Her eyes narrow. And I said she wasn’t mean, but I didn’t say she wasn’t fierce, since she levels me with a ferocious stare and says, “That’s none of your business.”

The fuck it isn’t.

“It is my business,” I counter, my tone sharper than I’d intended. “If you’re seeing someone, it could affect your job here, and?—”

Her lips part angrily. “And what? A guy might stop by? You don’t get to tell me who to date, Tyler.” She shakes her head, the fumes of rage billowing off her as she pops up with a tight and crystal-clear, “Good night.”

She heads downstairs, shutting the door behind her with a loud and irritated click.

Nope. That won’t do. That won’t do at all.

I’m up and following her in no time.

Banging on the door .

Vision narrowed.

Focus tunneled.

Barely thinking of anything but…

She swings it open, tilts her head, holds her ground with a cool, “Yes?”

She’s hurt. I’ve upset her. I’ve been a dick when all I want is to be good to her.

That’s all I want.

I breathe out, letting go of two days of jealousy. “I don’t want you to date anyone. I don’t want you to see anyone. Because all those things you asked me for on your wedding night?”

She barely blinks. Just waits, stony-faced.

“I can’t stop thinking about them. I haven’t once stopped thinking about them.

I replay your words to myself every night.

” Like the fact that she’s never had an orgasm with another person.

“I wish I could have said yes then. And I can’t stand that another guy might be the one to show you everything you said you were missing. ”

“Tyler,” she says, like she’s exhausted, like she just can’t handle my going down this road again then backing up.

But that’s the thing. I can’t stand that possibility either. I forge ahead. “I’m sorry I was a dick tonight. But no one else deserves you. And I want to be the one to show you,” I say, my voice raw and honest. I hold her gaze. “Let me. Please just fucking let me.”

I’m begging, and I am not above it at all.

She blows out a breath, lifts a skeptical brow. “What about the whole pretend-it-didn’t-happen thing?”

I shrug, holding out my hands. “I can’t. I can’t pretend. I’ve never been able to pretend.”

“You’re my boss,” she says, but her voice is softening now, less wary.

I don’t want to pressure her, but I can’t resist her. I take a step closer. “You don’t need to go out with someone else. You don’t need to ‘meet so-and-so.’ You already said it, Sabrina. The night of your wedding. That you wanted to lose your real virginity with me. Do all the things with me.”

Her breath hitches, and I hold mine.

Hoping for her yes.

The silence between us is thick, charged. It’s out there now, impossible to take back.

She steps past the doorway, a couple inches into the hall, her blue eyes fierce.

She grabs my shirt collar. “Then make it worth my while.”