Page 144 of Cross Check

“You would be warmer if you had worn a hat.” I lead him down the hall to the living room where we both get comfortable on the couch. He drapes a blanket over his lap and leans back with a content sigh. “Are you hungry? I was going to make some pasta soon.”

“Sounds great. I’m not sure if I’ve had real food this week. Ethan forced us to order hot dogs at the ski lodge yesterday before we did a run down the mountains, and I think I’m done with processed meat for a few months.” He laughs. “I understand your aversion to glizzys now.”

“See? And you thought I was being dramatic.”

“I’ve decided you’re right.” Grant’s eyes sweep over me. “How have you been, Lia?”

“Really good. I never let myself take my foot off the gas during the season, and it’s nice to slow down for a week.” I rest my elbow on the cushions and tilt my head. “It looks like skiing went well. I don’t see any broken bones.”

“Coach would literally kill us if we came back to practice in a cast. We were only allowed to do green circle runs. Was it a blow to my ego when eight-year-olds sped past me and called me slow? Obviously. But I’ll take another Stanley Cup win over a run down a black diamond any day.”

“Meanwhile I’d be struggling on the bunny slopes.”

“I’d help you learn. You’d be Olympic-bound in no time.”

“How are your teammates? You said the rookies were annoying?”

“Annoying was the wrong word. They’re just excited about everything.”

“Grant.” I lift an eyebrow. “That’s exactly how you were as a rookie. I’ve never met someone who was so enthusiastic about sandwiches.”

“I know fine dining when I see it. And my teammates are good. Ethan hit on every woman he came in contact with on the mountain. Connor is hysterical.”

“He’s probably funnier than you, isn’t he?”

“Fuck off.” Grant pulls his hand out from under the blanket and holds up his middle finger with a deep laugh. “I’m plenty funny. You laugh at my jokes.”

“Maybe I laugh because I feel sorry for you,” I say, and a flash of jet-black ink catches my attention. I shift across the couch and grab his wrist, staring at the shape of a star in the very spot I drew on his hand a couple months ago. “Holy shit. Is that—did you really get a tattoo?”

“I told you I would. I didn’t even shower on my way to the tattoo parlor after the game.” He strokes his thumb over the ridge of my knuckles while I keep him in my hold. “I love that it can have multiple meanings. The media will think it’s an homage to the team and the guys I love, but I’ll know you’re the reason it’s special.”

I suck in a sharp breath.

I have a permanent spot on Grant’s body, and it’s hot as hell.

Fuck.

I wish I could explain why I trace over the design. I wish I knew my reasoning for dragging my nails across his skin, touching each point. I wish I understood why the sound of his breath stuttering out in a strangled exhale is electrifying, but I can’t.

I can’t, and I wish I could.

“Why?” I whisper.

“I can’t touch you the way that I want, and I never would unless you told me I could.” Grant takes my hand in his and lifts it. His lips part, and a warm breath ghosts over my skin. My entire body is alight with nerves, and he’s not even kissing me. “I decided to start commemorating the occasions when you touch me.”

I swear time stops. A drum hammers behind my ribs where my heart used to be, and he lowers my hand until it’s resting in my lap. I want to yell at him to come back, to not let go, but the truth is there.

He won’t touch me unless I ask for it. We might be dancing over the line I’ve set for us, but Grant isn’t going to be the one to fully cross it. It has to me, and I don’t miss his flicker of disappointment when I look away.

“I’m going to get the food started,” I say, letting the daydream of what his hands would feel like on other parts of my body fade to a cloudy fog of nothingness. “Is marinara sauce okay?”

“It’s perfect,” Grant answers. His jaw unhinges enough to offer me a smile that downplays my rejection of him. “I’ll help.”

“You’re a guest. Stay here and relax.” I pop to my feet. The urge to reach out and rest my hand on his cheek is almost impossible to resist. “I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

Thirty minutes later, Grant and I sit at the kitchen table that overlooks the park outside my window. We each have a plate of food and a beer, and Grant moans around his fork when he takes his first bite.

“Goddamn. I’m glad I braved the elements to come over. This is unbelievable,” he says. “And from the woman who couldn’t bake a cake a couple of years ago? I’m impressed.”