Page 20 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)

S ince my night with Kit, I’ve been living like I’m on a high—like there’s more air in my lungs, more blood in my veins. Colors seem brighter. Everything feels sharper, more in focus. It makes me feel insane, but it’s like I’m remembering things I’d forgotten.

I’d swear she’d slipped me drugs, if I didn’t know better.

There’s something powerful when someone with trauma like Kit’s decides you are the one they trust to help them move past it. I feel like a different man, now. There are moments in life that change you irrevocably—whether it’s a death, a birth, an illness. For me, it was a witnessing.

I bore witness to her surviving her monster. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. All I wanted was to rage for her—to hop on a plane, fly to Maine, hunt him down, and bury him in the fucking ground.

There are still so many questions I want answers to, but I won’t make her relive any of it just to satisfy me. That’s a torture I’ll live with—knowing that if I ever do get the chance to find that asshole, I’ll make good on my desires.

And then, there was the moment she had the courage to ask me to get myself off for her. It was intimacy unlike anything I’ve ever known. She was so beautiful.

But I can’t help wondering if she’s ever had a full orgasm.

She came— I know she did, because I tasted it on her fingers. But it wasn’t explosive; it was the smallest flicker of release I’ve seen since Jill Swanson and I lost our virginity to each other at fifteen. I barely got Jill there, either—had no idea what I was doing back then.

One day, I hope I get the chance to truly blow Kit’s mind. I’m obsessed with the thought of it. Which makes me feel like an asshole—because while she’s taking baby steps into her sexuality, all I want to do is fuck her until she’s limp and can’t remember anything but my name.

“Hey, Shitbrick! Wake up,” Lottie says, bringing me out of my thoughts.

“Lot,” my mom chastises her. We’re at a restaurant on the waterfront, a nicer establishment, otherwise, Mom wouldn’t care. We all talk like longshoremen at home.

“I’m awake.”

“Just distracted,” Lottie says. “Because of that woman?”

“What woman?” Dad asks.

“His neighbor lady.”

“She has a name,” I say.

“Well, are you going to tell us what it is?” Mom asks.

“Her name is Kit.”

“That’s a cute name,” Mom says.

“She’s not a kid; it’s not a cute name. It’s a pretty name,” Lottie argues. “She isn’t a kid, is she?”

“No, smartass.”

“Well, that’s good,” Dad says, as if it was an option that I’d be dating someone underage.

“Why did I invite you all here anyway?”

“Because you miss the hell out of us,” Lottie says, picking another blueberry out of her pancake. If blueberry pancakes are on the menu, she’ll order them. However, she hates the blueberries being in the pancake. She picks them out one by one and eats them separately.

I don’t ask questions.

“I thought I did,” I say, rolling my eyes at her, then winking.

“Do we get to meet her?” Mom asks.

“She’ll be at the game tonight,” I say, nodding.

“In the family section?” Lottie pops another blueberry in her mouth.

“Yes, with Willa. I think Isla and Sadie will be there, too,” I say, and they all stare at me. When Isla broke it off for good with me, I didn’t take it well. My family saw the worst of it.

“It will be nice to see them again,” my mom says. “Seems weird to meet your new girlfriend with your ex in tow, though.”

“Don’t call her my girlfriend in front of her,” I say. “She’s not comfortable with that whole idea yet.”

“Why?” Lottie asks before I even have the last of my words out.

“She’s new to relationships.” I shrug, playing it off as if it isn’t a big deal. I don’t want her interrogated by my sister, who isn’t the best at reading social cues. Nor do I want my family to scrutinize her all night. “Hasn’t really dated much.”

“But she’s not a kid?”

“No, Dad. She’s a couple of years younger than me, is all.”

“So, my age?”

“Yes, Lot. I think you two will get along great.”

“Does she know I’m neurodivergent?”

“She does, you can be yourself with her.”

“Okay,” Lottie says, biting her bottom lip. She gets nervous about new people, but less so when she knows she doesn’t have to explain her ticks. Her confidence grows all the time, but I long for the day that it doesn’t weigh on her like an anchor.

“We’ll be sure to chat with her at the game,” my dad says.

“And try to pay her less attention than Isla and Sadie,” my mom says.

