Page 205 of Power Play

14

Charm

Ryan had packed the same black T-shirt three times because he couldn’t keep his hands off me long enough to remember whether he had actually put it in the bag.

He stood at the foot of the bed in black sweatpants, barefoot and shirtless, with his duffel spread open across the rumpled comforter between us. Team-issued shirts sat in careful stacks beside compression gear, socks, underwear, chargers, and everything else apparently required to play four hockey games in six nights without civilization collapsing. His dark suit hung from the back of the bedroom door inside a garment bag, and his backward Frost cap sat low over damp, sleep-mussed hair while I watched him pick up the same shirt again.

I sat cross-legged near the headboard in his hoodie with my Minky blanket wrapped around my waist, attempting to locate the second earring I had lost sometime between entering his bedroom and waking up sore enough to understand exactly how seriously Ryan had taken his promise about making me feel him for a week.

“You already packed that.”

Ryan glanced at the duffel and then at the shirt in his hand. “No, I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Then why am I holding it?”

“Because five minutes ago, you pulled it back out when you decided packing required kissing me.”

His mouth curved as I pointed toward the bag.

“Put it down and step away.”

“You complaining about the kissing?”

“I’m documenting the cause of your future wardrobe crisis.”

“I have enough clothes.”

“You’re leaving for six nights.”

“Which apparently requires seventeen black shirts according to whatever system you think I’m fucking up.”

“It requires you to remember which ones you already packed.”

Ryan tossed the shirt into the duffel and looked at me. “Packed.”

“Congratulations.”

“Smartass.”

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

The ease of it still felt new. There was nothing fragile about Ryan, but everything between us was new enough that I kept noticing how naturally it fit.

Last night, I had finally called him my boyfriend. The word itself was ordinary, but the promise beneath it wasn’t. We had already agreed that neither of us wanted anyone else. Now I had claimed him as mine, accepted that I was his, and promised I would tell my parents before somebody else carried the news to them.

It should have terrified me more than it did. I had spent most of my life needing to know every rule before entering a room, yet being Ryan’s girlfriend felt easier than almost anything else.

Ryan picked up a pair of boxer briefs and folded them once. My phone vibrated on the nightstand, but I didn’t need to look to know who it was. The first message from my mother had arrived before seven.

Mother: Your father’s dinner is Wednesday at seven. Please don’t be late.

The second had come twenty minutes later.

Mother: I made the reservation under Harlen. Your father requested the private dining room at Westerly for sixty of his closest friends and family.