I grab my bag and head inside, trying and failing to keep from immediately jumping to worst-case scenarios. Is she sick? Did something happen at work? Is April okay?
“Heather?” I call out as I drop my keys on the entry table.
“In here,” she calls back from the living room.
I find her curled up on the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees, papers spread out on the cushion beside her. She’s wearing leggings and one of my old hoodies—the grey one she claimed weeks ago and never gave back—and her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot.
Fucking gorgeous, in other words.
She looks up when I walk in, and my chest tightens at the sight of her here, comfortable and settled in a way that I’m starting to see more and more.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, crossing the room toward her. “You’re home early.”
“I’m fine.” She sets the laptop aside and stretches her arms over her head. “There was a water main break in our building. They had to shut everything down for repairs, so everyone got sent home for the rest of the day.”
The tension in my shoulders eases. “So you’re not sick.”
“Not sick,” she confirms with a small smile. “Just unexpectedly off work.”
“Good.” I drop my bag by the couch and lean down to kiss her. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I straighten up and gesture toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I can make us something to eat.”
“I had a candy bar around noon, but I could definitely eat. What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll figure something out.” I head toward the kitchen, already running through what’s in the fridge. Chicken, probably. Definitely some vegetables. Maybe pasta.
I’m pulling ingredients from the pantry when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check the screen and recognize the number—the Canadian sports magazine that asked for an interview. An interview I scheduled for today.
Shit. I completely let it slip my mind.
I answer on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mr. Parker! This is Evelyn Chapman. We spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago.” Her voice is bright and enthusiastic. “Thanks so much for making time for this today. I know you have a busy schedule.”
“No problem.”
“Great! So I just have a few quick questions about the season so far. Should only take about fifteen minutes.”
I lean against the counter and resign myself to the next quarter hour of tedious small talk. “Sure. Go ahead.”
She starts with the standard questions. How do I feel about our record? What’s it like playing with this particular group of guys? Any predictions for the playoffs?
I answer on autopilot, giving her the same generic responses I’ve given a dozen other reporters this season. She laughs a little too hard at something I say about Theo’s terrible jokes in the locker room. That’s when I notice Heather standing in the doorway.
She’s holding her coffee mug, but she isn’t moving. She’s just watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Butwhen Evelyn laughs again, there’s no mistaking the flash of uncertainty. Like she’s second-guessing herself.
Like she thinks I’m interested in this bubbly reporter.
The possessiveness I feel surprises me. I like that she cares who I’m talking to. But I don’t like the self-doubt written all over her face, or the way she’s already pulling back into herself.
“—and I think our defensive pairings have really—hold on one second,” I say into the phone, then pull it away from my ear and press it against my chest to muffle the speaker.
I cross the kitchen in three strides and reach for Heather. She opens her mouth like she’s about to ask what I’m doing, but I don’t give her the chance. I kiss her hard and deep, claiming her mouth with enough intensity to make her gasp against my lips.
When I pull back just enough to speak, I keep my voice low. “It’s a work call. Some reporter asking about the season.”
