I settle my arms around her waist, my chin on her shoulder. Most days, I love coming home to this. But I’m feeling unsettled right now and like it’s visible all over me that a man kissed me today. And I didn’t stop him. I encouraged the encounter.
Taking a deep breath, I breathe her in. “Hey,” I say. “You have a good day?”
Jessica nods. “Yep. Cleaned up a little. Rearranged the spare room. It’s such a weird shape that furniture never looks right.”
I smile. “Maybe we need different furniture.”
She sighs. “Maybe. Seems like a waste of money.”
I appreciate how conscientious she is with money. She’s not exactly frugal, but she’s conscious that money isn’t infinite. It does run out if it’s not replenished. With her being retired from her modeling career and me being retired from pro-hockey and coaching college kids, our income stream has definitely decreased.
We’re comfortable, of course. We’ve been wise in investing our money so we have plenty for the future. But if we’re spending stupidly, unnecessarily, then that money will eventually run out far before we’re prepared.
Jessica and I spend the night how we normally do. We cook dinner together, eat together, clean up together, and then loungearound together. As I’m laying next to her in bed, I stare at the ceiling for many long hours.
I swear, I can still catch a hint of Lemon’s cherry flavor, even after I brushed my teeth. Now that the world around me has turned off for the night, my lips tingle again. My fingers twitch to touch him. The unfamiliar warmth of his mouth on mine, his body pressed against me, is like a phantom touch on my skin.
By the next morning, I’m exhausted having not slept much. I eat the breakfast Jessica prepares for me and accept my lunch with thanks as I kiss her on my way out the door.
When I’m parked, I stop into the drink shop under the library—The Queer Palace Café—and order a Harry Mary shake before heading to my office to drop my things off. It’s early, but I wander to the athletic building and down the halls as I search out Lemon’s office.
He’s in the greens, blues, and white hall that seems to be filled with football coaches. I’m beginning to think there’s more than one team by the time I reach his door and tap on it lightly. Part of me hopes he’s not here, so I can walk away and forget about it.
“Yes?” his voice answers.
My stomach flips and I shiver. Pushing open the door, I step inside. I’m both surprised and not at Lemon’s office. It’s the size of a small bedroom. The walls are light lavender and sage. He has sets of windows on two perpendicular walls, each framed by baby pink gauzy curtains. His teal desk is enormous and has a teal laptop on top. He looks almost dwarfed where he’s sitting behind it in a large teal gaming chair.
To my right is a seating area with a bright pink couch and two matching chairs that surround a furry white rug. To my left is a shelf filled with awards and trophies and a deluxe coffee station. This is like an executive office.
I look at Lemon with slightly startled eyes.
He’s staring back with his lips pursed and eyes narrowed. Stepping inside, I shut the door slightly behind me. “Hey,” I start. “So I think?—”
“I don’t really care what you think,” he snaps. I frown at him. “You’ve somehow managed to take all my ideas and get to have all the credit for them.”
“I’m happy to include you,” I insist. “I’ve been trying to include the entire department.”
“I’m not interested. My players will not be participating in your events.”
“Don’t you think that’s selfish? You’re purposefully going to make them feel excluded for your own personal feelings.”
He glares. “I don’t need your charity.”
I sigh and close my eyes. Why is he so fucking maddening? So damn stubborn, and for what?
“Lemon—”
“You can leave,” he says. “We have nothing to discuss.”
Rolling my eyes, I just stare at him. How can I bring up what I actually want to when he’s hell bent on being bitter?
“You don’t even belong here, Hansley. You’re a hockey player. Not a coach.” His tone is bitter. “They’ll see that.”
I continue to stare at him. Did he really just say that to me? Seriously? What the fuck? Without another word, I turn and leave his office, shutting the door behind me a little harder than I need to. His words don’t hurt. I won’t let them hurt. He’s not saying it because it’s true; he’s saying what he thinks will hurt me because he’s angry for whatever reason.
There are two men walking down the hall and I pause to wait for them, wondering if they’re more football coaches.
“Hi,” one says with a wide grin. I recognize the second man now that he’s next to me. Declan Whitaker, one of the athletic trainers. “I’m Alka. This is Declan.”
