twenty-seven

Elsy

After Wyatt’s panic attack, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would he draw into himself, hiding away in shame? Would he try to fuck out the lingering adrenaline?

Instead, he seems content to hold me. He’s not distant, just quiet. For the first time since we started sharing a bed, he hasn’t made any attempt to get me naked. We lie in the bed with his arm around me, my head on his chest, and he plays idly with my ponytail. It’s nice, but I wish I could find a way to comfort him the way he’s done for me. Hopefully, he’ll be able to tell me what triggered him.

When I wake up, he’s gone, the bed beside me cool. A note sits on the kitchen counter— went for a run . At least he’s coming back. Guess he’s retreating, then.

After a quick shower, I’m pulling out ingredients for breakfast when the front door opens. Wyatt is sweaty, shirtless, and disheveled, a takeout bag in his hand.

“Morning,” he says, his voice a little less exuberant than usual as he kisses my cheek. “Sleep well?”

Okay. So we’re ignoring it.

“Yeah. You?”

He sighs. “Not great.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I had some thoughts.” He waves a hand in the air. “I still need to stew on it a little, but once I’m ready, we’ll talk it out. Does that work?”

Slowly, I nod. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“It came out of nowhere. It’s usually isolated to hockey.” Sighing, he runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “I booked an appointment with my therapist, and I’ll probably have to start carrying my rescue meds with me. It…” He swallows, his eyes meeting mine, the stormy blue conflicted. “It scared me. To lose control like that.”

I wrap my arms around his waist. My heart clenches in my chest and tears sting in my eyes. I wish I could take away his pain, but it doesn’t work that way.

“I’m all sweaty,” he says, keeping me at a distance.

“I don’t care.” Pulling him close, I tighten my grip. “I’m here for you. Whatever you need. I’m glad you’re reaching out to your support network.”

He rubs at his chest, like that will make the pain go away. “I don’t like feeling this way.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s not a good feeling. I’ve been where you are, and you’ve helped me through it. I want to do the same for you.”

“You are.” He presses a soft kiss to my lips. “You really are, and I appreciate you. So much. I don’t have the words.”

I rest my cheek on his sweaty chest, the hair there tickling my skin. The steady thump, thump of his heartbeat soothes my concern. He’s not anxious right now. He’s capable of rational thought.

And when he wasn’t, he sought me out. He tried to handle it on his own, realized he needed help, and did what he needed to do. On top of that, he’s already reached out for additional support.

“I’m so proud of you,” I murmur into his chest, tears stinging my eyes. “You experienced something scary and you’re not letting it drag you down, you’re taking care of yourself.”

He makes a noise of assent. “It’s hard. I couldn’t do it without you.”

“Yes, you can.” Looking up at him, I wait until he meets my eyes, holding his gaze. “You can. You are entirely capable of taking care of yourself. You’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again. It’s hard to recognize that inner strength, but you are strong and capable. I believe in you.”

He swallows loudly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For believing in me. For encouraging me.” He cups my cheek. “I lo?—”

Wyatt stops, cutting himself off.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “I really value you,” he finally says. “I’m very glad you’re in my life.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

* * *

The arena is already packed by the time I get there. The players are still on the ice for warm-up, so as I hurry to what’s become my seat behind the bench, I try to swallow my nerves. I’ve been wearing a generic Austin Aces sweatshirt for each game, but I always, always wear Mitch’s jersey. First with Seattle, then Calgary, and now in New Orleans, he sends me a jersey and I wear it the one or two times a year I get to see him.

But I’ve never been dating a player on the opposing team before.

Wyatt hasn’t offered to give me his jersey. If it were any other guy, I’d wonder if there were doubts as to our relationship, but the way he interacts with me around his teammates, not hiding or ashamed of me, I think he’s waiting for me to make the first move. He’s giving me space to decide if I’m in this, like he promised, but I think it’s pretty well established that we’re together by now.

Next game. Once Mitch is gone and I don’t have to split my allegiance, I’ll ask Wyatt for a jersey. I want to proclaim to the world that I’m his.

Tonight, though, I want them both to win. Technically, that can’t happen; one team will walk away the victor. As much as I want Mitch to do well, I want Wyatt to win. All the time. Every game. I’ll gladly comfort him after a loss and I’ll cheer with him for each win, but I’d rather there be more good times than bad.

On the ice, the players are skating in circles to get their legs going, stick handling or trying to shoot on Rempel. The guy in the navy-and-gold Whitney jersey—my guy—has his back to me as he stretches and warms up his hips. I feel no guilt whatsoever as I check him out, his ass on display as he flexes his adductor. Fuck, I wonder what it will be like when he finally fucks me, my fingers digging into his rock-hard ass as he pounds into me.

Heat flares through me, and I fan my face. I can’t help it; my boyfriend is fucking hot. We’re still fooling around, but I think—I think I’m ready. He stood his ground with Mitch, putting our relationship first. If I can’t trust him after that, I don’t think I ever will.

I want to trust him. I need to trust him. Otherwise, what are we doing? Why should I keep dating someone I can’t rely on not to break my heart?

Wyatt gets to his feet, skating in a circle around his half of the rink. His eyes rove over the crowd, taking it all in. I do the same before every performance, that little holy fuck, this is really happening surprising me every single time.

Our eyes lock, and I grin at him, waving happily.

Wyatt stops in his tracks, another player nearly slamming into him.

Oh, no. Is something wrong? He’s motionless, his face hard.

Should I not be here?

A murderous look crosses over his face before he skates to the gate door.

“What are you wearing?” he yells.

People are staring now, trying to figure out who he’s talking to, but there’s no doubt in my mind this is between us. Because of me.

My stomach sinks. I turn my back, showing the Mitchell nameplate on my back.

“Take it off,” he shouts, his face red.

I open my mouth.

“Take his fucking name off your back,” Wyatt yells.

Before I can blink, he’s stripping off his own jersey and balling it up into his fist.

A stilted cheer ripples through the crowd. He doesn’t wear a guard under his shirt, just his pads, and his muscular chest and abs are on display for fifty thousand people as my boyfriend glares at me.

My hands shake as I pull off Mitch’s jersey. I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt underneath as I crumple the New Orleans jersey into my bag.

Hands on my hips, I glare at Wyatt. “Happy now?” I demand.

He leans over the gate, tossing his jersey over the glass. I snatch it out of the air before anyone else can get to it.

“Put it on, Elsy,” he shouts. “Show everyone who you belong to.”

Fuck . Everything in me liquefies as I pull on his sweaty jersey. Bringing the collar to my nose, I inhale his scent, his soap and sweat and musk combining to make me throb.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his eyes locked on mine. “Not his.”

I shake my head. “Not his. Only yours.”

He looks me over, a satisfied smirk on his lips. “Don’t forget that.”

I won’t. Not anytime soon.

Jabari, the trainer, thrusts a new jersey into Wyatt’s arms. I can’t hear what he says, but it’s probably something like get dressed and stop making an ass out of yourself , because Wyatt pulls it over his head.

His teammates are laughing, and I spot Henry waving up at me, a smirk on his face. Mitch is on the other side of the ice, shaking his head and smiling. The crowd doesn’t know how to react.

And fuck, neither do I. I didn’t think I’d like the caveman possessive thing, but I can’t deny it was hot as fuck.

Now I have to figure out a way to recreate that in the bedroom. If my boyfriend doesn’t fuck me soon, I’m going to spontaneously combust.