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“Thank you,” she whispers, blowing out a content breath and pressing even closer, like she’s trying to burrow herself into my chest.
She wouldn’t have any complaints from me if that were the case.
“For what?”
Vivid blue eyes pierce my green ones when she tips her head back and smiles.
“For coming back to me.”
27
BRAXTON
The doorbell ringsthree times as I’m slipping a pair of socks over my freshly painted and dried toenails. The forest-green polish disappears beneath the white fabric as a flash of embarrassment washes over me.
Did I really paint my toenails the colour of Maddox’s eyes when he won’t even see them? Yeah, I did. I also painted my fingernails to match, dug out my nicest lingerie—tags still on—and slipped it on beneath my clothes because as much as I can try to pretend otherwise, there’s a small part of me that’s hoping tonight, maybe he’ll get to see it.
“Some would call you a dreamer,” I mutter under my breath, getting up from the edge of my bed and heading to my front door, a thong string riding further up my butt cheeks with each step.
I blame Maddox for putting these ideas of lingerie and nail polish in my head. If it weren’t for his text earlier asking if I wanted to go to his place after the game, I probably wouldn’t have even started thinking this way. At least not already.
The past few days without him have been . . . lonely. With him in Arizona, I’ve felt his absence like a cold fist in my chest. Our reconnecting has only brought everything I’ve tried to keep shoved deep, deep down right back to the surface. It’s obvious that I’m struggling with it all. Both mentally and physically.
We’ve been running around each other for years, the sexual tension building and building until now I’m left feeling like a ticking time bomb. Only much hornier.
Something has to give, and while I can admire his seemingly magical grasp on control, I want him to be the one to snap. To finally put an end to this game of foreplay we’ve been playing so I can satiate this suffocating need I have for him.
Clearly, I’m a mess.
With flushed skin, I give my head a shake and open the front door, expecting to see my sister but finding no one. Instead, a big brown box with a bulging top is parked on my porch.
I blink at it before carefully touching the side with my toes. When nothing beeps or blows up, I figure it’s safe enough and drop to my haunches to pick it up, surprised by the weight of it.
Stepping back inside, I drop the box on the countertop. Curiosity at full capacity, I grab a pair of scissors from the knife block and cut the tape. The box flaps jump open, the tape being the only thing keeping the overstuffed thing closed.
My jaw slacks as I stare down at what’s inside and slowly pinch the card on top between my fingers, lifting it to read the messy scrawl.
With you by my side, we’re going all the way to the cup, and that means you need more than one jersey. Take your pick, there’s every style of VW jersey I’ve ever worn in here. And yes, I signed each one and I’m writing this note with a very sore wrist. Kiss it better later? Can’t wait to see you.
Love, Dox
My heart swells to twice its size. I try to remind myself that it’s only been just shy of a month, and falling in love with someone in that time isn’t logical. But how can I convince myself of that when I’m already so close? When I’m on the cusp and the furthest thing from afraid?
I was in love with this man for half my life, and while time apart and bad decisions created a rift in my feelings, I think I could happily spend the last half of my life the same way.
The doorbell rings again, snapping me from my thoughts. I run my finger over the last two words written on the card, feeling the indents left behind from the hard press of a pen, before slipping the thick paper into the back pocket of my jeans and going to answer the door.
This time, it is my sister on the other side, and after I quickly gather my things, she whisks me out the door and into her car before heading to the arena.
* * *
The energyin the arena is electric. I’m positive my voice is going to be gone tomorrow from how loud I’ve been screaming.
I’ve been to too many of Maddox’s games to count, but the two NHL games I’ve come to have been so different in comparison. The VW fans are intense and downright crazy, but that’s what makes these games so amazing. Their love of the sport is beautiful in the most chaotic way possible.
Then there are the players themselves. There’s a reason they play in the NHL. Their talent is unmatched, and as I watch Maddox slip through two Arizona players while poking the puck from the stick of another, it’s made abundantly clear to every single person in the building that he was born to do this.
He’s quick, even with his size, and incredibly agile. Moving fluidly, he evades two big players as they prepare to try and check him and enters the Arizona zone. The closest player is still too far away to keep him from lining up a shot in front of the goaltender, and as Dox snaps the puck, I hold my breath, watching it cut through the air.
