“He got hurt badly and ... never recovered.” I clear my throat to get rid of the knot forming there.
“Damn,” he whispers.
“He used to go to all my games. Sometimes, Mom couldn’t make it, but he was always there cheering me on, coaching my teams, driving me around...” I feel myself smile again at the memories.
“My parents have never seen me play.”
My eyes snap back to his. “Never?”
“Not once,” he says. “Not in person anyway.”
“How can that be?” I search his face, looking for tells that he’s joking, but he’s dead serious.
“They never took it seriously. I had drivers take me to games and practices. My grandfather and uncle were usually there, so it’s not like I had no family in the stands.”
I instinctively reach out for his hand and cover it with mine.
He tenses. “I don’t want your pity. Trust me, I was afforded many luxuries. Your pity would be lost on me.”
“I’m allowed to feel sympathy for little Finn Alexander Barlow, who was probably thecutestkid on the ice.” I run my thumb over his rough hand. “I would’ve loved to have been there.”
He stares at me for a long time, his eyes cataloging my face before meeting my gaze. I can’t read his expression, but when he turns his hand beneath mine and threads our fingers together, I feel like my heart might explode.
By the time we get home, pictures of me and Finn are everywhere. Thankfully, they mention the Alma Foundation, so the attentionisn’t wasted. The comments, of course, are all over the place. I ignore my notifications and make sure my sponsored post is scheduled, then set my phone on Do Not Disturb and put it away.
“Do you ever get tired of doing that?” Finn asks, as we step into the elevator in our building.
We haven’t even been able to discuss the event since I was on the phone with my mom the entire car ride home, trying to explain that Finn and I aren’t together as inconspicuously as I could with him beside me. I watch as he takes off his bow tie, stuffs it in his pants, and unbuttons the top two buttons of his crisp, white dress shirt. He looks mouthwatering like this. I make myself look away and focus on the doors.
“I like connecting with people and the brands pay me for these posts.” I look at him again. “Do you get tired of it?”
He chuckles. “I don’t connect with anyone. No one who follows me checks on whether or not they miss one of my posts.”
I highly doubt that’s true, but I don’t say that. “That’s because you only post professional pictures taken at games.”
His eyes sparkle. “Stalking me, Josslyn?”
“No.” I laugh quietly and look away again, hoping to hide the warmth on my cheeks.
Thankfully, the elevator doors open on my floor and I’m able to walk out before he sees my embarrassment. I’m almost at my door when he reaches out and takes my hand, sending my heart galloping. I figured he’d walk me to my door when we got here, but I don’t know what to expect now that we’re here. He has a serious expression when I turn to him, but there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t help the state of my heart or the strange, dumb hope that blooms inside me.
“You were the most beautiful woman in the room tonight,” he says, voice low as he steps forward, backing me against my door.
“Thank you,” I breathe.
“It took every ounce of willpower I have not to do this.” He cups my face and tilts it with his free hand, bringing his mouth against mine.
It’s a soft kiss. One that he deepens quickly, sweeping his tongue into my mouth as he pushes up against me. I instantly feel like I’m on fire. I let go of his hand and tug his jacket to bring him closer. There’s no room left between us, but it still doesn’t seem like it’s close enough. I’ve wanted men before, but I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want him. When he breaks the kiss, just as slowly and softly as he started, he sets his forehead against mine and lets out a harsh breath.
“One more night?” I ask quietly. Hopefully.Stupidly.
I should be terrified of even wanting that. The things I feel for him—that I’ve always felt when he’s around—are terrifying. Despite everything, it would be so damn easy for me to fall for him. But one more night won’t hurt. And I want him so badly. I want the scary, all-encompassing feeling he gives me. He nods, then pulls away and takes a step back, letting me open the door to my apartment. Once inside, I expect to end up with my back against the door, fumbling with his belt, but Finn takes a step inside and looks around, the way he did in my childhood bedroom.
I sit on the barstool and start unstrapping my heels, as he lifts one of the picture frames I have on my entrance table and looks at it. It’s me and my dad at one of his games when I was around four years old. I have a lot of pictures with him around my place, and most are basketball-related. When Mom gave them to me as a housewarming gift and placed them all around my apartment, I thought I’d look at them all the time, but I rarely do. It’s hard to see him smiling wide in all those pictures, knowing that he wasn’t happy. I went to therapy long enough to understand that it had nothing to do with me, but it didn’t make it any easier to understand.
I clear my throat. “He hung himself.”
Finn’s head whips toward me, a mix of sympathy and disbelief in his eyes. He sets down the frame but doesn’t walk closer to me, which I appreciate. With the way he’s looking at me, if he touches me right now, I know I’ll cry. I always do. “Shit, Joss. I knew he’d ... but I didn’t realize...”
