“Fuck, Lach.” She digs her fingernails into my forearms. I set my forehead on hers and breathe for a moment. When I pull back, I wait until she’s looking at me.
“Tell me you’re mine.”
“Tell meyou’remine,” she counters with a pant.
“You know I’m yours and only yours.” I thrust again.
She bites her lip to keep from crying out, but sounds escape her anyway. She narrows her eyes on me again when I stop moving.
“I’m yours. Only yours. Forever,” she says, crying out when I really start to fuck her.
I know it’s the calm before the storm, and I don’t know how this will end, but this moment is one I’ll remember for a long time.
CHAPTER52
LACHLAN
“I’m shockedhe didn’t change the locks to this place,” she says, pushing open the door of the guest house in her father’s yard.
We both step in. It must feel weird for her to be back here. It’s weird for me and I’ve only been once. God, that luncheon feels like a lifetime ago. In a sense, it was. Even though time normally seems to fly by, these past three have been the longest of my life. I shut the door and set the empty box we brought on the bed.
“They cleaned it,” she says quietly as she looks around. “But they left it the same.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking to herself or me, but I remain silent. What am I supposed to say? I sit at the edge of the bed as she walks to the bookshelf and stares at it for a moment before she picks up her trophy. It’s so heavy that she needs both hands to carry it, and even then, I can tell she’s getting a bit of a workout from it. I stand up and take it, setting it on the bed for her. She stands over it and stares. I wish I could crawl into her brain and find out what she’s thinking. Is she regretting the decision to quit the sport she loved? Is she sad that instead of trying out for a professional team, she went to med school? I can’t imagine it'll be easy for her to do that, especially when it comes to soccer players.
I’m sure any kind of medical field is difficult to get into and graduate from, and I’m proud as fuck of her for doing it, but I wish she’d go back to soccer. She’s too talented to let it go to waste. There’s no age limit to become a doctor. She can go back to it later. Of course, I can’t say that aloud because I’ll sound like the ultimate hypocrite, but my situation is entirely different. She felt forced to quit, and over time, became used to the idea of not playing. I chose to step away from hockey. I hate that she’s shouldering the blame for it, but I made peace with it even before I signed with Florida. The only reason I even played was because I didn’t want to regret not doing it. Three years was enough. Well, it wasn’t, but without her, I felt like I was dying a slow death anyway, so what’s the point? Hockey went from being an escape to becoming a burden. Each time I scored, she was all I could think about. Each time my skates hit the ice became a reminder that it was another moment without her, so I hung them up. I don’t regret it at all.
Lyla snaps out of her trance, reaches for the bubble wrap and tape in the box, and starts to wrap the trophy. By the time she’s finished, it looks safe enough, so I pick it up and set it in the box. She goes back to the bookshelf and scans the books quickly, not taking any, then moves to the drawers. I watch her face as she takes out each item — mostly her baggy shirts — and sets them on the bed.
“Are you taking those?” I ask, my eyes on Lauryn Hill’s face on the one on top.
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “I can use them as pajamas.”
I smile, glad that she no longer wants to use them as a shield to hide and protect herself. I hate that she felt like she needed to in the first place. I don’t know how women survive in this world, let alone thrive, shouldering all of their burdens and everyone else’s. I couldn’t do it. Next, she starts taking out sweatshirts and placing them into two different piles.
“What pile are you keeping?” I ask.
“This one.” She taps to the right side, where the Lauryn Hill shirt is.
She turns around and keeps taking things out. My muscles tense the moment she brings out the Yale sweatshirt.
“Whose is that?”
Her eyes snap up, as she holds the sweatshirt over herself. “Mine.”
“Did you get it from a guy?”
She stares at me for a long moment, frowning as she tries to recall either where she got it, or how I’d know where she got it. Finally, her jaw drops. I expect her to be upset, and I’m ready for the argument. No way am I letting her keep that shit. I watch her watch me, and suddenly she bursts out laughing. A real, doubled-over laugh that makes my lips pull into a smile and chuckle a little, even though I know she’s laughing at me. She’s so beautiful when she lets herself go like this.
“I cannot believe you,” she says, gasping as she wipes her eyes.
“You went to prom with him.”
This makes her pause for a moment, staring at me like she can’t believe this, before she falls into another fit of laughter. Jesus Christ. I already know she's never going to let me live this one down.
“How?” she asks between laughs. “How can you possibly know that?”
I cock my head. “Come on, Lyla.”
