“And a locker like me.” He kisses her cheek.
I look over as Deacon lifts Savannah.
“Thank you all for —”
Aleks stops me, “No thanks needed, we’re a team.”
He takes Sophie’s hand and pulls her up, and she smiles, “Family.”
I wake and see it’s eight thirty in the morning, and Lucy is still sound asleep. I slide out of her bed quietly, not only because we’d talked about her sleeping in her room alone since she’s starting school, but because I missed saying goodbye to Lenzin this morning, and checking on Anna, who has a concussion.
I slide out carefully, so the mattress doesn’t shift, tug the blanket back around her shoulder, and grab the first sweatshirt I see and pull it over my head without thinking.
It’s his.
It hangs loose and warm and smells like him, and I don’t examine why that makes my stomach dip the way it does.
I glance back when I hear her move, and she’s sprawled across her bed, one arm over her head, hair tangled across her cheek, breathing deep and even.
Good.
I round the corner and stop.
He’s at the window.
Just standing there.
Bare feet on hardwood, dark gray sweats sitting low on his hips, broad shoulders squared like he’s deep in thought. The morning light cuts across him, outlining the hard lines of his back, the easy strength in the way he carries himself even when he’s standing unmoving.
I actually forgot why I walked out here.
Women joke about hockey players’ asses, and I used to roll my eyes at that. I thought it was ridiculous. Immature. Objectifying.
Now I’m standing in the hallway staring at myboyfriendin gray sweatpants and thinking maybe there are peer-reviewed journals dedicated to this phenomenon, and I would absolutely volunteer as a research assistant.
“You’re staring,” he says without turning.
“I am not.”
He turns slowly anyway, because of course he does, and that is objectively worse. His hair is still sleep tousled, curling at the ends. His eyes are lighter this morning, less guarded and darker than last night. He takes in the oversized sweatshirt I threw on, the way it swallows me, and something shifts in his expression. Not lust exactly. Something softer. Possessive in a way that makes my stomach flutter.
“You missed me this morning.”
Not accusing, but confident… perhaps even a little bit cocky.
“And I didn’t check on Anna all night,” I say, because guilt is my default setting.
He walks toward me slowly, unhurried, like he knows I am not going anywhere. “Anna’s fine. She’s flying out this morning. She feels more comfortable seeing her doctor.”
“Is that safe?” I ask immediately.
“We fly with concussions all the time.”
“Wait, what happened? Why does she need a doctor? Did she?—”
“I’m vain. Completely and totally.”Anna.
I turn, and there she is, already dressed, sunglasses on inside like a celebrity avoiding paparazzi. “I trust my plastic surgeon.”
