Page 15 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

FIFTEEN

The car ride to the mansion passes in a fever dream, my consciousness drifting in and out. Between each nap, the same thoughts flicker through my head: I shouldn’t have drunk so much, Dominic was right, or some variation of the two.

Feeling sick always triggers my anxiety.

So, on top of thinking I might lose the contents of my stomach all over Dominic’s ridiculously soft jeans—that perfect, worn-in kind of denim, the one hundred percent cotton type that takes years to reach that hugs-your-body-like-a-second-skin feel—I’m also spiraling through increasingly dramatic scenarios.

I probably have alcohol poisoning. They’ll need to pump my stomach.

Will the driver make it to the hospital in time? Where is the hospital?

Wait, how do I even know how soft his jeans are?

Or how good his fingers feel running through my hair?

I blink my eyes open to find my hands cushioning my cheek against… muscular thighs.

“Are you going to be sick?” a deep, worried voice asks, large hands gently pressing to my forehead and sweeping my hair away from my face.

“No,” I say, and will it to be true. “Just sleepy.”

His fingers resume their motion, threading through my hair, scratching lightly at my scalp. Comforting. Steady.

“Where is everyone?” I look around the car and notice it’s not the usual van, but a rather luxurious SUV. There’s also a lack of cameramen.

“They’re wrapping up.”

“No more filming today?” I double-check.

“Nope, we’re in the clear.”

A wave of dizziness hits me, and I groan.

“Okay,” he says, guiding me to rest my head in his lap again. “Go back to sleep. We’re still twenty minutes out.”

“Why am I lying on?—”

“Shhh,” he cuts me off with a quiet sound, more soothing than I thought him capable of.

The next time I open my eyes, the scenery has changed. I’m no longer in the back seat of the car, but in my bed. Dominic stands at my side, hands tucked into his pockets.

“How did I get here?” I blink up at him.

“I carried you. I know you were worried about my strength and my ability to haul your hundred-and-something pounds, but you’ll be happy to know I got you all the way here with ease.” He flashes a teasing, self-satisfied smile.

“You didn’t have to?—”

“I did. How about you just say ‘thanks, Dominic’?”

“Thanks, Dominic,” I deadpan.

“No problem. Want to get ready for bed?”

I look down and see I’m still in the day’s outfit. Well, at least he didn’t undress me. I’ve been spared that embarrassment.

“Yeah, I probably should.” I rummage for pajamas and head to the bathroom, making quick work of my nighttime routine. I’m eager to get back into the comfort of my bed, and with any luck, Dominic will have excused himself.

No such luck. He’s sitting on the corner of the bed, but shoots to his feet when he sees me, holding up the covers like I couldn’t manage them myself. It’s a little endearing.

A pounding begins behind my eyes. I remind myself, it’s not an aneurysm, probably just dehydration from too much wine. There’s a full glass of water on the nightstand that I don’t recall being there earlier. Still, I gulp it down.

“You’re smart not to drink,” I say as I nestle into bed.

“Mm-hmm.” He pulls the cover over me, then lingers, like he’s not quite ready to leave.

“Why don’t you drink?” I’ve always wondered… though not enough to ask him. I did try to get the information out of my brother but was disappointed when he said he wasn’t actually sure.

I think I’m going to get the same dodge from Dominic when he stays silent, now focusing too deeply on smoothing the wrinkles from the comforter. Then, to my surprise, he starts.

“My mom was an alcoholic… is an alcoholic. Or at least, I assume. I haven’t talked to her in years.”

Well, shit. Now I feel like an asshole. I thought he was one of those “I don’t need drugs or alcohol to have fun” people. All sunshine and clean living.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

He meets my gaze. “You didn’t know. No one does. I don’t talk about it much.”

I nod, unsure what to say. Instead, I reach out and squeeze his forearm, hoping he takes it as the comfort I mean it to be. He doesn’t pull away, but rather lets out a long breath and goes back to sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I didn’t really get it when I was a kid,” he adds after a pause.

“I just thought I had the cool mom. She was always fun, always up for a game or an adventure. Always so full of joy, borderline too much joy. When I was six, she took me to Chuck E. Cheese… Do you remember that place? God, I wonder if they even exist anymore.”

His lips twitch in something almost like a smile, but it disappears quickly.

