Finally, I let go. My orgasm shakes through me, and Jack follows quickly after, groaning my name against my neck.
We stay like that for a long moment afterward, breathing each other in, the room so perfectly quiet around us.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?”
He unties the ribbon with shaking hands and kisses both wrists where the silk has left faint pink marks. “For trusting me.”
We lie there, tangled together, my fingers tracing the lines of his chest, his thumb brushing rhythmically along my spine.
“I have to leave early tomorrow,” he says. “Morning skate. Then Montreal.”
My stomach sinks. “I know.”
“I’ll be gone most of next week. Playing Philadelphia before our homestand.”
“I know.”
His hand stills at my hip like he’s trying to soften the blow, but it doesn’t help.
Loving someone means giving them the power to break you. And tonight, I handed Jack Murphy every weapon he’ll ever need.
Chapter 21
Jack
I’ve tied my left skate three times. Still not tight enough.
“Murph, you good?” Alex leans over, eyebrows raised. “You’ve been working on that thing for five minutes.”
The laces are a mess, which matches my head. “Yeah. I’m good.”
We had two back-to-back games, first in Montreal and then in Philly. Tonight, we’re finally back in Boston, and Izzy promised to come tonight.
“You sure? You’re green.”
“It’s just a game.”
“Or,” Noah chimes in from across the room, grinning like an asshole, “the bookstore girl’s here.”
I try to play it cool and focus on retying my skate. “Izzy.”
“Called it!” Connor jumps up and shimmies, holding his hand out toward Noah. “Murphy’s whipped. Pay up, Chaplin.”
I flip them both off, but I’m grinning too because they’re not wrong, even if it does scare the hell out of me.
We’ve texted and called, but I haven’t touched her since Thanksgiving. Haven’t kissed her. A week, and I’m starving for it. I’ve played hundreds of games and never once really caredabout who was watching. Hockey was mine. The ice was where I disappeared into myself. But knowing Izzy’s out there tonight, I can’t focus.
The locker room empties, and I follow my teammates to the tunnel, trying to shake off whatever this is. The familiar sounds wash over me: music pumping through the speakers, the arena is buzzing, skates cutting into fresh ice. This should ground me. This is what I know, what I’m good at.
I ignore the nagging voice in the back of my mind. I rub my glove over my chest, trying to stop the ache there. It’s like I can’t breathe. Or maybe my equipment is too tight. Or maybe I pulled something during warm-ups.
Then I see her. She’s a few rows up from the glass with Annie and Sloane, bundled in a jacket, hair down, cheeks flushed. Sloane and Annie wave, then wrestle Izzy out of her coat and spin her around for me.
Murphy.
My number.
