Page 11 of Slapshot Bride

The only response I can manage is a tiny nod against his chest.

His arms tighten around me slightly, instinctive and protective, and something inside me aches at the realization that nobody has held me like this in years.

We stay suspended there for a while, my breathing slowly evening out against him.

Eventually, I’m the one who pulls back first.

The second I do, cool air rushes into the space between us, and I immediately notice the dark wet patch spread across the front of his shirt where my face had been pressed.

Mortification flashes through me. “Oh my God, I’m so sor—”

He beats me to it. “Don’t.” His mouth curves slightly, soft enough to steal the breath from my lungs. “Pretty sure the shirt survived.”

A little laugh escapes me, shaky and exhausted.

His expression softens even further at the sound. “Now go sleep.”

So I go.

I’m asleep before I’ve fully registered that I’m in a bed. The hoodie he left on the chair for extra warmth ends up as a pillow because it’s softer, and it smells like cedar and something warm, and it's embarrassingly comforting, and I’m too tired to be embarrassed.

I sleep like someone poured me into the mattress.

It’s past midnight when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.

I’d turned it back on before bed, some stubborn instinct toward existing in the world again, and I’ve been ignoring the incoming cascade all evening. The screen has been lighting up on and off for hours.

This time, I roll over and look at it.

Mason:

Riley. Where are you? Please. I’m the only one who’ll believe you.

I stare at the message until the screen times out and goes dark.

Then I put the phone face down, pull the hoodie tighter, and lie there in the dark for a long time, thinking about all the things I’m going to have to figure out in the morning.

Tonight I’m simply going to rest.

3

EASTON

Paparazzied

It’s five-forty a.m. when my eyes open. My body has been operating on this schedule for so long that it no longer needs an alarm.

For a second, I lie there and run a quick inventory the way I do every morning. Lower back, manageable. Shoulder, fine. Hip flexors are still complaining about Coach Brennan’s Friday session, which they’re going to keep complaining about until Monday at the earliest. Standard.

Then I remember.

There is a woman in my guest room. A bride, technically. Was a bride.

Sixteen hours ago, she was a bride, and now she's a woman in my guest room, asleep in my t-shirt, and I'm lying on my back staring at the ceiling, trying not to think too hard about which of those words is doing the most damage in my chest right now.

I get up.

I do the routine on autopilot. Shower, not cold this time, because I’m fully awake now. I brush my teeth, pull on sweats, and the gray wife-beater I left on the chair. Run a hand through my hair and decide that is as good as it's getting before coffee.