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A few years ago, his careless words would have sent her gasping for breath as her heart crumpled under extreme pressure. Or she would have run him over with the Zamboni. Yeah, it went slow, but she was a woman who didn’t give up easily. If she was, she would probably still be in that church bathroom using her mom’s veil as an emergency tear sopper-upper.
What. A. Dick.
Just to fuck with Tig, she kept her attention focused 100 percent on him, so when he finally looked up at her, he got blasted by two eyes filled with arctic fuck-you. “I’ve been traveling the world. Doing all of the things. Having every experience. Living my life instead of being an accessory to someone else’s.”
Her heart was racing so fast that her pulse was a loud whoosh in her ears.
Where had that come from? She had no clue, but she’d said it, and she’d meant every single world.
Fucking A, that had felt good.
Dr. Kowecki had asked her to think about what she’d wanted out of life. Astrid hadn’t really known. But this feeling right here, this rush of I-am-my-own-person pounding through her body like she was sitting on a giant speaker at a speed metal concert? Yeah. This was it. This was what she wanted.
“Then maybe dinner at Cat Soup?” he asked, wading through all of the toxic muck between them. “They just opened up, so I know you haven’t been there yet.”
She uncrossed her arms, her boobs thanking her for no longer having a clipboard squashing them like a mammogram machine. “No, thank you.”
Tig let out a harsh breath and shoved his fingers through his hair, the bullshit I’m-a-hot-hockey-player-fall-at-my-feet attitude discarded like day-old underwear.
“I miss you, Astrid,” he said, his voice tight with what she would have sworn was regret and hope and uncertainty. “I was hoping that there was a chance we could reconnect. Why else would—”
“She put up with your sorry ass?” Cal interrupted as he walked in carrying two shakes from Vito’s. Glowering at Tig, he handed Astrid one marked chocolate malt. “Lightbulb moment, dumbass: this isn’t about you. It’s about the team. Now get in the net. Christensen and Petrov are coming in to help with the Ranford drills.”
Tig’s whole body stiffened. “Does it have to be those two?”
“Yeah, because they were the slowest in coming up with reasons why they couldn’t be here to help you.” Cal bared his teeth at Tig in what some people might describe as a smile if they were trying to be extra nice. “Seems no one on the team wants to help you.”
“Help me?” Tig groused. “I’m the most important member of the team. They should be grateful I’m doing this stupid shit.”
Astrid couldn’t believe it. Tig was acting every bit like the spoiled, angry, miserable kid he’d been when she’d first met him. The one who turtled under a hard shell of assholery and teenaged fury. The bratty kid who, as it turned out, was either ignored by his divorced parents or used as the perfect pawn to hurt each other. And when she looked at him, he wasn’t the giant prick on the billboard anymore. He was the boy who’d confessed to her over pizza that the only thing he wanted was to not be so damn alone—to which she’d told him to stop acting like a dickhead to other people, then. At first she’d thought he was going to keep ranting, but instead he started laughing and promised to clean up his act.
She had been right then, and she was right now when she looked Tig square in the face and said, “BBQ chicken pizza.”
He let out a huff of annoyance, bitterness coming off of him in palpable waves, but he nodded in understanding. “Fine.” Then he skated over to the net.
Cal turned to Astrid, his mouth gaping open. “What magic was that?”
Old loyalties gripping her hard in that moment, Astrid just shrugged. “The kind that gets him to stop whining.”
For better or for worse, she’d probably never stop seeing the boy when she looked at the man.
“Will it work for me?” Cal asked.
She snorted and shook her head as Alex Christensen and Ian Petrov emerged from the tunnel looking miserable.
“Let’s get this over with,” Alex Christensen said as he got onto the ice.
Half a stride behind him, Ian Petrov grunted a greeting and went over the boards to the ice.
Wow. She’d known it was bad in the locker room, but damn, it must have been bad bad. Adding “help with team cohesion” to her mental to-do list, she took a sip of her chocolate malt, closed her eyes, and let out a little groan of pure happiness. Whatever it was that they put in those shakes at Vito’s, it always hits the spot.
When she opened her eyes again, Cal was watching her with the self-satisfied look of a man who knew he’d made her make that sound and he wanted to do it again—just without the shake next time. Maybe with his tongue. Maybe with his fingers. Maybe with his dick. Maybe with all of the above plus her favorite vibe. Maybe he’d do it slow, make her beg, get her close and back off again and again until she broke. Maybe he’d do it while talking her through it, whispering the dirty, possessive things that had her on the edge before he touched her. Maybe he’d do it without saying a single word, his hand covering her mouth to keep her quiet while he touched and teased and drove her over the brink in absolute silence except for their harsh breaths. She didn’t know, but she wanted all of the maybes. Every. Single. One.
Badly.
So very badly.
And that was exactly why she needed to get out of here.
