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We’ve been good since our little kitchen summit last week. Better than.
Not one naked hugging violation on record.
I mean, maybe there was a moment that first morning when I thought about what life might be like between us if we wanted more than just that night. I might even have indulged in a little fantasy about a lifetime of morning kitchen time together. Pouring her coffee. Pulling her into my arms. Knowing this was it.
But that was a temporary lapse in judgment. Fleeting and nearly forgotten.
There’s one thing between us that works really fucking well. Friendship. The kind with fully clothed hugs, texting random shit, and talking at all hours.
That’s all I’m interested in. It’s all she’s interested in. That’s how we stay friends this time around, no matter where her plans take her.
Thing is, while my heart, my brain, and even Big Ben— all the vital organs —know a relationship with Lara is off the table, I haven’t quite been able to convince them that more of that breath-stealing, mind-blowing, delectably slippery slope we found ourselves on in that storage room above the bar… isn’t a place we want to return to.
In fact, pretty much any time I’m not on the ice, busting ass to show my coaches and management that my rogue nut didn’t take me out for good… I’m busting ass to get my mind off the spectacularly good sex Lara and I won’t be having again. I shouldn’t keep thinking about it, but I am.
I’ll get over it. Past it. Whatever. I’ve done it before… Just not while she was living with me.
Not while we’re still sharing dinners and kicking back in front of a game or show. Not when she’s close enough to reach for an apple at the same time I do, and when our fingers accidentally brush and then our eyes meet… all I can do is search them for any sign of the way she looked at me when I was inside her.
Wondering if she still feels the connection?—
Fuck! The connection that whole night was supposed to eradicate but didn’t.
I’ll get over it. I will. Because we’re friends.
* * *
Regular Season
Lara
We’re friends.
Really, really good friends who aren’t letting one silly night of misguided intentions and libidos-gone-wild screw it up.
That’s what I’m reminding myself as my rideshare pulls up to our building instead of taking me out for drinks with a few coworkers after a grind of a week that isn’t even over yet.
It’s what I’ve been reminding myself every night for the better part of two weeks while trying to ignore the mental replay of what happened above the bar. But it’s on loop. In slow motion. With a black-and-white filter and one of those crazy sexy sound clips from the TikTok you accidentally find yourself watching thirty-six times in a row.
It’s what I was reminding myself when I broke down and made an online purchase I am hoping will alleviate the growing ache threatening a friendship that has become the most important thing in my life. Because Li’l Elliot has been dreaming of more.
More of Ben’s kisses.
More of his firm hold.
More of him, working my body to peak after peak of pleasure, and then doing it all again.
More of that heart-and-soul connection I’ve only ever felt with him. And okay, maybe that last bit wasn’t Li’l Elliot… but since she seems to be the source of most of my issues, I’m pinning the fantasies about things my life doesn’t have room for on her too.
The hardest part? It’s not just me. I know Ben feels it too— maybe not exactly the way I do. Not as deeply or urgently. Not as emotionally, maybe. Probably.
But it’s there when we talk late after one of his games, laughing about some stunt Rux Meyers or one of the other guys pulled in the locker room. It’s there when our eyes catch in a way that isn’t quite friendship alone, holding until Ben’s smile slants to one side and he shakes his head before covering his mouth to sound like a robot, saying, “Danger… danger,” and I give up a wry, quiet chuckle, adding a faraway-sounding, “Eject… eject.”
At least we can laugh at it. Which is about a million times better than if we couldn’t.
And while the residual attraction hasn’t quite resolved, it thankfully hasn’t gotten in the way yet either. And I’m not going to let it. So I’m taking matters into my own hands, so to speak.
The car pulls up to drop me off, and I hastily thank the driver before dashing inside for the mailroom.
