I stare at him. He grins so damn proud of himself, and winks. I laugh and shove him. He grabs me and pulls me in for a scorching kiss before he rolls himself off the bed. He points to the condom still around his cock. “Gotta take care of business.”
I nod and watch him disappear into the bathroom, closing the door behind him and leaving me with nothing but the faint street light breaking through a gap in the curtains. His bed is warm and so damn soft. Just as soft as that bed at the Beverly Wilshire from that night I refuse to think about. And now I don’t have to think about it. I have new, better, wilder memories of Tate to replay in my mind whenever I want.
I reach for my pajamas and wiggle into them without really getting up and then I burrow under the blankets again and inhale the scent of him—of us—on the sheets. I smile as my lids grow heavy. This can’t be wrong. We can’t be making a terrible mistake here. Maybe this is the start of something right. Something good and genuine and meant to be. I deserve that. So does Tate and especially Dylan.
That’s my last coherent thought as sleep pulls me under.
When I wake up, it's to the sound of a seagull mewing outside the half-opened window and Dylan whining. I stretch. The opposite side of the bed feels awfully cold and Dylan's whines are awfully close. My eyes open slowly and with everything I see my heart sinks. Because it's my night table beside me. My light gray sheets, not Tate’s charcoal ones. At the foot of the bed is Dylan’s sleeping pod, not the old steamer trunk Tate has at the foot of his bed. The bed I fell asleep in.
He must have moved me back into my bed when he came out of the bathroom. Or I sleep-walked here, which is highly unlikely. I don’t think I’ve ever sleep-walked a day in my life but maybe there’s a first time for everything? I sit up, pull back the covers, and walk over to get Dylan out of his crib.
The door swings open slowly and Tate’s head pops in. He’s got the cutest bed head and it makes me smile. “Morning, baby girl.”
That makes me smile bigger. “Morning.”
“I heard him stirring,” Tate says as I pull Dylan out of his crib. “Thought I would grab him so you could sleep more if you want. You were pretty exhausted. Didn’t even wake when I carried you to your bed.”
"Yeah, I was a bit confused when I woke up," I regret saying it as soon as I do because I already know the answer. I've watched his M.O. with Diana, up close and personal.
On that trip where Dylan was conceived, Diana and I were sharing this very room. When we were done for the night, they would slink off into his room, or she would sneak off to his room as I got ready for bed, and I would fall asleep alone. But every morning when I woke up she was back in the bed with me.
I asked about it once and she explained it with one phrase and a shrug. “He doesn’t do sleepovers.”
I’m not special or different. He never said I was. This is the same as all his other hookups.
“Mal? You cool?”
He’s looking at me curiously. I nod and smile.
“Yep.” I hand him Dylan, who immediately starts to whimper. “Don’t take it personally, he is not a morning person.”
Tate looks slightly crestfallen but he nods. I motion to the door. “Go downstairs and put him in his pack-n-play while you make him a smoothie with pineapple, mango, and the sugar-free vanilla oat milk. I'll be down in a sec."
“Okay,” Tate says and disappears out the door, closing it behind him. I head to the bathroom and take a quick shower. When I get out I wipe the steam off the mirror and stare at myself in it.
Tate has never been anything but Tate. I knew that but deep inside me, I hoped that this… thatI… was different. I’m not.
So far… my heart whispers.
I glare at my own reflection, but I know it’s useless. As wrong as it is, as stupid and reckless as it is, and even if I’m dooming myself to heartbreak—the heartbreak I’ve purposely avoided my whole life by keeping Tate firmly in the friends zone—I’m going to keep being with him. For as long as he wants me. Because I want him and I’m going to hope against hope that somehow he starts to see me as more than just a bed buddy.
Yeah. I’m an idiot. But at least I’m honest with myself about it.
Chapter18
Tate
“Garrison!” Coach Braddock bellows my name into the conditioning room.
We didn't have on-ice practice this morning because we have a game tonight, but we have conditioning practice and mandatory video review sessions for strategy. But he is bellowing like I missed a pass or cost us a goal in a game or something. My whole body freezes, the dumbbells hanging from my hands. "Yes, Coach?"
“My office for a minute. Now.”
Every single one of my teammates' eyebrows shoot up but no one says anything. I walk over to the rack put the weights down, grab my water bottle, and head straight to the coach's office. Coach Braddock is already sitting behind his desk stirring a cup of steaming liquid. It's not coffee, I don't think. "Ever had chai?"
“I don’t think so.”
I slowly close the door behind me but he waves at me to stop. Okay, that’s good, right? It’s not some super-secret conversation. He leans forward in his chair and sniffs the contents of his cup and makes a face. “I think it tastes like dirt and weeds but the wife insists this will make me live longer. And my kid has left me high and dry. Declan, my eldest turned her onto it. He’s a trainer. For the Winterhawks. Did you know that? Just started mid-season.”
