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She hasn’t asked anything about my past. Sometimes I think that she doesn’t even want to know or that it doesn’t matter. I worry that I am deceiving her, that I’m holding a huge part of my life away from her, and when she finds out, she’ll run. It really makes me nervous and fearful of what could happen. But on the other hand, I’m sure she’d be supportive. Kind and accepting.
It’s all so much sometimes. When Noelle asked me when I plan on telling Stella, I told her I didn’t know. Because it’s the truth. How do you tell someone that you were molested and are still healing from the trauma of it? Stella probably thinks I’m totally fine, but I haven’t had an episode or anything. Also, how do I tell her I’m terrified to have sex with her because I don’t want to start using her to avoid feeling the pain of my trauma? Fuck, it’s so overwhelming. I just want to be a good man. I want to be a good partner. I want to fucking heal and be who I know I can be.
I look down at my phone, tapping it to see the picture of Stella and me on the bike. We still haven’t bought one for ourselves, but we have been crazy busy. Maybe this summer. But that’s not why I’m looking at us. I love this picture because I’m truly happy in it. Her skin is pressed to mine, her body in my arms—I’ve never in my life felt so complete. I don’t want to lose that feeling. I don’t want to lose her.
I go back to our text thread.
Me: I miss you.
I fully expect her to tease me, but instead, she types back almost immediately.
Stella: I miss you.
Oh, my body sings for her.
Me: What are you doing tonight?
Stella: Working and then going home.
Me: Do you have school tomorrow?
Stella: No, I’m skipping to work at the shop on Aiden and Shelli’s cake and cupcakes. I finished my assignments today, so I’m good. I plan on being there all day.
I bite my lip. I don’t know if I trust myself, but I don’t want to be alone tonight. I want to be with her.
Stella: Why? Everything okay?
Me: I wanna see you.
Stella: I would love that.
Me: Wanna meet up at my place? Stay the night? Nothing sexual, just a sleepover.
Stella: LOL, what if I want a sexy sleepover?
I can’t help but grin as my body explodes with heat.
Me: I gotta tell Aiden first, baby. So bring your ugliest PJs.
Stella: LOL. Sorry, I’ll have to wear something of yours.
Me: Oh, that’s not fair.
Stella: And I’ll need to borrow a toothbrush.
Me: Still not fair. You’re killing me.
Stella: See you tonight. Good luck.
Me: Thanks, baby.
She sends me a heart, an eggplant, and then a peach emoji.
Honestly, how the hell am I supposed to survive with this girl?
* * *
Have I mentioned that I hate the Wild?
Or maybe I just hate their star player, Roocie?
Though, his sister did not hate me one bit.
Not that I’m thinking of her now. Nope. I’m too worried about trying to score and helping my team win. We’re down by only one, and I know we can win this. We have to win this since Roocie won’t shut the fuck up. Bastard.
We line up, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.
“How’s the nose?”
“As good as your sister was in bed,” I answer, pressing my body into his. He jabs me in the side, and I do the same to him.
“I can rebreak it, you know.”
“And I could fuck your sister again,” I say simply, and I hate that I feel bad for saying it. I know it’s just trash talk, but all I can think is someone talking about Stella like that. I’d lose my goddamn mind. Aiden would kill someone—hell, I’d help.
“You motherfuck—”
He tries, but the puck drops, and I shove off him to get to the net. He follows me, trying to push me out of the way of their goalie, but my goal is the screen so a defensemen can pound a puck to the back of the net. Unfortunately, Tanner sends it wide. But thankfully, the rebound goes on Aiden’s blade. Though, he sends it wide too. Can someone hit the fucking net? I dig into the ice, heading to the boards, but of course, Roocie is on my ass. He slams his body into mine, fighting me for the puck. We’re throwing elbows and beating into each other but in a way that won’t get called.
I finally win it, sending it up the boards to Tanner, but the bastard-ass puck bounces over his stick, so he has to retreat fast.
As I rush to the bench for a line change, Roocie says, “Fuck you, McMillan.”
The adrenaline is running hard, and I grin over at him. “I think she said, ‘Fuck me harder, Wes.’”
