EMMETT
The past two weeks since Vegas have been torture. Not on the ice. On the ice, we've been killing it. Six wins in a row since Vegas. I've been playing some of the best hockey of my career, channeling all my frustration into every shift. Every hit. Every shot. The frustration has a name. Joelle St. Pierre.
Since Vegas, we’ve agreed to keep our distance, except that most nights have been spent sexting.
It started the morning after Vegas. A simple message from her.
Joelle: We can't keep doing this.
I should have left it there. But I couldn't.
Emmett: I know. But I'm not sorry.
Joelle: I wish I was but I'm not sure I am.
And now we're in this weird limbo. By day we are colleagues, strictly professional, but at night we flirt over text, which then leads to phone calls, which leads to us getting each other off.Hearing her say my name when she comes has me blowing in seconds. And the next morning, we act as if the dirty things we said to each other last night never happened.
Then there are the dark corners where we seem to find each other. The supply closet at practice where I accidentally cornered her while looking for tape. The elevator at the hotel in Florida, where we rode down twelve floors, standing so close I could feel her breath on my neck. The hallway outside the locker room where she was waiting for Pierre, and I walked past, letting my hand brush against hers for just a second. We don't kiss. We don't cross the line. Not there anyway. But fuck, we dance right up to it every chance we get. It's driving me insane.
"You look like shit." Sully drops into the seat beside me on the team plane.
"Thanks. Always good to hear from you."
"Seriously. Have you not been sleeping well?"
I shrug. "I sleep fine. Am I not getting enough goals for you?"
His eyes narrow on me. "You're fucking killing it. But I've noticed the bags under your eyes. Is something keeping you up late at night? Or is it a someone?" His voice drops low.
"Drop it."
"I'll take that as a yes." He shakes his head.
I turn and glare at him.
"No need to say anymore. Please don't tell me it's with who I think it is?"
"Sully."
His eyes widen. "You're playing with fire, man."
"No shit."
He glances around to make sure no one's listening. "Look, I get it. She's hot. But Pierre and Felix would literally murder you. Like, actual murder. They'd bury your body somewhere no one would ever find it."
"I'm aware."
"Are you? Because you don't seem aware. You seem like a guy who's about to do something really fucking stupid. Or is doing something fucking stupid."
"No lines have been crossed."
"Yet," he bites back.
I don't answer.
We land in New York late, and tomorrow is Thanksgiving. For the first time in years, I'm actually looking forward to it. Ember, my twin sister, is coming to New York this year. Usually, I head back home to Wisconsin with Sully. But Mom is on a cruise, so she’s not home. He, too, has a twin sister. Our sisters are best friends, and their husbands, the four of them, were all high school sweethearts. They also own a real estate business where they flip houses. Kevin, my brother-in-law, is a real estate agent. Trevor, Sully's brother-in-law, is the contractor. And our sisters are the interior design girls. They do well for themselves.
I haven't seen her since the summer. We talk all the time, but we're both so busy that we can go for long stretches before speaking again. She knows me better than anyone, and yet I haven't told her about Jo. I'm probably scared of what she is going to say. Which is that it's a bad idea.
