Page 26 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)

“Hi,” I say, a little dazed from the searing kiss—something I’m still not used to. Hopefully, I never am. I’d like it to always be this exciting and fun. “I feel like a teenager every time you kiss me. Like I want to pull you to the couch and have a make-out session.”

“If we weren’t on a timeline, I’d happily indulge you. But we are, so your insatiable libido is going to have to wait,” he says. “Do you have a coat? You’ll probably want one for part of the night.”

“Is insatiable bad?” I ask honestly, moving to grab my long teddy coat. It’s a bit ridiculous and over the top, but it’s like wearing a hug—and who doesn’t need that from time to time?

“Your best friends are with hockey players. You have to know insatiable is the best thing,” he says, taking my coat and helping me into it. “This is great—it’s like a Snuggie. If it goes missing, don’t come looking for it at my house.”

“Have you ever dressed in drag?” I ask as he loads me into the passenger seat.

“I was Lady Gaga once for Halloween,” he says as he settles in the driver’s seat.

“You were? Do you have pictures?”

“Yeah, a few years back, I copied her little hooded red hot suit,” he says, pulling his phone out of the center console and handing it to me. “Look through the pictures—it’s on there somewhere.”

I’m awestruck that he so easily hands me his phone to pilfer through.

It’s surprisingly well organized, every app in a neat folder.

When I click on Photos, those are all sorted into folders, as well.

I scroll past family , promo , ice time , almost pausing on one titled Isla and Sadie .

But I think better of that—besides, I wasn’t invited to look through everything.

Not explicitly, anyway. Eventually, I get to one called holidays .

Sure enough, there are several photos of him hamming it up in a red bodysuit with fishnet stockings stretched to an inch of their life over his huge thighs.

“You look good as a woman.”

“I appreciate that,” he says with a laugh. “It also made me appreciate all the shit you women do on a daily basis, because nothing I had on was comfortable. At all.”

Flipping through a few more shots, I land on one that looks like he’s mid-twerk.

“This one is hot as hell, Tyson. Kind of flooding my basement right now.”

“Oh my fucking God,” he says around a cackle. “How the hell do you simultaneously crack me up and make my dick hard?”

“Men get something like a dozen erections in a day. I don’t think I’m accomplishing much,” I say, pausing on a picture of Lottie dressed up as Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

“I assure you, that’s not accurate data, in my case.”

“More or less?”

“Less. Definitely less. Can you imagine if the whole team got that many in a day? We’d never win a game, let alone get through a practice.”

“You’d have to have circle jerks every intermission,” I say, and again, he laughs. “Have you ever done that? I always imagined that was a thing in sports, since you guys practically live with each other all season.”

“Have I ever jacked off in front of other guys?”

“Yeah. It’s a thing, right? Or are you going to say no and ruin my fantasies?”

“You have fantasies about athletes masturbating together?”

“Not regularly, but a few times, sure,” I say, turning to watch him as he drives.

He’s got the biggest grin—the kind that crinkles at the corners and shows a lot of teeth.

Genuine. I like that I amuse him, and not because he’s making fun of me.

“Guys think about sex a lot; it would only make sense. Not just with athletes—I bet musicians do it, too…all that time spent on tour buses.”

“No, I never have, to answer your question. Though, yes, it happens. Especially in juniors. Boys are horny and generally gross,” he says. “I’m much more interested in these fantasies of yours.”

“Men masturbating is a favorite,” I say. “You probably get told this often, but you have a great smile.”

“I don’t think anyone but my mom has ever said that to me.

And she’s got a big bias.” My bias is running deep these days, too.

But I keep that to myself, afraid to let him know how connected I feel—how dependent I can see myself becoming on his easy, calming charm.

Willa reminded me earlier to not overthink the what ifs , so I try to force out the thoughts of how great a partner, a husband, a father Tyson could be to someone.

The bond he has with Sadie lets me know that’s something he’d want.

But I don’t know that wife or mother are in the cards for me.

I don’t know how to be either of those, never having had examples.

“I smile more around you than I do most others, though,” he says, pulling into a parking lot at the marina.

“Are we going out on a boat?”

“Yeah. I checked with Willa to make sure that wasn’t something you’d hate.”

“I was with that traitor all day and she never said.”

“I bribed her with a donation to that women’s clinic she’s been working with.”

“That’d do it,” I say. “We normally don’t keep secrets.”

“A surprise, not a secret. Wait there—I’ll come around.”

I watch in a bit of disbelief as he comes around to open my door and help me out of the vehicle. In my whole life, I never felt truly cared for. My safety and upbringing were an afterthought for my father—something he felt obligated to do under duress. Fatherhood wasn’t natural or innate to him.

My fingers tremble as Tyson takes my hand. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay, but his eyes bounce around my face, looking for signs. Stretching to my toes, I press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He leads me by the hand to an actual fucking yacht—not a huge one, but still an expensive vessel.

“I’ve never been on a boat bigger than a rowboat,” I whisper as we near it.

“Really? Not even a ferry?”

“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “We have the largest ferry system, and I haven’t been on a single one of them.”

“Hello, Mr. Murphy, Ms. Ashcroft,” a man greets us when we walk up the small ramp to the boat. “I’m Severan, and I’ll be making sure you have everything you need this evening.”

“Thank you, Severan,” Tyson tells him as we follow him to the back of the boat. A table has been draped in white linens, decorated with bursting bouquets of hydrangea, and lit by flickering festoon lighting above.

We sit, and Severan pours wine and points out a card placed between Tyson and me. It’s a seven-course pre-determined menu with the chef’s name on it—a name even I recognize.

“Tyson, what have you done?”