33
SET FACEOFF PLAY: A REHEARSED PLAY FOLLOWING A FACEOFF WIN
Iwake up before Brennan does.
That alone feels different. Before, he was always the one who leapt out of bed for practice. Now, it’s me who wakes because the sun has reached the edge of the curtains and I’m used to being up this early for work.
I feel the warmth of his body curling around me. Behind me, Brennan’s chest rises and falls steadily. His arm curved aroundmy waist like he’s guarding something precious instead of claiming it. Reminding me why I feel both sore and invigorated in the best ways as I recall the number of times Brennan reached for me throughout the night. My lips curve as I remember the feel of Brennan on me, below me, behind me.
I don’t want to move an inch if that means losing the tangible proof that we’re here. Together.
His being asleep gives me time to think about what’s happened between us. How far we’ve come since he moved to town.
Then I think about our coming together last night. The emotion in every touch. The trust we both handed to each other.
I should be scared, but I’m not. It just feels right. Waking up in his arms makes me feel content in ways I can’t easily explain.
Shifting slightly, I feel his arm flex instantly. His forehead nuzzles into my shoulder, breath warm against my skin.
He doesn’t wake and for the moment, I’m grateful for that.
I think back to everything I lost and it wasn’t just my reputation. It was the simplicity of a man who holds me tight against him as if he’s afraid of letting me go.
Turning carefully in his arms, I face him.
Brennan looks different asleep—more relaxed. The tension lines near his eyes have smoothed out. His jaw is unclenched. He looks like someone who fought a battle and finally has returned to his safe place to rest.
I stare at his handsome face, but he’s sleeping like the dead and doesn’t feel the intensity of my gaze. I reach out before I can stop myself, tracing my finger lightly along the scar near his temple—the one caused by his injury. His brow furrows, lips parting slightly.
Then his eyes fly open.
For a split second, panic flashes across his face—pure instinct. Then recognition. Relief.
“Hey,” I whisper. “What caused that reaction?”
He blinks a few times, then exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night. “You’re actually here. I thought it might be a dream.”
Something inside me softens. “Yes, I am.”
His shoulders sag in visible relief, and the sight of it makes my eyes burn. “I wake up every day afraid you might think I’ve crossed a line,” he admits. “That I took something you weren’t ready to give.”
I shake my head. “Last night wasn’t something you took.”
He watches me closely.
“It was something I chose to share with you because you showed me I could believe in this—us—again. You didn’t ruin anything.”
“I’m still terrified I might do something wrong and hurt you.”
I give him complete transparency. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was too.”
He props himself up against the headboard. I snuggle into his arms, against his broad chest. There’s no noise other than the sheets shifting as we both get comfortable. Within our warm cocoon, we’re opening up to invite honesty and truth instead of hurt.
“I don’t want to pretend that we’re completely fixed.”
“I still have to do the work.”
“Westill have to put in the work,” I correct him. Before emotions flow over, I need him to appreciate where my head and heart are at. “Because whatever we do going forward, we do it together.”
