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CHAPTER TWENTY

Dozer

“What’s the deal with that chick you brought to Abernathy’s yesterday?” Bouchard asks me as we lace up our skates before taking the ice to warm up before tonight’s game. His locker’s only a few down from mine, and we’ve become friends over the last couple of years we’ve played together. “I’ve seen her around the building, but hadn’t met her before.”

A new guy—Barlowe—on his other side perks up. “You brought a woman to Thanksgiving at the captain’s house?” He lets out a low whistle. “Sounds serious.”

I wave them both off. “It’s not like that. She’s just a friend.”

Barlowe laughs, clearly not buying it, and Bouchard raises his eyebrows.

“Just a friend?” he clarifies.

Nodding, I stand, reaching for my stick. “Just a friend. She helped me out when I needed a jump. Remember? That day you and Jenkins laughed at me when you learned I was stranded?” He guffaws, nodding. “Anyway, she’s new to the area, just moved up here from Texas a few months ago. We hang out sometimes.” That’s an understatement. We hang out a lot. Lately, if I’m not on the road or here, I’m spending time with Marissa. “Since she doesn’t have family here, I invited her along to Abernathy’s. You know Tina’s always happy to take in a few strays. That’s how you got an invite, after all.”

“Me? A stray?” he questions in mock outrage. “I’ll have you know I’m practically one of the family!”

“Uh-huh. Join the club.”

“There’s a club? Do we have membership cards or a secret handshake?”

In answer, I shove his shoulder, though he barely wobbles despite the fact that I caught him by surprise.

He laughs. “That’s a good handshake,” and he does it back.

“Can I join the club?” Barlowe asks, standing and shuffling closer.

Narrowing my eyes, I look him over. “I dunno, man. That’s up to Tina. Well, Abernathy first. He has to decide if he wants you around his family. But Tina’s the one you have to really win over.”

“She’s the final boss, huh?” Barlowe asks.

Bouchard guffaws again. “Something like that.” Turning back to me, he meets my eyes. “But about your friend. She likes hockey?”

“She does now.” Something like pride swells in my chest at that. She’d never been to a hockey game before our opening night, but now I’ve got her decked out in Emeralds gear and attending matches on a regular basis. We’ve spent many evenings watching hockey highlights together so she can ask me questions and I get to explain the finer points of the game. It’s really fun.

Jostling my arm, Bouchard cackles some more. “I bet she does. But you two …” He wiggles a finger at me, letting me fill in the blanks.

Something dark twists in my belly, and my brows pull together. “I told you. She’s just a friend. I’m not dating anyone right now.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I decided to shoot my shot?”

My breath seems to freeze in my lungs, a band constricting around my chest making it impossible to breathe at all. “Sure. If you want,” I manage to choke out at last.

Bouchard doesn’t seem to notice my sudden inability to breathe or speak normally, though Barlowe gives me a curious look.

Coughing, I pound my chest with my fist and shake my head. “Sorry. Breathed in some spit.”

“Don’t do that out on the ice, man,” Bouchard quips, clapping me on the shoulder before heading for the ice.

Barlowe gives me a look, eyebrows raised. But I just return his stare with a deadpan one of my own. With a shrug, he turns and leaves as well, and I follow behind them.

Let Bouchard shoot his shot with Marissa, I tell myself. It’s not like she’ll say yes. She’s not dating right now either, remember?

But the thought of him asking, and worse, of her maybe saying yes has my breakfast curdling in my stomach.

It’s unfair. I know it. I have no claim on her. And if someone else wants to date her, I have no right to stand in the way. But the idea of her dating one of my teammates is galling. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

I wait for days that stretch into a week, and then another, and still Marissa’s made no mention of Bouchard asking her out. Did he get her number at Thanksgiving when I wasn’t paying attention? Because I’m not sure how he’d ask her out otherwise. And if he didn’t, why bother asking me if I’d mind if he did?

But the fucker hasn’t said anything else—not to me, anyway, and from Marissa’s silence on the subject, not to her either.

Part of me wonders if he has asked her and she just doesn’t want to tell me. Because she’s worried I’ll get mad or something. But why would I get mad? We’re friends. We’re not dating. She has every right to date whoever she wants.

I just don’t want her to date my fucking teammate .

And I’ll be honest, at least with myself, I don’t really want to hear about her dating anyone else, either.

Nor do I want to examine the reasons for those feelings or the deeper meaning behind them.

