I pretend not to notice the sideways glances as I strip out of my gear. Sitting on the bench in my base layer, I grab clothes from my locker. Hands land on my shoulders, and I tense up. After over a decade in changing rooms, I’m still not used to people touching me when I’m not fully dressed. Partly my anxiety and partly I’m not a touchy-feely person.
Mav sits close enough that our legs touch, concern written all over his face. “Are you okay? Everyone is worried.”
“He’s not a child. He’s an NHL player who popped his fight cherry. Leave him alone.” Theo’s fists clench.
“This doesn’t concern you, Keefer,” Mav snaps back.
“The hell it doesn’t.” A murderous look crosses Theo’s face, and it’s as if I’ve been injected with a narcotic.
He’s jealous of Mav. The high surges from my head to my toes and pools in my belly. It’s so wrong, but every part of me loves it.
“Everyone, relax,” I say calmly.
As soon as Mav goes back to his locker, I grab Theo’s arm, drag him into a private shower, and back him against the wall with my hand on his throat. “I will go out there and tell everyone we’re together. But there’s no going back. Don’t make a rash decision out of jealousy.”
Theo swallows under my palm and closes his eyes. We’re so close his breath puffs against my face. “My mom never called me back.”
“Kitten, I’m so sorry.” I’m fuming a mother could treat her child so callously. “Call her when we get to the hotel. I’m not going anywhere. We can tell them or keep it to ourselves a little longer.”
“Everyone will hate me. Blame me for turning you into a fighter like me.” He slumps against me. “I can’t drag you down and ruin you as a role model.”
“I had a convo with my moms about that.” I flex my hand on his throat, and he groans. “Sorry,” I lie, loving the way he presses into my hand but reminding myself to keep it on lockdown. “Anyway, from my mom’s perspective, I can’t be a role model and deprive myself of a dating life. Walking on Pride Night isn’t the whole truth unless I’m willing to be open about my romantic relationships.And I agree. I can’t be a cardboard cutout of a Black NHL player. I have to be me. And when you’re ready, you can be you.”
Theo’s green eyes are as deep and stormy as the ocean. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Too bad. You got me.” I back away. “Shower, call your mom, and we’ll decide.”
“No. We’ll tell them now.” Theo yanks me to him for a brutal kiss, then leaves the shower. I trail behind him, breathless. “I have an announcement,” Theo yells to get everyone’s attention.
“Really, that’s how it’s goin’ down?” I laugh, wondering if he plans to warn everyone off or say something sentimental. Who am I kidding? Theo isn’t sentimental.
“Then you go.” He sweeps his arm for me to enter the center of the room. All eyes turn to me, and my skin itches.
“How many of you lost money betting O’Keefe and I would’ve punched each other by now?” A couple of the guys grumble, but no one confesses. These guys are so competitive they make side bets on all non-sports things. “Okay, who’s still in the pool?”
Brant, Benz, and Mav raise their hands. “We bet on you, baby,” Brant sings, and Theo grunts.
Words seem trivial, and I won’t be able to say enough without everyone jumping in and giving advice or asking questions.
I face Theo to confirm we’re ready for this, and he gives me a head tilt of approval.
“Did anyone bet on this?” I close the gap between us, hook my arm around Theo’s neck, and fuse our mouths together. He’s stiff for a moment, then fists my braids. For a second, we’re alone, in our bubble. Me and Theo. Connected at the lips.
The bubble bursts with hollers and backslaps. Theo growls again. “Keep your hands to yourselves. Mav, I’m talking to you.” He glowers at a stunned Mav. “And you”—he points to Brant—“no more flirting with my man online. I don’t care if you have some mystery man; you can’t have mine.”
Brant flushes bright red, which is compounded by Ari Dimon’s appearance in the locker room.
“We need Finn in on this.” Ari turns on his heel and stalks out.
Chapter 32
Theo O'Keefe
When my phone wakes me up, I’m strangling Jamal with my arms and legs. He’s practically off the bed as if he’s trying to escape, and I’m holding him in place. He told me he’s not a cuddler, and I said I’m not either.
I think I lied.
It’s more that I never shared a bed with someone and didn’t know I’m a stage-five clinger when I sleep.
