Heat builds fast, coiling tight in my stomach.
When his finger slides along my ass, brushing lightly over my puckered hole, my body jerks and clamps around him.
His low growl vibrates beneath me as I fall apart again, pleasure crashing through both of us while he pulls me tight against his chest and we ride it out together.
It’s almost too much.
When we finally come down, I’m boneless against him. Cooper doesn’t move, his arms still banded around me, his thumb tracing slow circles along my lower back. I rest my cheek on his shoulder, lips brushing the pulse in his neck.
Everything feels a little slower now. The ache is still there, just not as sharp.
I breathe him in—sweat, soap, and something that’s just him—and let myself stay.
He shifts carefully beneath me, and I feel some of the earlier tension in him start to ease.
“You think you can wrap your legs around my waist?” he murmurs. “We should probably shower.”
As we slowly separate, we groan at the loss of contact.
We’re both still damp, skin warm and sticky. He’s right—there’s no chance we’re crawling into bed like this.
“I can walk,” I say. “You’re not carrying me with that shoulder.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I have two working legs,” I insist, even as they wobble when I stand.
His mouth pulls into a smirk, but I ignore it and reach for his hand.
“C’mon. Join me.”
He steps out of his jeans, tugs off his shirt, and follows me into the bathroom.
Later, after we’re clean and the bed’s made, Cooper climbs onto the air mattress beside me. He doesn’t mention the farm or the hockey house—places we’d both sleep better—and I don’t either.
Because I don’t want him to think I’d rather he leave. And I don’t want to push him away anymore.
I settle against him, my cheek on his chest.
“Will you come to my next game?” he asks quietly.
I tilt my head up. His expression is gentle, but there’s something unwavering behind it that makes my chest tighten.
“I want you there,” he adds. “For me. Not because of today. Just… because you want to be.”
My breath stutters.
He isn’t asking me to prove anything to my father. He isn’t asking me to repair what has shattered.
He’s asking me to step into a place I just walked out of—and do it by choice.
His hand slides up my back, steady and warm. “If you don’t want to, I get it. I just… I want to look up into the stands and see you there. I want to see you in my jersey, cheering for me.”
My throat tightens because I want that too.
But the second I let myself picture it, the arena floods my mind—the stands, the hallway, that office door closing. The way his voice went cold. The feeling of being dismissed all over again.
If I go, I might see him. If I go, I won’t be able to pretend today didn’t happen.
