Page 40 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)

I see when Tyson gets home. Of course, I do. Since I’m sitting at my front window, waiting for him to get home. I’ve become that girl.

Willa called after the game. She told me he and Cillian had a “scuffle” because of the night of the gala. There’s no reason for me to feel badly about that, yet, I do. Or maybe badly isn’t the right word, I feel sorry for Tyson.

I also feel turned on, because I watched the game, and his fight with Mullins in the third period was hot as fuck.

Again, I’ve become that girl.

For the last half hour, I’ve sat here at my window, staring at the dark house across the street and trying to sort through every feeling I’m having about the man that lives there. When I asked Willa what she thought I should do about Tyson, she told me to trust myself.

“For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve made the best decisions for yourself. Why would that change now?” she’d said.

Except, I haven’t always trusted my head. Especially now, because my grandmother’s last words linger and repeat on a steady loop.

Don’t follow in my footsteps.

Would I be settling for Tyson? If I’m his second choice, if he is settling for me, does that mean I’d be settling for him, too? I don’t want to settle. I don’t want a life where I love my partner more than they could ever love me.

What I want is the epic love the likes of…I don’t know, Jane Eyre. Where she and Rochester find their way back to one another. Not because it was convenient or easy, but because they were meant to be.

Not that I want Tyson to go blind while figuring it out or anything. Maybe his team captain kicking his ass is the equivalent of his Thornfield Hall fire.

Or maybe I’m just silly and looking for reasons to be near him.

I like being with him. I like myself when I’m with him, which is a profound thing for me to think after a lifetime of being uncomfortable with my place in the world.

My phone chimes with a notification, and I’m surprised to see it’s a text from Lottie.

Lottie:

I was very sorry to hear about your grandmother, Kit.

I wanted to tell you that days ago except I know that when my grandpa died, anyone that said anything nice to me made me cry my eyes out and I didn’t want to do that to you.

Tyson told me he’s a fuck up. I already knew that, but I was sorry to hear about his bonehead move.

Whatever happens, I hope we can still be friends.

I like you more than I like most people. That must mean something.

A small laugh escapes, mixed up with gratitude for her reaching out to me.

Me:

Thank you, Lottie. I appreciate you reaching out. And of course we’re friends! I like you more than most people, too.

Nightmare stirs from his position in my lap, rushing to the door. It’s time for his pre-bedtime potty.

When we step outside, Tyson spots us. Nightmare notices his friend, his tail wagging wildly as Tyson approaches.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, bending to pet Nightmare’s head.

“If you pick him up now, you risk getting peed on.”

“Noted,” he says with a laugh. “Do your business, bud.”

My dog runs off to his favorite corner of the yard, staring us down as he relieves himself. As if he’s afraid he’s going to miss some monumental moment while he takes a poo.

Dogs are weird.

“Do you have time to talk?” I ask. I don’t want to put this off.

For both our sakes, it’s important that we have this talk.

He’s heading into the playoffs, with the best shot he’s ever had at the Stanley Cup.

He doesn’t need a distraction like me. I’ve been such an emotional vampire as it is.

And the longer we put it off, the more I’m going to dwell on it.

“Always,” he says without hesitation.

After Nightmare is finished, we both follow him back into the house. He immediately runs to his kennel and starts the routine of twirling in a circle about twenty-three times before he deems his bedding to be just perfect.

“I need you to try and explain,” I say, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room and staring up at the bruise blooming on the left side of his jaw. From Mullins or Wylder, I wonder. And how does it make him look even sexier?

Tyson mirrors my position, sitting less than a foot away.

Close, but no contact. His eyes scan over my face.

What for? Do I look different, now that I know I’m truly without blood ties?

No, of course not. That’s a dumb thought.

Something like that can’t possibly change my physical appearance.

It only takes shape inside the deep voids waiting to be filled by the despair we let loose on ourselves.

I refuse to let it take hold.

Shoo, you dumb bitch.

“What’s funny?”

“I don’t know, what?” I ask him.

“You tell me,” he says, grinning widely. “You’re the one smiling.”

“You are,” I accuse, pointing a finger at him.

