Page 88 of One Night with Number Nineteen

I exhale softly. Then shrug. “Somewhat. I mean, we’re paid a stupid amount of money to whack around a vulcanized disc of rubber—putting our bodies on the line is part of that. But there’s a difference between working hard and giving everything we can, and being expected to give everything we have, no matter what it costs us.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“About the difference?”

She nods.

“Injuries are part of the game—blood, bruises, broken bones all happen. But I’ve had coaches who pretend they aren’t, or who don’t give a fuck if you’re hurt. They only care about getting the next win, the next two points in the standings. It can be brutal and exhausting and disheartening.” I shove my hair out of my face. “Luckily, the Grizzlies and most teams nowadays, frankly, realize they’ve invested a lot of money in us and want us to stick around for a good long while. Concussion protocols are followed, injuries are treated, we’re looked after a little more carefully. But I also know that if I don’t produce, if I don’t do my job…I’m not going to stick around for long.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. “I don’t like how mercenary it sounds.” A beat. “But it makes sense, I guess.”

“I imagine you’ve probably dealt with the same thing.”

Her brows draw together.

“The world of publishing can be pretty cutthroat, right?”

Her face clears. Then her mouth hitches up. “Pretty smart, Hill. Pretty smart.” She snags the phone from where she propped it and starts walking through the house. “Shoes before you play outside, Ollie!” she calls. A few moments later, she’s shrugging into her jacket and following him out.

Maybe I should let her go, let her get on with her morning.

But seeing her like this—relaxed and in her routine, just living her life—is like getting a glimpse behind the curtain.

Then she’s sitting on the step, eyes on Ollie for a moment before they come back to the phone. “Publishing can be tough,” she admits. “Working so hard on something, putting your heart and soul into it, and getting rejection letters. Or it not resonating with your readers.” A sigh. “I can say not every book is for every reader a hundred, a thousand times over…but it still hurts to have someone not like what you’ve spent hours carefully crafting.”

“Fuck, baby. I didn’t think about it that way.”

“Every job has its good and bad parts.” Her face goes soft. “Lots of books can be successful every year, but only one team wins the Cup, right?”

“Right,” I whisper, heart rolling over in my chest.

“So good parts and bad parts,” she says, and then a twinkle of amusement glints in her pretty brown eyes as her voice drops, “And one of the good parts—the really good parts—is that hockey gave you a body like that.”

My dick goes hard.

Just like that.

One sentence, the memory of the taste of her pussy, the feel of her body, the soft hum of her moans in the air…and I’m hard.

“Pages,” I warn.

Her eyes flick over the phone then come back to mine, and the sexy little smile that adorns her mouth makes me wish I was there all over again. “You got to see me naked a couple nights ago,” she says. “It’s only fair I get to see at least part of you the same way.”

“Do you want to see all of me?” A beat. “Now?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation.

And fuck, I go somehow harder.

But before I can ask if she’s sure—or hell, maybe just strip naked and give her the show she wants⁠—

“Mom!”

Her eyes slide closed for one long moment.

Then, “Yeah, baby?”

“Come play with me!”