“It shouldn’t be weird,” I say. “Kit is Willa’s best friend; she’s practically a Cole herself.”

“That’s wonderful,” she says. “But you aren’t exactly versed on the ways of women, so I’ll evaluate the situation myself.”

She smiles at me as if she’s calling me a silly boy.

“Thanks for having my back.”

“Always, Ty. You’re my favorite son, after all.”

“He’s your only son,” Lottie says, brows furrowed.

“Precisely,” Mom says, then takes another bite of her omelet.

They got in early this morning while I was at practice. After feeding them, I’ll get them settled at the hotel before heading home to prepare for tonight’s game—which includes a nap and maybe some video games.

Athletes are all different. Some hyperfocus on an upcoming game.

Others, like me, do better if we don’t think about it until we’re in the arena, suiting up.

I usually arrive an hour or two before call time so I can look at the other team’s updated stats.

Not all players care about that kind of thing.

I do. I like to know who my opponent is and what their strengths are.

The coaches will give us plenty of information beforehand, and on the fly as they relay plays. But I like having something to sink my teeth into and mull over while I’m taping my stick. It’s a ritual for me, and I don’t fuck with my routine.

Mom and Lottie have enough planned for the day to sufficiently drive my dad crazy. If I had to guess, he’ll end up parked at a bar with a beer while the women prowl every inch of Pike Place Market.

By the time I drop them at their hotel, Lottie already has their afternoon fully mapped out—down to where they’ll eat lunch.

She’s food-driven when she travels. Just like me, she wants to try the best or most unique things the area has to offer.

I’m a little bummed I can’t hang out and experience it all with her.

I’ve always loved watching her try new things—whether with exuberance or trepidation.

She doesn’t hide her feelings about anything, and I find it refreshing—her lack of pretense, her refusal to be polite just for politeness’ sake.

It’s one of the reasons I think being a father would be fun—kids are mostly the same way.

Lottie just hasn’t lost that as she’s aged.

There are times when I’m with Kit that I feel like I haven’t lost it, either. Which should be a good thing, but there’s a pit in my stomach telling me I’m going to fuck this up if I’m not careful.

“How many are you missing?”

“Five, now, thanks to last season,” Letty says. “The guys all say their teeth are safe as long as I’m still on the team.” He smiles so I can see the wide gaps.

“Damn, dude. I’ve never even heard of a player missing that many.”

“I am one of a fucking kind,” he says, then puts his flipper in. A lot of guys won’t play while wearing their bridge, for fear of damaging it. But Letty looks like a horror show without it, so I get why he does.

“That’s the fucking truth,” Wallin says. “Poor shithead, don’t know how you’ll ever get a woman.”

“I get more women than you do,” Letty argues. “Not as many as Pretty Boy, here. But more than you. That’s for damn sure.”

“Leave me out of it,” I say. “I’m not after numbers.”

“How did you find a lady friend already? You’ve been here for, like, five minutes?” Wallin asks.

“Landed across the street from her.”

“That’s some fate, right fucking there,” Wallin says.

“He moved across the street from Kit Kat,” Hugo says with a big frown.

“No shit?” Wallin asks.

“Lucky motherfucker,” Hugo mumbles.

“Ah, come on, big guy,” Cillian placates the goalie. “One day, you’ll be a bride.”

“Not likely,” he grumps. “I’m doomed to be a bridesmaid forever.”

“She’s here, by the way,” Zander offers, while looking at his cell phone. “Just got here with Willa and Damian.”

“Thanks,” I say. “She’s meeting my family for the first time and I’m not there to introduce her.”

“Is it fraying your nerves?” Zan asks.

“A little. I don’t want her nerves frayed, you know?”

“I get it. Willa’s good at smoothing things over, though.”

“Yeah, I’m happy they found each other,” I say, lacing up my skate.

It hits me that everyone I care about is under this arena roof.

My parents, sister, Kit, Isla, and Sadie.

All the time Isla and I were acquainted, she didn’t come to watch me play.

In fact, this is the first time since I went pro that a woman I am dating is going to watch me play.

I don’t even know if I should label us with that.

I mean, I’ve yet to really take her out.