“Only because you did it first.”

“Your smile is bigger; you’re probably using all forty-three muscles.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” he says, “but I like it when you smile. It’s my favorite thing.”

“I doubt that,” I say, my head tilting with skepticism.

“I know you do,” he says, suddenly looking far sadder. “I wish you didn’t. That you could pop into my head for even the smallest moment, so that you could have the same certainty that I do.”

How much easier life could be if that was such a thing.

Or, how much more horrifying and complicated.

There are plenty of minds I’d never want to have intimate knowledge of.

Like—I can’t imagine how horrible it would be in the head of a serial killer, or the CEO of a mega-billion corporation, or some vapid asshat, for that matter. Tyson’s, I would, though.

“Certainty of what?”

“Of you. You’re so honest about who you think you are. But I’m not sure you see how incredible you truly are,” he says, holding my gaze. “And of us. I know without any doubt that you’re my future, and I’m yours.”

“How? How can you say that, let alone know it?”

“It’s simple for me. When I conjure an image of the future you—whether it be a wedding day, a fiftieth birthday, an eightieth—it’s me by your side.

If I try to replace myself with some faceless man, my chest literally hurts,” he says, placing a hand in the center of his chest and rubbing it.

“Right here. When I see my own future, it’s with you by my side, holding my hand as Lottie tells me she’s going to marry some dumb schmuck that I don’t think is good enough for her.

When I win the Stanley, it’s you I imagine looking for in the crowd of people.

You wearing the obligatory wag playoff jacket with my name on the back. ”

My eyes dart to the box on my couch. The one Isla dropped off when she brought Nightmare home, earlier.

“Less than a few months ago, you didn’t know my name. Less than a week ago, you called me by another woman’s name. It’s hard for me to believe you, now,” I say—though, fuck, I want to believe him.

“I’ve never lied to you, Kit. I never will,” he says, reaching out to tuck a wayward strand of my hair behind my ear.

“I didn’t mistake you for her. I wasn’t wishing she was with me.

instead of you. Haven’t you ever been so deep into your own thoughts that your mouth says something you didn’t mean for it to? ”

“Regularly,” I say sardonically.

“That’s what that was. It was me, confused by how my life plans were shifting so rapidly, and how utterly okay I was with it all.

You know how surprised you are by how comfortable you are with me?

It confuses you. That’s the headspace I was in.

I always have a plan, a goal that I’m working toward.

You disrupt all of it, and I fucking love it. It terrified me, for a minute.”

“Only a minute?”

“Okay, an hour or two,” he says with a soft smile. “Only long enough for me to realize that what’s far more frightening is a future without the love of my life in it.”

I must give him a funny look because he laughs.

“I’m talking about you, Kitpu. You are the love of my life.”

“You’re not even thirty, yet; you have a lot of life left.”

“And I want every day I have to be with you. If that’s what you want, too.”

That’s the big question, here. What do I want? What can I trust? Or what am I willing to risk if I’m wrong about Tyson? I guess that’s several questions.

Love is risky. It must be, because we place so much reliance on another human being to accept it and care for it the same way we do theirs. When I look back on the time we’ve shared, he’s done a lot to show me that he can be careful with me.

Is it worth throwing away over one misstep? Can I live with mere friendship with Tyson Murphy? Or no Tyson in my life, at all?

Sure, I can. The truth is, I don’t want to.

Like him, it physically hurts me. I try to imagine the things he said—him marrying a woman who is tall, blonde, elegant, and graceful.

It makes my stomach turn. I see her holding a red-faced, bald baby, Tyson’s arm wrapped around her.

Him teaching a little boy who looks nothing like me to skate for the first time.

It all pains me.

Then, I think of Lottie and what she said earlier.

“I like you more than I like most people. That must mean something.”

“I hope it means you’re giving me a second chance,” he says, though it sounds like a question.

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Well, fuck,” he says, completely dejected and looking sadder than I thought he could.

“Even if I didn’t mean to say it, it’s true,” I say, crawling into his lap. His arms immediately wrap me up, and it’s what I’ve been missing for so many days, now. “I don’t know how to trust what you say. So, I’m going to trust myself—which is also hard for me.”

