“Make sure you clean up after yourselves, please. There’s not enough money in the world that I could pay my janitorial staff to deal with your sex mess.”
Once the door clicks shut, it seems that neither Elliot or I can hold it together anymore. We both burst into a fit of hysterics, our laughter lasting longer than our not-so-secret tryst.
19
"BECAUSE IT'S CHRISTMAS?—"
"IT'S DECEMBER TENTH"
Elliot
“Scarlett, I swear to god, if you bite my ankle one more time, I’m feeding you to the overgrown pigeons on the balcony,” I grumble to the two-and-a-half-pound demon void currently digging her vampire fangs into the side of my foot. It doesn’t seem to matter to the fur monster that I’ve spent the last two weeks filling Alex’s home with toy mice, birds that chirp and flap, a cat-friendly ball of yarn meant to be destroyed, and even one of those cat exercise wheel things. Nope, evil little Scarlett doesn’t give a single fuck about any of the toys the vet recommended for stimulation and chewing. Not when her favorite toy, my lower leg, is here and ripe for biting.
In the days since bringing Scarlett home to Alex’s, I haven’t spent a night in my own bed. Neither of us has left the apartment much at all, except to go to our separate practices. All preconceived notions I might have had about keeping my distance to protect myself from heartbreak flew right out the window the night of the adoption event. Alex, Scarlett and I came back here, and once the kitten had found a nice, half-crocheted blanket to fall asleep on, I returned Alex’s favor from the stadium closet. Once I’d finished him off with my mouth, he curled into my chest and asked me to cuddle for a bit before I went home. We both ended up falling asleep, and a week later, I’m still here.
The Thunder have played three games this week, and they won every single one. Alex has been nearly unstoppable on the ice, a goddamn brick wall built especially to keep the puck out of the net. He’s been so fully in the zone, and he attributes it all to me and our hook ups.
Me? I’m trying desperately to pretend that I haven’t fallen so damn hard for him, and that I’m just happy to be his good luck charm. Thankfully, the cat gives me another excuse to hide my feelings behind. Of course, I can’t go back to my apartment. Of course, I have to spend all of my time here, evenwhen Alex is away like he is today. Scarlett needs company. That’s all.
It has nothing to do with my pathetic need to absorb as much of Alex as I can before the final buzzer blares on this situationship and I’m forced to pretend that being just friends with the most incredible person I’ve ever met was ever going to be enough for me.
Nope. I’m totally chill.
Oblivious to my overthinking—and the blood she’s already drawn from my feet tonight—Scarlett continues to pounce and attack my calves as I slouch in the neon green chair, only half-listening to the commentators on TV rehashing this afternoon’s game between the Thunder and the Denver Destroyers.
The chirp of the automatic lock on the front door chimes through the room, and Scarlett launches herself off my leg and bounds towards the sound of Alex returning home.
Another perk to the cat parent life? She’s quicker to meet Alex than I am. I’ll take all the biting and potential cat scratch fever if she continues to make me look chill, as if I’m not buzzing to ricochet off the nearest surface just to get to the door and to my man a little bit faster.
“Oh, who’s a pretty kitty? Who’s the princess ofMeow Town? Who’s the sweetest little fluff muffin in the whole bakery?”
Crossing the room, I find Alex in the kitchen, his travel duffle bag at his feet and Franny slung over his shoulder. He’s still in his post-game suit, but true to form, he’s put his own stylistic twist to it. His jacket and pants are a rosy pink, covered from top to bottom in glittering, periwinkle snowflakes—flamboyant and yet still appropriate, given the season. He snuggles Scarlett to his face, grinning as she licks a spot on his chin where if I had to guess, there’s still a bit of strawberry jelly from his post-game sandwiches lingering.
“I think you’re the sweetest little fluff muffin in the whole bakery,” I tease, propping my elbows on the counter so I can watch Alex as he carefully kicks off his silver, Swarovski crystal-studded loafers and loosens the tie knotted around his throat with the hand not currently cradling Scarlett.
“Daddy Elliot is such a flirt. Isn’t he, Scarlett?” Alex coos in a baby voice to the cat, then leans across the counter to kiss my cheek. “Hey, babe. That was the longest two hour flight of my life. I fucking missed you. Did you catch the game? I’m still pissed about that goal they got off in the first period, but after that, I think I really found my zen out there. I was blocking shots like it’s my job. I mean, I know itactually is my job, but you know what I mean. I picked up ice cream on the way home. Cookie dough, of course, but they also had this weird, strawberry balsamic concoction that I think we have to try. I got whipped cream, too, so if it sucks, we’ll just drown out the flavor with the whipped cream and hot fudge. And since it’s my turn to pick the movie, and because it’s Christmas?—”
“It’s December tenth.”
“And because it’s Christmas, we’re watching Love Actually, and I don’t want to hear a peep of complaining out of your pretty mouth.”
Alex moves around the kitchen as he rambles, somehow managing to pull his jacket off his shoulders and toss it across the room where it crumples into a pile on the floor, all the while putting away pints of ice cream and keeping Scarlett cuddled to his chest. The cat purrs dreamily, her tiny paws making biscuits in the front of Alex’s wrinkled dress shirt, poking teeny holes in the periwinkle fabric. The entire scene is so blissfully domestic, it makes my heart thump rapidly, an aching rhythm pounding in my chest. The smart, rational, logical side of my brain is screaming at me, wondering how the hell all the other, mushy parts let us get here. How did Alex and I go from strangers to friends to whatever the hell weare now in the blink of an eye, and why didn’t I try harder not to fall for him?
Because I have fallen. I can’t lie to myself any longer. As I pretend to listen to Alex babble on about how I need to prepare myself to watch Alan Rickman break Emma Thompson’s heart, the truth echoes in my skull.
I’m in love with him. I’m so in love with him that I feel smothered by it. I can’t breathe, can’t eat, can’t think. All I know is Alex. All I want is this, every single night for the rest of my life. I want to come home to each other every night. I want to wake up next to him every morning. I want to wear his jersey and cheer him on from the stands, and when it’s my turn to play on Sundays, I want to look past the uprights and see Alex in red and gold with my name on his back, cheering me on just the same.
I would feed him. I would fuck him. I’d treat him like the angel he is. I’d make him forget every woman who came before me and every person who ever tried to dull his brilliant shine. I’d give him everything he could ever want, and that would force him to see that no one would ever treat him better than I could.
But that’s not what he wants, and if I open my big mouth and spew my feelings all over him when he’smade it clear from day one that this is all temporary, I’ll ruin everything.
So I do what I have to do to make it through the next few months with any shred of my dignity intact.
I zip my lips shut, and I distract Alex with sex.
Rounding the counter, I grip the flat stovetop on either side of him, crowding covering his body with mine and bring my lips down to the crook of his neck.
“Ice cream sounds great, baby. But how about we save it for after?”
