Page 68 of Hockey Nanny

Carissa

I’d been wandering the halls for what felt like hours, restless and keyed up, padding barefoot through the house like some lost soul. The place was quiet, Henry was asleep. But my mind wasn’t on him. I was looking for Dawson.

Florida was the last straw.

Since we’d slept together, he’d been building walls I couldn’t climb. Polite distance. The careful avoidance in his eyes, the way he held back whenever we were alone together. Weeks of it stacked in my chest. Stones I was done carrying.

I needed to know if I’d misread it all. I needed him to stop hiding.

The sound of impact caught me first; sharp, solid, repeating. Something alive in the rhythm of balls colliding on felt. I slowed, following the sound to the game room. My pulse picked up. I hesitated just long enough to notice the pool table illuminated under the retro overhead light. Shadows from the cues stretched across the floor, pooling in corners.

The first ball rolled, hit another with a kiss that ended with one of those clacks I’d heard out in the hall. I stepped inside, carefully taking in Dawson’s stance. Cue in hand, his shoulders squared, eyes trained on the table as if the balls themselves were speaking to him. He didn’t notice me.

I circled the edge of the room, tracing a path that would put me at his side without startling him, heart hammering in sync with the echoing shots. My hands clenched and unclenched at my sides, my thoughts a mix of frustration, longing, and impatience. I watched him draw back for another shot, the line of his arm steady, the shift of his weight precise. Every detail reminded me how much he valued being in control.

“Dawson.”

He didn’t so much as flinch, just followed through with another shot, perfectly lined up to sink one. The ball disappeared into the table with a hollow thunk, and Dawson moved to the new position where the cue ball came to rest.

I took a few steps in the same direction. “I wanted to talk. About us. About whether… there even is an us.”

Thwack. The cue ball sailed in a straight line, hit the rubber edge, and angled back to kiss a ball he’d set up at the center pocket. The shot was too hard. It sent the ball dipping into the pocket, and popping right back out again. He cursed under his breath, but moved to set up the next without looking at me.

“So we’re just going to ignore each other now?”

He took the shot, but this time I leaned over and snatched up the cue ball before it made contact with anything. His head snapped up, eyes locking with mine.

“Put it back.”

And for every ounce of his calm control, my frustration grew, chest heaving the way my breathing climbed.

“No.” I held it up, letting him see I wasn’t about to back down.

He shifted around the table, approaching me with measured steps, cue clutched in one hand, gaze unwavering. “Please, put the ball back.”

“No.” My voice didn’t waver.

He lunged for the ball, but my reflexes were sharp. I lifted it just out of reach, letting his fingers close on empty space.

“Carissa, what are you doing?”

“Getting a goddamn straight answer from you.”

His eyes narrowed, and I could see the thread of tension unraveling, the careful restraint he carried for weeks teetering on the edge. “You want a straight answer?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you want?”

A short laugh escaped me, raw and unrestrained. “Are you trying to intimidate me? Because I just told you that’s exactly what I want. Twice. You want your ball back? Then tell m—”

“Screw the ball.”

He closed the gap between us, lips crushing mine with a weight that stole the air from the room. I staggered back instinctively, toes pressing into the floor to keep my balance as the heat of him pushed into me.

I dropped the ball. Both hands went to his chest, gripping fabric, feeling the muscle under my fingers flex as he pulled me closer. Every press of his body, every sweep of tongue demanded entry, driving a shock of awareness through me. I arched into him, reflexively pushing my breasts into him, the pressure between us both urgent and undeniable.

I bit his bottom lip, tugging lightly, and the low, throaty sound he released vibrated through me, through my hands fisting his shirt. He wanted me. There was no hiding it anymore. His guttural moan carried that truth straight into my heart. Weeks of distance evaporated under the heat of him claiming me, finally answering the questions I struggled to put into words.