“Anyway, we got pulled over on the way home. She was arrested for drinking and driving. I didn’t understand what was going on, just that everything got really scary really fast. Later, my dad sat me down and explained it as best he could. That was the moment things changed.

“He gave her an ultimatum: get sober or leave. And she left. Who does that? Who just walks away from their kid?”

He shakes his head, like he’s still trying to figure it out all these years later.

“I didn’t see her for a long time. But then in high school, she cleaned up her act. We started rebuilding… something. I let myself believe she’d changed. Then she picked the bottle over me again . It became a pattern. Over and over and over.”

He exhales sharply, like admitting it all out loud has winded him.

“The last straw was at the end of my rookie contract. I made headlines when I renewed with the Saints. It was a big deal, all over the media. She didn’t even pretend she wanted to reconnect that time. Just asked for money. And like an idiot, I gave it to her.”

My chest tightens. “You’re not an idiot.”

“It felt like it at the time. That was eight years ago. I haven’t seen her since. I hear she’s living out here now, somewhere in California, but I try not to think about it too much. Some stuff is best left in the past.”

I nod, knowing that feeling. Avoiding the things that hurt—the ones that claw and burrow deep. They’re better left there. Undisturbed.

“It’s not your fault,” I say, repeating the same words I’ve told myself more times than I can count.

He meets my gaze, but I look away, fiddling with a loose thread on the comforter. When I glance up again, he’s slowly nodding.

“Do you have a good relationship with your mom?” he asks.

“My stepmom is great.”

I guess tonight’s the night for digging. But unlike my usual avoidance, something about this feels safe. It’s one of the few times alone—no cameras, no Bodhi, no other girls. Just me and the man I thought I hated. But Mr. Perfect is starting to look a little more human.

And maybe, I want to feel a little more human, too. Maybe it’s okay to say the things I usually don’t. If I discover the fault in my logic tomorrow, I can blame it on liquid courage, or at least have plausible deniability.

“My mom died giving birth to me, so I never really knew her. Everything I know comes from my dad—stories, pictures, old home videos. She almost feels more like a character I grew up watching than a real person. I got to know and love her through other people’s memories.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Yeah. I kind of wish I could say the same. People can’t let you down that way.”

After a pause, I settle on saying, “I think it’s safe to say neither of our situations is ideal.”

“I’ll give you that.”

His lips tip up, more on the left side than the right. That ridiculous mustache isn’t quite as ridiculous as I first thought—helped by its trimmed length and a couple of days’ worth of stubble along his jaw.

My gaze drifts up to his, catching on the wrinkle forming between his brows. I always assumed his eyes were brown; they’re so dark I never noticed the blue. But now, up close, the color is closer to that of a stormy sea.

I don’t realize I’m staring until Dominic clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck.

“I should get going.” He gestures over his shoulder with a thumb and stands.

“Yeah.” I pull the covers to my chin. “See ya tomorrow.”

“Sweet dreams,” he says as the door clinks shut behind him.

The sun might be helping my mood this morning, but apparently, vitamin D can’t cure a hangover.

I roll over on the lounger and immediately regret it. My stomach sloshes like a waterbed, a reminder that I can’t be trusted with unlimited wine—especially not with Dominic around, driving me to drink.

It’s a slow morning at the mansion. Just a few of us stretching out by the pool while Emma gets ready for her date.

Summer’s on the lounger next to mine, a guitar balanced across her lap as she picks and hums softly to herself. Every so often, she pauses to scribble something in a notebook.

“You writing a song?” I ask.

Her fingers keep moving, but her head turns toward me. “Trying to. Not feeling very inspired.”

It still blows my mind that someone can just create. I’ve always loved music, the way it lets you process emotions without actually naming them. Like a safety net made of sound. And the fact that my new friend is one of the people behind the lyrics? Yeah, it’s pretty damn cool.

“What do you normally write about?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “What most songs are about… finding love or losing it.”

I do a mental scroll through my favorite songs. Yep. She’s not wrong. Even the ones that don’t sound like love songs are always about something or someone that mattered. Or about what it feels like when they’re gone.

And just like that, she gives me the perfect opening.

If I’m going to be stuck with Dominic at every get-together— thanks, Ryan —I wouldn’t mind having Summer around, too.