Christmas is only a couple of weeks away at this point, and I’ve been on the road most of the last week. Coming home and collapsing is top of mind, and if Marissa’s up for hanging out and watching a movie or something, so much the better.

Sure, I could do that on my own. But that holds little appeal right now.

I shoot her a text after climbing into my car, and see her response when I park my car at my place.

Marissa

I’ve got a six pack of pilsner I bought today from a local brewery. I’ll bring the beer and some snacks. You pick the movie

My smile is irrepressible as I climb out of my car, sending a quick reply.

Be at my place in 10

Make it 20. Gotta get the snacks together!

Grinning like a fool, I make my way inside, no longer in a hurry. When I get in the elevator, my finger hovers over the button for her floor for just a second, but I rein in the impulse and hit the button for my floor instead.

What would she do if I showed up when we agreed she’d come to my place? Plus, I’ve got my bag with me, banging against my leg. What would I do at her place anyway?

Wrap her in my arms, bury my face in her hair and breathe in her scent, then tip her head back and ? —

I cut that thought off with a harsh jerk of my head. Marissa’s my friend. Just my friend. I’m not supposed to be thinking about kissing her.

And why this sudden desire to do that? Is it just because Bouchard’s interest makes me jealous? Worried she’ll start dating him and spend less time with me?

What kind of an asshole does that make me?

Is it really all that sudden, though?

Fucking hell, that thought isn’t any more helpful than the others.

The elevator door slides open, and I stride to my front door, grateful for the minor distraction of movement and fitting my key into the lock and unpacking—which mainly consists of dumping dirty clothes in the laundry room and setting my toiletries case on my counter. I’ll get the rest out tonight when I’m getting ready for bed.

Antsy—because I know Marissa’s going to be here soon—I stand in my living room and turn on the TV, scrolling through the movie offerings on the various streaming services I use. What will Marissa be in the mood for? Sure, she told me to pick, but I don’t want to pick something she’ll hate.

We could go with something classic and sports related like Miracle . Would she have seen that before? It’s a great film with everything I need to be happy—it’s inspirational, and it’s about hockey. Who could ask for more than that?

I click into it and pull up the trailer. I’ll let her watch that and make the final call. Movie chosen, as much as I can without her at least, I head to the kitchen and fuss with glasses and plates. She said she’s bringing snacks but didn’t say what kind. Every time she’s brought food before, it’s been something different, so I don’t know what to expect.

Soon—but not soon enough for my liking—there’s a knock at the door, and I open it to find a grinning Marissa holding a large bowl of popcorn, a six pack of bottled beer dangling from her hand, and a Tupperware container tucked under her arm.

“Hey!” she says, stepping inside as I move out of the way and hold the door for her. Adding, “Oh! Thank you,” as I reach for the popcorn and beer. “You said movie, so I figured popcorn was a must. And I made cookies the other day, so I brought some of those as well.”

My eyebrows raise. “Cookies? What kind?”

“Chocolate chip, of course,” she says like it should be the most obvious answer in the world. “Why would anyone make anything different?”

That makes me laugh. “I mean, sometimes people like other cookies.”

She makes a derisive sound, setting the Tupperware on the coffee table and opening it. “Sometimes people are psychopaths.” She picks up a cookie. “That doesn’t mean we have to pretend they’re sane.” And on that definitive declaration, she takes a bite, her tongue peeking out to collect a couple of stray crumbs, her eyes closing in pleasure, and the desire from earlier that I’d successfully ignored slams into me so hard I almost choke on it.

Tearing my eyes away from her, I focus on setting the beer and popcorn on the table next to the container of cookies. When I straighten, she’s opened her eyes again and is facing the TV.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“Oh, right. Have you seen Miracle ? I was thinking we could watch that. I’ve got the trailer queued up if you want to see what it’s about first.”

“Ohhh, isn’t that the one about the US hockey team at the Olympics?”

“Yeah.” Picking up the remote, I hit play on the trailer. “It’s about the 1980 Winter Olympics. It was the first time the US won gold for hockey in twenty years.”

“Okay. I’m sold,” she says before the trailer’s even really started.

Chuckling, I point at the TV. “You don’t want to watch the trailer?”

“Nah. I never saw this, and I like sports movies. Plus, it’s hockey, which is a new interest of mine.” She flashes me a grin before grabbing a beer out of the six pack and settling on the couch. “Can you grab me the bottle opener?”

