Laughing, Kennedy very carefully peels her naked body from mine. “I’ll make you a plate. What do you want?”
As much as I miss her warmth, the thought of food makes my mouth water. “Anything.”
She puts her hands on her hips and gives me a sassy look. “So… everything.”
I quickly take care of the condom then get back into bed as she piles a plate full of food from the buffet she ordered. It seriously looks like she got takeout from half the restaurants in New York. Or at least half the places with gluten-free offerings.
She hands me the plate and pecks my lips, then slips my t-shirt back on and joins me in bed.
“Can I ask you something?”
All I can do is nod in response. Partly because my mouth is full of pepperoni pizza and partly because Kennedy has never onceaskedme if she can ask a question. She just goes for it, disregarding how invasive or out of left field it may be.
“Remember when I said baking was isolating?”
I pause, thinking back. That conversation happened weeks ago, and I haven’t thought about it since then. “Yeah, the day you got the keys to your kitchen.”
“You said you got it.” She turns on her side, tucking her hands under her cheek, and peers up at me. “You weren’t just saying that, were you?”
“No, I wasn’t,” I reply, an unexpected edge to my voice and a lump in my throat. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not particularly skilled at lying to make people feel better.”
This startles a laugh out of her, but she sobers quickly. “I thought you meant you understood what I was saying, but now I think you meant you understand thefeeling.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Earlier, when you said that your team can mess up as a whole, but if the other team scores, it’s on you alone… it got me thinking.” Her tone is cautious, like she’s concerned her explanation may insult me. “You have twenty-three players on your team and onlyonecan replace you. That’s a lot of pressure. Your teammates skate in and out with their line mates. They can talk about plays and communicate. You… you’re always out there alone. You can’t talk to anyone or take a break if you’re having a bad night.”
With a nod, I clear my throat. “Yeah. Being a goalie can be really isolating sometimes.”
My words sit between us, heavier than I expected. I’ve never admitted to the loneliness out loud before. Not to my friends, and not to any of the sports psychologists the team’s brought in over the years. Goalies don’t complain about being lonely. We’re supposed to be different, wired for the isolation, built for the pressure of being the last line of defense. We’re supposed to thrive in that space between the pipes where it’s just us and the puck and the weight of the entire game on our shoulders.
But yeah, it can feel… lonely. Really fucking lonely.
“I never thought about it like that,” she admits, tracing absent patterns on my arm. “Why did you want to be a goalie? And not another position?”
She doesn’t try to tell me it’s what I signed up for or suggest my complaint is ridiculous when I have such a successful career, when the players on the team are like family. She simply wants to understand me the same way I’ve tried to understand her.
There’s no judgment or impatience, only genuine curiosity. And that curiosity, knowing she wants to see into this part of me, makes me ache in a way that has nothing to do with the bruise on my thigh.
“I wasn’t the fastest skater.” I set my plate beside me and focus on her. “But I had great reflexes and always knew where the puck was going before it got there. My coach put me in the net during practice one day, and I never wanted to leave. Still don’t.” I take a deep breath. She needs to understand that despite the pressure and the loneliness, I wouldn’t trade positions for the world. “Because when it’s just me and the puck and the shooter, and I make that save? When I keep us in the game, when we win because I didn’t let the other team score? Best goddamn feeling in the world. Like when you nail a cake commission. It may be difficult, you may have to miss out on a fun night out or stay up late and spend hours alone in your kitchen, but the end result is worth it.”
“Different job, same feeling.” She chuckles softly. “Granted, winning a Stanley Cup is way cooler than making a wedding cake?—”
“Your work matters just as much as mine,” I interrupt, sharper than intended. “There’s always another game, or another shot at the Cup. But someone’s wedding day? Their anniversary? Their birthday party? Those are special moments people remember for the rest of their lives, and you get to help make them perfect.”
“Thank you.” She looks away, though her lips tip up slightly. “I don’t know if this makes sense, but it’s nice knowing we can be alone together.”
I lean over, needing to kiss her, but the movement pulls at my thigh and sends another flash of pain through me. Grimacing, I straighten and hold my breath.Fuck.
“Time to rewrap,” Kennedy announces. “Where’s the tape?”
“Don’t worry, I can grab?—”
“No, you can’t,” she snaps. “Hobbling over to grab it when I’m right here and can save you the discomfort is stupid. Lay back and tell me where it is.”
“Bobcats duffel near the door.” I pick up my plate again and dig into the salad Kennedy piled there for me.
Never did I think that taking orders from this woman would become one of my favorite pastimes, but here we are. Kennedy cares in a way that makes me want to listen and do better. Because she sees something in me worth protecting, even if it’s just my stupid injured thigh.
