This is happening. Maya's going to come down here, and we're going to have sex.Physical. Healing. Safe.
Except it won't be just physical for me. It'll be everything I've wanted for years wrapped up in rules designed to keep feelings out of it.
I'm already breaking rule number five. Have been for years.
I check my phone again. 10:45 p.m. The house is quiet above me; everyone settled for the night. I wonder if Maya's changed her mind, if she's lying in bed right now talking herself out of coming down here.
Part of me hopes she does. Part of me hopes she decides this is too much, too fast, too complicated.
The other part, the part that's been in love with her for eight years, hopes she doesn’t.
I stand and pace the room. Five steps to the wall, turn, five steps back. My heart's racing like I just finished a shift on the ice, and my hands won't stop shaking.
This is different from anything I've ever done. Different from hookups after games, different from the few relationships I've had over the years. This matters in a way those never did.
Because it's Maya.
And if I fuck this up, if I push too hard or not hard enough, if I make her feel unsafe or uncomfortable or anything less than in control, I'll never forgive myself.
The clock on my nightstand reads 11:00 p.m. Maybe she's not coming. Maybe she decided?—
Footsteps on the basement stairs. Quiet, hesitant.
My heart stops.
A soft knock on the door.
"Jackson?"
Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Yeah. Come in."
The door opens.
And there she is.
14
MAYA
His room is exactly what I expected. Sparse, clean, hockey gear in the corner, a framed photo on the dresser. The bed's unmade, sheets twisted like he was restless last night.
Jackson is standing in the middle of the room in pajama pants and a t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders. His hands are at his sides, not reaching for me, waiting.
"We don't have to do this," he says. "We can just talk. Or I can walk you back upstairs."
"I want to." My voice is steadier than I feel. "I need to."
"Okay." He moves to sit on the edge of the bed. "Come here."
I close the door behind me and lock it.
He's watching me carefully, not with hunger, though I can see want in his eyes, more like he's trying to read my comfort level, figure out where my boundaries are.
I'm suddenly aware of how little I'm wearing: pajama shorts and a tank top, no bra. The fabric is thin, and I can feel the cool air of his room against my skin.
“How do you want to do this?” he asks.
