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“I don’t like that she was so comfortable in your space.”
“Ah,” he says softly, fingers coming to smooth out my furrowed brow. “You jealous?”
“Fuck yes, I am, Cillian. I’ve never been in your home, but she has.” With strained effort, I keep my hurt out of my voice. It’s not his fault that I’m feeling so uncharacteristically insecure. And the last thing I want to do with my short time here is fight with the man I love. My temper has other plans though. “I ever walk into your house again to another woman; I’m cutting appendages off, Wylder. Now take me to bed, damnit.”
“You don’t want a tour of the place?”
“Later. After.”
“Yeah? You need my dick that bad, Isla?”
“About as badly as you need me, Wylder. Unless you’ve been getting that from your little cheerleader photographer,” I counter, letting more of my jealousy heard.
“No.” He snorts. “But my hand probably has new callouses. I haven’t beat off this much since I was thirteen.”
Cillian grasps my hand and pulls me to his room. We don’t resurface for hours. Not until I have spent all the time I needed studying his body, and he mine, both of us refusing to reclothe until we feel reacquainted physically.
Sweaty and spent, we stumble over each other on the way to the kitchen.
Trina seemed so at ease in the space. I could probably write that off to Torsten, who has been on the team for a few years now, but should I? Is she here often because of my boyfriend’s roommate or because of my boyfriend? They must be close enough that she knew when I was flying in.
Cill hasn’t given me any sign to worry, and I need to have faith in that before I self-sabotage our relationship. Shaking off my weird mood, I pull out the artfully crafted charcuterie board with a laugh. The woman obviously underestimated how many calories hockey players burn every day, especially after a three-hour bout of sexual activities.
“You need more than this,” I tell Cillian. “Do you have pasta?”
“You don’t have to cook, Isla. I can order something.”
“Let me take care of you,” I argue. “I’ve missed it.”
“I’ve missed you,” he says, swatting me lightly on the ass as he moves past me to pull items out of a pantry on the other side of the kitchen. He lets me make the pasta for him, standing behind me the entire time, his arms wrapped around me while I work.
The position doesn’t change much while we eat, me sitting on his lap at an oversized dining table that I imagine doesn’t get used often.
“I have to be at the arena early tomorrow, but you can come too. They said someone will show you around before the game, if you want. Mom will be flying in late; she’ll meet you there.”
“I’d like that,” I tell him. “It will be nice to see Erin. I’m glad she’s able to make the trip. Dad was sorry he couldn’t make it, too.” Cillian’s grandmother’s health hasn’t been the best recently. Erin was able to find a friend to keep watch over here so she could fly from Omaha for the game. She’s heading back shortly after the game. It’s the best she could manage, but I know Cillian appreciates it.
“I’d love for him to be here, but I get it. He’s got a team to work with and his own game coming up,” Cillian says, popping another piece of cheese in his mouth.
“Mhm, but mom says she and Willa will come along when we can all make it for a weekend game.”
“Hopefully sooner rather than later,” he says, chin resting on my shoulder and giving it a slight nip.
“Hopefully.”
“You ready to spread those pretty thighs for me again, Isla?” he whispers in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine and a thrill through my core.
“Always, Superstar.”
* * *
The following day, I keep to the background, watching Cillian go through his gameday routine. It hasn’t changed much over the years, and I enjoy the familiarity of it. Whatever nerves he had when he flew to Boston have disappeared. He’s as ready for his first game as a professional as I’ve ever seen him as he checks that his duffle has everything packed in it just the way he wants. We stuffed it last night, but this gameday ritual is always performed, regardless of how much care he took previously. Cillian doesn’t like to show up at any arena unprepared or without his comfort items, like his headphones so he can listen to his carefully curated pre-game playlist.
“All good?” I ask when he finally zips it up and stands.
“All good,” he confirms.
“You’re going to kill it today, Wylder.”