But what do I call her instead of the woman I’m dating?

What we shared is much more intimate than any date I could take her on.

It’s too soon to call her a girlfriend, I think. Besides, I hate that moniker. It feels juvenile, and if I’m on that level of commitment with anyone, they’ll be more than a friend. They’ll be a partner.

“I am, too. They’re good for each other,” he says, staring at me. “You in your head about it?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“A little.” He shrugs. “I also know the signs well.”

“She makes me see things differently. I don’t want to fuck it up.”

“She’s your rose-colored glasses,” Hugo says.

“Such a romantic,” Wallin says.

“Fuck you, Axel.”

“It was a compliment, Hugo!”

We’re interrupted by Coach Cole, who lets us know it’s time to take the ice.

When I step out for the puck drop, I get that same sensation—that everything’s sharper, clearer, like the world is moving slower than I am. Anticipating the drop, my stick gets to it before Calgary’s center, and I pass it behind me with ease.

For the entirety of the first period, I play better than I have in the past couple of seasons. Instinctual more than thoughtful. None of Calgary’s players are known for telegraphing their moves, yet I’m reading them like I know their next thought.

It’s fucking bizarre. Scary, even—except that it’s working.

We’re up two-nothing when we leave the ice for intermission.

I’m riding the adrenaline as we hit the locker room.

Usually, I’ll have a cup of coffee. I skip that tonight.

I’m already amped. Instead, I grab some electrolytes and try to relax.

Wylder pulls up a tablet to check the first-period stats. He takes his role as team captain seriously, which makes him the right choice. He’s nothing but encouraging to the guys, even when he’s helping them fix whatever’s stifling their game.

Isla’s the same way. She’s lived and breathed hockey for so long that her eye is unmatched. I’ve always been able to count on her for an honest opinion—about my skating, my shooting, my chemistry with the team. She always had an answer worth hearing.

She and her husband make a good pair. Sadie’s a lucky girl.

The second period is much like the first. We score again when Fane nails the five-hole beautifully. Still, Calgary hasn’t put a point on the board.

When the third starts, they come out with renewed energy. In hockey, when you’re down, you pick fights—either out of frustration or to get the crowd riled up. It’s a common enough tactic, and fights can rally your team. So I’m not surprised they’re chippy right from the puck drop.

Their defenseman, Preston, takes every chance he gets to check me. It’s annoying, but we’re winning, and it’s not worth giving them penalty points just to hit back—a sentiment the coaches drill into us between every shift.

“Learn to skate, fucker. Then you won’t need to lean on me to stay up,” I tell him, shoving him off. He skates away after the puck, but as soon as he gets another chance, he’s right back on me.

The back-and-forth lasts most of the period. If we’re both on the ice, he’s pestering me—or anyone else he can. Mostly me, though.

When Fane swats the puck away from Calgary’s winger and sends it toward Letty, Preston hops over the boards for a shift. He barrels straight toward me just as Letty passes me the puck.

I shoot at the same moment Preston slams into me, my hip bouncing hard off the boards.

I score—and I couldn’t care less—because I’m already driving my elbow into Preston’s chest. Then, all hell breaks loose. Both benches pile in, fists flying, gloves dropping, and the shit talk that’s been building all game turning into open warfare.

It’s fucking glorious.

Not all players enjoy fighting. I’m not one of them. I don’t seek it out, but I’m happy to take the opportunity to put someone in their place—and Preston has been begging for it all damn game. There’s a sick kind of satisfaction when my fist connects with his jaw.

Hockey rules are weird. We leave it on the ice. Tomorrow, Preston and I could grab a beer and be best buddies. But not now. Now, we get it all out of our systems.

Well, not all , in my case. If I unloaded every ounce of frustration, Preston would be nothing more than a bloody pile.

My anger over what Kit went through can’t be burned off in the arena.

Maybe it never will be. I’ll have to live with that—because if Kit has to carry it, she shouldn’t have to carry it alone.

When the scuffle finally breaks apart—thanks mostly to the brave linesmen—I hobble off to have the trainers check my hip. The sting grows as the adrenaline fades. With only a minute and a half left in the game, I’d be spending the rest of it in the sin bin anyway.