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She comes up the steps alone, the same Titans sweatshirt masking her curves. My gaze travels down her black leggings, to the black boots with a slight heel, then back up. She has a cross-body bag slung diagonally across her chest.
No lipstick.
I hide my frown and stride forward, intercepting her path.
She lets out a little gasp when I catch her arm. I lead her away from the throng of people quickly, and she doesn’t protest too loudly.
I’ve got her up against the wall again.
She leans back to meet my gaze. “I didn’t think I’d see you before the game.”
I’m accruing a nasty fine for every minute I’m late, but it’s fucking worth it.
I press a ticket into her hand. In reality, I could’ve left it for her at will-call. That’s what I’d do for my family, if they didn’t already have tickets for the suite.
Thinking about them and her in the same space…No. They like to talk, and surely one of them would bring up Crown Point. What if that triggers a memory?
Do I want that?
I hold up my other gift: my jersey. People spend a lot of money to get their hands on these, and she’s getting one for free. I gesture for her to remove her bag, which she does carefully. I take it and pull one of her hands through the sleeve, then the other.
She doesn’t resist until I’ve got her head through the last hole, managing to avoid knocking her glasses off her face. I get the hood of her sweatshirt through it, too, so it sits nicely. Her breasts are nearly irresistible. To the point where I need to physically take a step back just to control myself.
Control has never been my problem—but right now, I’m being tested.
This isn’t the first time she’s worn my clothes.And it won’t be the last.
“Thank you.” Her fingers brush mine. “I don’t really understand it, but thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “Stay in your seat after the game, okay?”
“Yeah.”
I turn away, but she reaches out and grabs my arm. I stare at it for a second, until her fingers slowly loosen and withdraw. Her cheeks flush, and she shoves her glasses up her nose.
“I don’t know anything about hockey,” she confesses. “I don’t—”
“You don’t have to. Just keep your eyes on me.” I wink.
As soon as I’m around the corner, I press my back to the wall and close my eyes. I breathe deeply, trying to rein in the furious beat of my heart. Adrenaline is pounding through me, worse now that the game is so close. I’m going to have to rush to get ready, and even then, Coach will have my ass. But she’s here. She came alone.
That has to soothe me. It has to be enough to get me through this game.
She’s wearing my jersey.
And if that isn’t the biggest ‘fuck you’ to her husband, wherever he may be, I don’t know what is.
5
MELODY
I’m not sure I like hockey.
I don’t understand the rules. I don’t understand the violence.
Every time Jacob gets slammed into the glass, or does it to someone else, I flinch. I start watching the game with my hands hovering in front of my face, ready to snap my fingers closed when the players come racing down the rink. Jacob spits blood onto the cut-up ice, and nausea rolls through me.
A horn bellows through the arena, and I look up at the big squared-off screen hovering over the center line. The clock has run down, ending the game. 2-1 in favor of the New York Guardians.
