That was the fastest goal I’ve ever scored while playing college hockey.
When I locked eyes with her, my brain did something weird. Something it’s never done before.
It pictured Briar wearing my jersey.
I imagined my name and my number on her body.
Morrissey. Number 8.
An energy I’ve never felt before shot through me. It was wild, restless, and exciting all at once.
Briar’s never worn my jersey before. In high school, our team didn’t make jerseys for anyone other than the players to wear. She’d come to my games wearing a shirt with our school’s name on it, just like everyone else.
And when we went away to different colleges, she wasn’t able to come to very many games, only a couple, and she would just wear her regular clothes. I never thought about her wearing my jersey.
But things are different now between us. I get to do endless filthy things to her. I get to kiss her and touch her. I get to hear her make all those cute and sexy noises when she’s turned on.
I know what she tastes like when she comes.
We’re more than best friends. We’re…
I don’t know what we are. And that’s okay.
I think about how nervous she was to tell me that she wants to take things slow between us. How she isn’t ready for anything serious. How she doesn’t want to move too fast and ruin our friendship.
My stomach churns just thinking about losing her.
If it were up to me, I’d make her mine right now. I wouldn’t hesitate to call her my girlfriend. She’s the only woman I’ve ever wanted.
But I understand why she’s so skittish about being in a relationship again. Her ex was awful to her. She felt that things between them moved too fast, so she’s trying to do the opposite now.
And that’s fine. I’ll go as slow as she wants. I just want to be with her, in whatever way she wants me.
“How about some food, champ? You must be starving.” My dad claps a hand on my back, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I clear my throat, tearing my gaze from Briar. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
* * *
The server picks up our empty plates from our table at the Mile High Diner. I reach for my wallet as quietly as I can. When she walks by again, I hand my credit card to her before my dad can even dig into his pocket.
He frowns at me. “Blake, I was going to pay.”
“It’s okay, I’ve got it.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “You really shouldn’t be spending your money like this, son. You don’t have a job during the school year.”
“I have enough money saved to buy dinner for you and Mom every now and then. It’s all okay, I promise.”
He pins me with a serious look. “You sure?”
“Positive. I worked in Uncle Ronnie’s sporting goods store most of last summer, remember? And I taught those hockey lessons for those kids a few times a week too.”
That’s all true, but that’s not where this money came from.
He nods. “I suppose you’re right.”
Mom pats his hand before looking at me. “You know your dad. He likes to treat.”