“Sure thing.” I head to the kitchen and grab the green magnetic bottle opener bearing the Emeralds logo off my fridge. Marissa presented it to me as a reverse housewarming gift the third or fourth time she came over because I was just opening our bottles on the kitchen counter. She was horrified, worried I’d mess up the counters, so she brought the bottle opener the next time. “I got it at the merch shop at the game,” she told me when she gave it to me the day she brought it over.

Every time I look at the stupid thing, I get a dopey smile on my face, and this time is no different. Maybe it’s ridiculous to be so touched by such a tiny, silly thing, but I can’t think of the last time that a woman who wasn’t related to me surprised me with a thoughtful gift, however small. And it was just because. No holiday, no occasion, no celebration of achievement. Just that she saw it, thought of me, and then bought it and gave it to me.

Casting back over my relationship history, I search for someone—anyone—who’s done the same, but I come up empty. Since I got drafted and called up to the pros, all the women I’ve spent time with have expected random gifts from me, but I can’t think of a single one who reciprocated. Apparently sleeping with me and giving me blowjobs was supposed to be enough.

And at first, I was okay with it. Kinda.

Except I’ve always wanted a real relationship. Something where we give equal effort. A partner.

That’s apparently harder to find than I grew up believing, though.

“Dozer?” comes Marissa’s voice from the couch. I glance up to see her craning around to look at me, concern creasing her forehead. “Everything okay?” I realize I’ve been staring at the bottle opener in my hand for way too long, and I flash her a smile.

“Yeah. Sorry. Just figuring out why this thing is sticky.” It’s not sticky at all, but I make a show of running it under the faucet and drying it off.

She chuckles. “Been having wild parties up here without me?”

“Ha. Something like that.” If by something like that I mean nothing like that at all. Crossing the space to the couch, I present the bottle opener to her with a flourish. “Your beverage key, my lady.”

She tries to stifle a laugh, and it comes out almost like a snort, which cracks me up. She’s so cute, even when she’s trying not to be. “My beverage key?” she wheezes.

Flopping onto the couch next to her, I offer a shrug and a lopsided smile. “I mean, kinda? If the top is like a lock, this is what opens it.” I gesture at the bottle opener in her hand. “Like you use a key to unlock something.”

Her head tilts to the side as she turns the bottle opener over in her hand, then she shrugs and deftly uses it to open her beer bottle, taking a pull as she leans forward to deposit the now-bent lid on the coffee table. She waggles the bottle opener at me. “You need it?”

“Since you’ll mock me for being uncivilized if I don’t use it, yeah.” She giggles as she hands me the opener, and I open my own beer, holding it out to clink against hers.

“What are we toasting?” she asks, hesitating.

“To being home. To relaxing. To good company and a good movie.”

She clinks her bottle against mine. “I’ll drink to that.”

I wait for her to settle into the couch, placing the bowl of popcorn between us so we can both reach it easily before starting the movie.

About halfway through the movie, the popcorn’s gone, only a few cookies are left, we’ve each had two beers, and Marissa’s lying down, her feet in my lap, my hand resting comfortably on her shin.

At one point she jiggles her leg, sitting up to scratch right by where my hand is. When I give her a quizzical look, she offers an apologetic smile. “You were tickling me.”

“I was?” I frown at my hand, wondering how that’s possible.

“Yeah. Your thumb was moving back and forth, but it’s so light through my pants that it tickled.”

“Oh, uh—” I jerk my hand away from her leg. “Sorry about that.”

She waves me off, adjusting her position, sitting up and tucking her legs around on her other side. “No need to apologize. I know you weren’t doing it on purpose.”

Not only that, I didn’t even realize I was caressing her leg with my thumb. And now she’s unwilling to even have her legs near me. I’m doing my best not to telegraph my embarrassment, though, because she’s acting like it’s not a big deal. Like her decision to adjust position is more for her own comfort than because my hand on her leg bothered her. God, I hope she doesn’t think I’m a creeper now. That’s the last thing I want.

I glance at her, lingering on the delicate curves of her nose, cheeks, and lips.

She seems to feel my eyes on her because she looks at me, meeting my eyes, one of her eyebrows gently lifting in question.

I only offer a smile in response, tearing my gaze from her and refocusing on the TV. It’s at the part where the captain reintroduces himself as playing for the United States instead of his regular team, and I don’t want her to miss it.

I don’t want her to miss any of the things she wants to experience, whether it’s with me, or if it’s with someone like Bouchard. She deserves that. She deserves someone who can make her happy. Someone who’s ready to treat her like the amazing woman that she is. And I’m so twisted up, I doubt that someone can be me.