“I think I’d like to see that sometime.”
“I’ll probably get cleared to play next week. We’re getting really close to the end. If all goes well, we’ll make the playoffs. Will you come to a game?” I sound like a teenager asking a girl out for the first time.
“Maybe.” There’s rustling on her end, like she’s settling into bed. The mental image doesn’t help my concentration. “What do you wear to a hockey game?”
My jersey and nothing else.
Thank god I don’t say that out loud. I press my hand to my chest and look down at my lap. My dick is hard just at the mere thought of her in my jersey. I clear my throat before I continue.
“It can get pretty cold in the stands, but I’ll get you a VIP box so you’ll be warm and cozy.
“VIP? You don’t have to make a fuss.”
“You are a very important person.”
“Hardly.” She snorts.
A comfortable silence stretches between us, and I make an impulsive decision.
“I could come over,” I say quietly. “Just for a little while. I miss you.”
The silence that follows is different. Shit. I’m like a giant puppy slobbering all over her.
“I…” she starts, then stops. “I don’t think that’s a good idea tonight.”
“Oh.” I try not to sound disappointed. “That’s fine. No pressure.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to see you.” Her voice has that whisper-quality again. “It’s just… my father might come home, and I don’t think…”
“Your father?” I frown. “Would that be a problem?”
“No, no,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just late, and he gets, um, protective sometimes.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Protective how?”
“It’s nothing. He’s just old-fashioned about… I don’t want drama, you know?”
I don’t know. But I also don’t want to push her away by pushing too hard.
“Rain check, then,” I say, trying to sound light. “Tomorrow maybe?”
“Tomorrow would be better. I’ll text you when I’m free.”
Alarm bells are going off in my head, and I don’t know why. I haven’t dated many omegas before and Ash isn’t just any omega. She’s… mine. I want to storm over there and fix whatever is making her seem nervous, but I say instead, “I should let you sleep.”
“Yeah.” Her voice softens again. “Beckett?”
“Mm?”
“I’m really glad you called.”
The simple admission warms me from the inside out. “Me too. Sweet dreams, Ash.”
“Night.”
The call ends, and I sit there for a moment, the phone still pressed to my ear like I might catch some echo of her voice. The unease lingers as I pull back onto the empty highway. Something about her father, about her home situation, feels wrong.
The house is dark except for the porch light when I pull up. I drop my keys in the bowl by the door, the soft clink echoing in the quiet space. It almost hurts that my fantasy of her waiting for me in nothing but my jersey doesn’t match the dark house.
