“I'll be there.”
She reaches up and pats my cheek. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
“I will, Mom.”
She leaves. The door clicks shut behind her, and the apartment is quiet again. I check the time. Four-thirty. I have an hour and a half before I need to leave.
I shower and stand in front of my closet to pick out what to wear. I pull on dark jeans, a gray Henley, and a leather jacket.
My phone rings, and I grab it from the night table.
It’s Blake. “Hey, want to go out for a drink?”
“Can’t. Jasmine and I are meeting in half an hour,” I say.
“Wow, you work fast,” Blake says with a laugh, then he grows serious. “You think this is a good idea considering your history?”
Any rational person would steer clear. You don't go for drinks with the woman you walked away from and expect it to be simple. But seeing Jasmine at the sponsor event and talking to her like no time had passed reminded me how much I enjoyed being around her.
She was my best friend before she was my girlfriend. I've had friends and my brothers, but nobody has ever made me feel as easy in my own skin as Jasmine did. “I want us to be friends again. I've missed her friendship.”
“Sure you do,” Blake says. “I've seen the woman, and she's gorgeous. No man in his right mind would want to be ‘just friends’.”
“Guess what? Not all of us think with our dicks first,” I say.
“That's your problem right there. When was the last time you got laid, Shaw? And your right hand doesn't count.”
“Goodbye, Blake.”
“I'm serious. You live like a monk. Hockey's great, but it doesn't come with soft thighs and a warm body next to you at two in the morning. Go have a drink with the beautiful woman. And if the opportunity presents itself to be more than friends, for the love of God, take it.”
Damn you, Blake.
His words bring back memories from the past.
Jasmine in my bedroom on Long Island with the door locked and the TV on loud enough to cover the sounds she made.
We were each other's firsts and clumsy at first, but we figured it out fast. I figured out that she lost her mind when I suckedon her nipples, slow, teasing, until she was pulling my hair and cursing at me.
I also learned that if I put my head between her legs and blew a warm breath across her pussy before I even touched her with my tongue, her back would arch off the bed and she’d make a sound that I can still hear in my sleep.
I remember every detail. The taste of her. The weight of her thighs on my shoulders. The way she moaned and cried out my name. It was intoxicating.
My dick grows hard. I immediately think about Dad's game film breakdown. Nothing kills an erection faster than my father's coaching advice.
“Have fun tonight,” Blake says and hangs up.
I order an Uber and start making my way down. Excitement courses through me. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way about meeting someone for drinks. But this isn’t just anyone. It’s Jasmine Bennett.
Twenty minutes later, the Uber deposits me outside the bar. The End Zone is on a side street in the East Village that most people walk past without noticing. It’s wedged between a laundromat and a Thai place.
Inside, it's small, maybe thirty seats, dim lighting, exposed brick, and a bar made from reclaimed wood.
I found this place two years ago when I was looking for somewhere I wouldn't be recognized. The bartender is a guy named Miles who knows I play hockey and has never once mentioned it. He pours my drinks and leaves me alone, and that is the entire basis of our relationship.
I'm ten minutes early. I take a seat at the bar and order a beer. Miles sets it down without a word.
The door opens at six on the dot, and Jasmine walks in. She's in a fitted black coat over a cream blouse and dark jeans andankle boots. Her hair is down, those black waves falling past her shoulders. I still remember how soft and silky her hair was.
