I slam my stick against the post.Fuck.
I crouch low, mask hiding the storm ripping through me. My hip burns, but not as bad as the anger at myself—for letting one goal slide and for lettingherget under my skin.
The whistle blows for faceoff. Liam claps me on the pads as he skates past. “Shake it off, Russo.”
I nod, but the burn in my chest only gets hotter. This game was ours to take, and I let it slip by.
The locker room is quiet. Too quiet. Even the rookies shut up when I slam my helmet into my stall. Wesley leans against the wall, smirking. “Moody as hell today, Russo. Something you want to share with the class?”
Adam glances over with a knowing grin. “This about last night? Jessica told me she had Camille babysit you. That girl’s hot. Don’t tell me you managed to screw it up.”
I shoot them both a glare sharp enough to slice steel. “Drop it, assholes.”
They grin wider, feeding off the tension.
By the timeI get home, the city’s gone quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you hear every thought you don’t want to have.
I toss my gear bag into the corner, crack open an Athletic, and drop onto the couch. The TV stays off. I don’t need background noise—the game replays in my head with brutal clarity. The puck sliding past me. The scoreboard flashing the loss. The look on Dmitri’s face. But underneath all that, louder, is Eden.
A few sessions in, and she’s carved herself back under my skin—only deeper, and in places I didn’t know could ache. Every time her hands are on me during treatment, it takes everything I have not to flip her onto that table and pin her down. I can already see it—her head thrown back, lips parted, my name on her tongue as she comes apart beneath me.
And that kiss…fuck, that kiss. It’s on a brutal loop in my head—her taste, the way she melted into me, the way she ran afterward. I can’t stop replaying it. I don’t want to.
I pull out my phone and scroll to her name. My thumb hovers over the call button, but I don’t press it.
What the hell would I even say?Sorry for crashing your night? Sorry for kissing you like I meant it? Sorry you ran and I let you?
Instead, I type:
We need to talk.
I stare at it, pulse hammering, then delete it. Too easy. Too neat. She’d ignore it or throw it back in my face, and neither would fix the burn in my chest.
I set the phone down, but it takes less than a minute before I’m picking it back up. I open a new message, fingers flying before my brain can stop them:
Tell me your address. I’m coming over.
The words glare back at me, reckless and raw and stupid. For a second, I imagine it—her opening the door, eyes wide, me pinning her to the wall and kissing her until she forgets her own name.
My thumb hovers over send.
Too much. Too soon.
I delete it, jaw tight. Try again.
I want to kiss you again.
My pulse is in my throat. The thought of her reading it—her cheeks flushing, her breath catching—almost makes me press send.
With a growl, I delete that too, shove the phone aside, and drag a hand down my face.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll say it to her face.
The glass doorsof the clinic hiss open, spilling me into a space that smells of eucalyptus and calm. It does nothingfor me today.
The receptionist looks up with a bright smile. “Hi, can I help you?”
“Nate Russo. I’m here to see Eden Carver.”
