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My heart is beating so hard in my chest that it feels like it might pound right through my rib cage, and I can feel my cheeks starting to hurt from the wide smile etched on my face. I’m still holding on to Ava as I watch Ian and the other players on his team crowd around Jankowski, shaking him and trying to hoist him up as if they’ve won a championship game and not a friendly charity match that didn’t matter. The pure joy on Ian’s face as he celebrates with his temporary teammates is infectious, and I feel it bubbling up inside me as if sharing it with him, ecstatic that he can have this moment after all the stressing he did over this game.
I notice his head moving when he breaks away from the other guys, his neck stretching as he peers into the stands as if searching. He skates closer to the rails as he continues to crane his neck this way and that, and it’s then I realize that it’s me he’s looking for. I rush down the aisle and take the steps two at a time, barreling toward the railing and immediately dropping to my knees to duck under the lowest bar that opens up into the rink that’s set lower than the stands. At this angle, Ian’s face is almost level with mine when he reaches the edge, and in this crowd of so many cheering people, it feels almost like we’re in our own little bubble.
“You won,” I tell him, beaming. “You’re supposed to be celebrating.”
His smile makes my chest hurt, but his words make it feel like it’s too full. “You’re the only person I want to celebrate with.”
“Yeah?”
“Always.”
I know there’re people all around us, but at this moment, I find I don’t care. I spare one quick glance down the ice to confirm that my brother is lost to the sea of celebration, just one second before I bend until I can wrap a hand around the back of Ian’s helmet, pulling him up to meet me as I crash my mouth into his. He doesn’t hesitate to melt into the kiss, his fingers sliding over my knee and squeezing me there, tingles sparking along my skin where he touches me and spreading to fill me up. I realize all at once that there’s no question. Not really.
Because I still want him, I still dream of him, I still burn for him—and I absolutely love him too.
Twenty-Two
IAN
I’ve been playing hockey for most of my life, but the high I feel after winning that game today is more potent than any I’ve ever experienced. Playing with my old friends, seeing the way they embraced me as if nothing’s changed, as if I’m the same person they’ve always known—it’s enough to make me start to think that maybe I am. That maybe I can stop dwelling on the opinions of strangers and cling harder to the ones that come from people who actually matter.
An idea that is a lot easier to entertain with the encouragement of the woman currently pulling me into her apartment.
“You were fantastic,” she’s saying between kisses as I kick her door shut.
I grin against her mouth, my hands circling her waist to pull her closer. “Yeah?”
“It’s hot watching you play.”
“Does someone have dreams of being a puck bunny?”
“Just yours,” she hums.
I groan, slanting my mouth against hers and muttering “fuck” against her tongue. I hoist her up into my arms and carry her through the apartment, never slowing until she’s flat on her back against her mattress. She’s an absolute vision of soft swells, gentle curves, and long, silky waves spread out around her head, and the way she bites her lip when she looks up at me, looking so excited just to have me, sends a thrill coursing through my body.
“Fuck, Lila,” I murmur, “I can never decide where I want to touch you first. You’re too tempting.”
Her lips curl. “Get down here and decide as you go.”
I pull my shirt over my head as I obey, tossing it aside and making quick work of my jeans before crawling over her.
“You’re too dressed,” I note, sliding my hand under her shirt to caress her belly. “Let’s fix that.”
I realized quickly after the first time that I ever touched her like this that I would never be able to take my time getting her out of her clothes. Once I get even a hint of what’s underneath them, it’s like my mind goes into overdrive, needing to see more. Every part of her drives me wild—from her full, pink mouth to her wide, soft hips down to her cute, stubby toes. Sometimes when I look at her, it feels like Lila Baker was made just for me.
“Look at you.” I slide my body against hers, grabbing a handful of one of her perfect tits and sliding my tongue across the column of her throat. “You’re a fucking dream, Lila.”
“You’re still too dressed,” she says breathily, her fingers tucking inside the elastic of my briefs. “Take these off.”
“Why? Are you greedy, sweet girl?” I roll my hips, letting my clothed, hard length press against the juncture between her thighs. “You want this cock?”
“Preferably before I’m an old woman,” she grumbles, her petulant tone less effective when laced with the thick arousal it carries.
“Mm.” I peck a kiss at her cheek, lifting away from her. “Be right back.”
I roll across her bed and wrench open her bedside drawer, reaching inside to fish out a condom. My fingers trip against the box as I curse under my breath, and I drag myself a little closer to get a better angle to reach for it.
“Um…”