“What are you saying, love?” he asks after I grow quiet.

“You make me want things I never considered before,” I finally say. “A possible future I never saw as an option. When I imagine those things, I see you doing them with some woman with far less baggage than me. I don’t like what I picture.”

“Your baggage isn’t yours to carry alone,” he whispers over the top of my head as I snuggle into his chest. He smells good, the same as he does after every game. “Let me share the load.”

“No, Tyson.” I shake my head before looking up at him. “It’s time for me to unpack. I’ve been thinking about it all day. After playoffs and when work slows down, I’m going to Montana.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I confirm with a nod. “I want to visit her grave site and see if there’s anyone left that knew her. I also thought about what you said about my heritage. You’re right, it’s time I learn about that, too. I wasn’t ready before because I was afraid to know more about her.”

“Now, you want to know everything.”

“All of it,” I say. “I’m done living in fear of things, Tyson. So, I don’t need you to carry any weight for me, but I do need you to keep showing up for me. I can’t do this with you if I don’t feel like a priority.”

“You are the priority. I’m in love with you, Kit. I’ll be in love with you until the day they slide my cold bones into the incinerator,” he says. It’s a creepy declaration that makes me smile. “I’ll still be in love with you in whatever form we take after this life. You are it for me.”

“It?”

“It,” he confirms. “The one. My endgame. Did you know bald eagles mate for life?”

“I’m the one named after an eagle,” I say.

“Whatever you are, I’m the same.”

He doesn’t pressure me to say anything similar back to him, and, like always, I’m thankful for how he lets me be me.

I think I’m in love with Tyson Murphy. But I’d rather let that thought stew before I blurt it out.

If it’s uncomfortable for me to think, it’s going to be awkward to say.

And that’s not what I want when I tell him for the first time.

It should be said with surety and confidence. Like when he says it to me, I know he believes what he’s saying. The words need to breach my age-old armor, but I know he believes them.

“I was given something today,” I say, untangling from him and walking to the box sitting on my couch.

I tried it earlier, so I know it fits perfectly.

Of course, it does; it was made by the infamous Odette Quinn, who wouldn’t dare let anyone she dressed outside without looking fabulous. “Wait here.”

I take the box into my bedroom, stripping off all my clothes until I’m completely bare.

I return to Tyson wearing only my new jacket—a short trench style, cut from the deepest teal-blue fabric, his last name and number emblazoned in red down the sleeve, the team’s logo proudly displayed on the back.

It’s simple and classy, yet still flashy.

“Fuck,” he cusses when I tiptoe back into the living room. “You are the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s not your name on my back, but close enough.”

“Where’d your other clothes go?” he asks, a brow raised as he comes to stand in front of me.

“I won’t need them for this next part.”

“What’s this next part?”

“Where you fuck me,” I say boldly, meeting his eyes—determined to be the strong woman he sees me as.

It’s time for me to be the woman who asks for what she wants and demands what she needs.

“Up to ten percent of women struggle with sexual urges bordering on addiction. I might become another statistic.”

“Oh no, we wouldn’t want that,” he teases, before he hauls me over his shoulder and takes me to my bed.

For the first time, he doesn’t hold anything back. While he still pays close attention to my physical cues, there’s no verbal check-in. Tyson is trusting me to tell him if it’s too much.

He starts by devouring me with his mouth, his talented tongue bringing me to the first of several orgasms within minutes. All my senses—so ragged from this past week—are on high alert. The jacket stays on when he flips me over and takes me from behind.

“My colors look as good on you as my cum does,” he says, and I die a little at how hot his dirty talk makes me.

The Kit Ashcroft of a few months back would never have dreamed of a life that included this.

Could never imagine how good it would feel to have his hips pump against my ass as he drives into me.

I wonder what other dreams my anxiety and fear have gotten in the way of.

He changes our position again, and as he throws my leg over his shoulder—his fabulous cock pistoning in and out—I realize how much trust is a game of give and take. So is love.

I never want to stop playing this game with Tyson.