“This is perfect. Now I get to know what you like on Thanksgiving,” I say as I begin to open the containers.
Aiden moves behind me, wrapping his arms around me and tucking his chin on my shoulder. A rush of happiness runs through me from the sweet, intimate contact.
“What do we have?” he murmurs, his breath rushing across my skin.
I have thoughts of abandoning dinner and this whole Christmas tree decorating idea as soon as his lips tease the side of my neck. I squirm, and Aiden laughs softly into my skin.
“Sorry. I’ll behave.” He stands upright, but puts his hands on my shoulders as her peers down into the containers.
“This is what my mom makes every Thanksgiving,” I say. “We have herb-roasted turkey, cornbread dressing, green beans, mashed potatoes, and just for you, a can of jelled cranberry sauce.”
Aiden begins to massage my shoulders. “This looks so good. Thank you.”
I forget what he’s saying as I feel his calloused fingertips knead my skin. God, this feels amazing. “I’m happy we get to have this dinner together,” I say.
“Me, too.”
Aiden moves around me and retrieves two plates from my cupboard. I bring out some silverware, and we fill our plates with food and take turns heating them in the microwave.
We sit down on the sofa, side by side, and then Aiden looks at me. “This means a lot to me,” he says, his voice low. “I’m thankful to be here with you.”
“I am, too. Are you still going to be thankful when we’re trying to string lights on the tree?”
His eyes dance at me. “Yes.” Aiden leans over and gives me a quick kiss. Then he turns back to his food, taking a bite of his dressing.
I study him for a moment before turning my attention back to my plate. I’m actually having my first Thanksgiving with Aiden. I’m giddy. Grateful.
Thankful.
And with these thoughts in my head, I enjoy my first holiday with Aiden.
* * *
I walk around the basement level of the arena, making my way to the ice for warm-ups. It’s Friday night, Miami is playing Nashville, and this game marks something significant for me.
I’m attending as Aiden’s girlfriend.
That wonderful feeling appears in my stomach again—the butterflies. I still can’t believe I can call myself that.
Miami is starting a homestand tonight that goes through next week, I’m excited that we’ll be able to spend so much time together.
I’ve brought my camera with me, so I can get some good pictures. I always love honing my photography skills, and it’s nice to practice on something other than Real Miami players, too.
Especially if one of the players is Aiden.
I smile to myself as I walk down the familiar concrete corridors of Premier Airlines Arena, wrapped up in thoughts of him. We had a great night last night—eating our Thanksgiving meal together, decorating the tree, then snuggling on the couch in the glow of twinkling white lights and watching TV. It was perfect.
I round another corner and spot a pretty blonde girl wearing a black tube top bedazzled in hot-pink and crystal-colored beads. It says, “BAILEY 92”, and I instantly recognize her from the Connectivity Story Share Aiden showed me last night.
She’s Beckham Bailey’s girlfriend.
When I see her outfit, my stomach instantly tightens. I’m wearing a black off-the-shoulder sweater, jeans, and heels. Butthis girl can proudly wear Beckham’s number. The world can know she’s dating him because it’s not considered wrong. She doesn’t have to hide the fact that Beckham is her boyfriend, and worry that anyone finding out she’s dating him would ruin his career.
I try to push the thought down. I don’t want to think about how my relationship with Aiden is breaking all kinds of rules, even if they’re unwritten ones.
Instead, I pick up on the fact that she looks lost, and I decide to see if I can help her. “Hello,” I say.
“Hi,” she says. Then she stops walking. “Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to the rink? I’m here to watch my boyfriend, and I can’t remember which way to go.”