But despite how compatible they seem, I get more sibling vibes than sparks.

Plus, she told me before she came here for publicity, not love.

I’m guessing Dominic’s charm hasn’t changed that.

“So… you don’t think love is in your future? With Dom?”

She lowers her sunglasses enough to meet my gaze. There’s something behind her eyes I can’t quite read. “I doubt it.”

“You’re not into him?” I press.

She shakes her head. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy. But I think we’re better as friends.”

Technically, I should pass that to Dominic. But even as the words leave her mouth, I know I won’t. Not yet, anyway.

Summer’s the closest friend I’ve got, and I don’t want to be the reason he sends her home.

I’m still planning to hold up my end of the bargain, but I think he’d understand me wanting someone in my corner. Right? Still, I’m wrestling with a moral dilemma, one I wouldn’t have had before last night.

I think I might actually want to help him.

Which is… inconvenient.

I’m starting to think I wasn’t one hundred percent right about?—

“Are you wearing sunscreen?” A deep voice startles me as a shadow falls over my lounger.

I adjust my sunglasses and look at the towering man beside me.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Sun protection should be taken seriously, la mia fiamma .”

“Are you always this serious about protection?” I deadpan, unable to help myself.

“Always.”

I grab the tube of lotion and hand it to him. “Here. Are you going to lotion everyone up?”

“Nope, just you.” He gives me that half-smile of his.

Did I say I wanted to help him? I take it back. I roll my eyes, though he probably can’t see it through my dark lenses.

He chuckles. “I know you’re rolling your eyes.”

“You can’t prove anything.” I sit up, tugging the towel over my lap, suddenly feeling a little too exposed. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you mean you didn’t wear that for me? I’m wounded.” He clutches his chest dramatically.

“Sorry to disappoint. Why’re you here?” I repeat.

“Just checking in. Figured I’d hang here until Emma is ready. It’s kinda lonely in the villa.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of where he’s staying.

Dominic, lonely? Not something I’d ever thought possible. But I guess extroverts thrive when they’re surrounded by people.

He tosses the lotion onto my chair and whips off his shirt, revealing a lot of tattoos… and, okay, abs. Has he always worn such tight shorts? I can practically make out the shape of his thigh muscles.

I try to avert my gaze to his face, but I’m momentarily distracted by the ink that spans from his collarbones, down both arms, all the way to his hands, across his chest, and down to his abs.

A larger design peeks out from his shorts on his right leg.

They’re all mostly black and gray with a few multicolored ones mixed in.

I’ve seen the ones on his arms before, but I didn’t realize they were everywhere .

I guess I never really paid that close attention to his body.

“My eyes are up here,” he says with a smirk.

If I could reach his abs from here, I’d smack them. Instead, I tilt my head all the way back to scowl at him.

“How many tattoos do you have?” I ask, focusing on the reason I was staring. It wasn’t the abs, it was the ink. The curiosity about how many there are and if they hurt.

“Too many to count. Do you have any?” He gestures for me to move forward and slips in behind me.

“Not yet, but I think I want one.” I hear the lotion click open, then close.

“Oh yeah? Of what?”

“Not sure yet. If I knew, I’d have one already.”

“Fair.”

He rubs in the lotion, the cool bite fading into heat as his fingers move over my shoulders, down my back, and along my sides.

When his hands work their way back up, they nearly engulf my neck, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulders.

A shudder runs through me, and my skin prickles with goosebumps.

“Shouldn’t Emma be ready?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says, but doesn’t move to go get her.

“Hey, Dominic.” Summer turns toward us, abandoning her guitar at the foot of her lounger, finally saving me from whatever is happening here.

I take the opportunity to reposition, now facing Summer with Dom to my left.

“Hey, Summer.” He nods toward the instrument. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“I’m not. It’s just not flowing today.” She smiles, a little coy. “Got any inspiration for me? Any feelings you want to share?”

Dom chuckles. “You’ll be the first to know when I’m ready.”

She scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

I should give them a minute alone , I tell myself. But in reality, it’s me who needs a minute. I stand a bit too quickly, my head swimming, likely still from the aftereffects of too much wine.

“Be right back,” I tell Summer, and she gives me only a subtle smile in return.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Dominic calls as I walk away.

“Have fun on your date,” I toss over my shoulder.