“Not that.” Owen doesn’t elaborate right away, but I’m learning to give him time. To let him think, because I have a feeling that whatever he does finally say will be worth hearing. Once again, this turns out to be the case. “I think, you know, they’re not here for me. Sure, they know my name, but if I got traded, they’d still be Venom fans, notRourkefans. They’re looking at the jersey, not at me.”
The quiet certainty in his voice hurts more than self-pity would have.
I frown. “People really like you, Owen.”
“I don’t mean it in a bad way. I just… don’t usually like being…” He releases my hand long enough to wave a palm in front of his face. “Perceived.It’s weird being under a microscope all the time, but mostly, I try not to think about it.”
Something twists in my gut at the way he says it, like being truly seen has never felt safe for him.
It’s true, he’s never been much of a showoff. Other players, like Viktor, Knight, and Adler, like to show off to get their fans riled up. Owen’s more about the game, which is a selling point of its own, I suppose. Even the WAGs were joking about the “grumpy goalie.”
That wasn’t the only thing they were right about. When they said I was into Owen, they recognized something I’m still reluctant to admit to myself.
I’m not just managing this man anymore. I’m falling for him, too.
And judging by the way my heart keeps reaching for him, I’m already a lot further gone than I want to admit.
Chapter Nineteen
Owen
I wake up before sunrise, restless with memories of yesterday. Remy should have pulled away when I took her hands. We both know it. Hell, I shouldn’t have reached for her in the first place.
This is so much worse than when I kept getting hard at the mere thought of her. Chemistry is one thing. If that was all I’m feeling right now, I could let the lust run its course.
But, sonofabitch, this big and very inappropriate crush is metastasizing into something more. Which is objectively terrible timing, considering she’s technically still my crisis manager sans crisis, and I apparently have the emotional restraint of a dog chasing a squirrel. I don’t just want to lie on my back and let Remy ride me like a Sybian—although, now that I’m thinking about it, I would very much like that, too. But I also want to wake up with her and cook breakfast while she makes coffee, and catch her walking around in nothing but my jersey, and…
Okay, see, this is the problem. I’m not allowed to want these things. Wanting somebody’s body is easy. Wanting their everyday life feels a lot more dangerous.
I press my palms to my eyes. “Fuck,” I groan. If I lie here any longer, I’m going to lose my mind. I’ll start imagining a future that’s already dead in the water.
Remy doesn’t want me. I’m damaged fucking goods, even if she doesn’t recognize that yet. Eventually, she will. People always do.
I haul my exhausted ass out of bed, rub out a guilty orgasm in the shower, and find ways to channel my energy. Like gettingoff to thoughts of her somehow makes this whole thing more real. Can’t sleep? Great. The kitchen needed a thorough clean, anyway.
I spend the next two hours scrubbing everything until it gleams and slamming espressos. Apparently, anxiety and caffeine are going into business together this morning. Shutout keeps getting underfoot.
“You’re a trip hazard,” I scold.
He howls back at me and lies down right in the middle of the floor.
I nudge him with my toe. “You eat my food, you sleep under my roof, you don’t pay rent, and now this? Unacceptable.”
Shutout does the thing where his bones turn into jelly. I truly don’t understand how he canexpandlike that.
“Oh, and now you take up the whole floor.” I shake my head at him. “Mooch.Freeloader.”
Shutout may be fixed, but he still has the balls to wag his tail at my tirade. I swear this dog thinks every emotion is positive attention.
It’s not a bad morning. It’s fine. It’s completely and totally okay that Remy doesn’t text once. Does that bother me? No, not at all. Not even a little bit.
My fourth espresso says otherwise.
* * *
My cleaning frenzy only gets me so far. It’s still early when I pull into the arena parking lot, but I’ve had so many espresso shots now that I can actually see into the future if I squint. I’ll blame the caffeine for the jitters I get when I realize that Remy’s already here. Her car is parked in its usual place. Give it a few more weeks, and we’ll all think of that spot as Remy’s spot. The thought settles into me with embarrassing domestic ease.
Give it a few more weeks, and she’ll be out of your life for good.
