RYAN
Istare at the text. They’re not one-sided anymore. Every morning, I wake up to a simple good morning text, and when I say good morning back, he sends the heart-eyes emoji. So weird, but I love it. Tate’s like a wild cat learning how to human. But I wouldn’t change how much of a wildcat he is.
Tate
I meet with the commissioner today. Once I have his recommendation, it’s smooth sailing. I’ll be at North Point this week. “Safety Audits.”
Safety Audits in quotes says a lot. My lips twist with the hint of a laugh on them.
Me
Is that my new nickname?
I’m supposed to be on my way to class, but I’m so fucking consumed.
He’d transformed the bedroom into a garden of black roses. And there were presents. “Ethan’s idea,” he said. “Jane’s suggestion was to make you a steak.”
“Can you cook?” I asked.
“Mm-hmm. Luke made me learn.”
It was a delicious birthday steak, and then he bent me over and fucked me, for the third time, until I was catatonic.
“Nothing like this has ever happened to me before,” he purred into my ear. “I didn’t think I could care for someone. I’m still not sure I can, dollface.”
I hated hearing the fragile uncertainty in a man like Tate, who’s certain about everything. My mind went down all sorts of philosophical hallways. I don’t know much about brain science, and frankly, I don’t think even the experts can possibly know everything. There aren’t boxes, there are spectrums. I don’t know if being on some kind of psychopath spectrum applies to Tate, but he should operate under that notion rather than put himself in a box he doesn’t want to be in.
“How about no more fucking ignoring me, and I’ll agree to count obsession as a love language,” I said.
“I wasn’t ignoring you.” I glared, raising a judgy brow. “I wasn’t. I was having controlled doses of you—it made sense in my head. Didn’t work, for what that’s worth.”
He kissed my forehead.
Yeah. My forehead.
“I’m not going to play murder hockey, or endanger myself, and you’re going to fight the fear and have uncontrolled avalanches of me rather than small doses. Be fucking buried in me.”
He nodded into my hair. “Bury me, dollface.”
Kane slams into me, almost knocking my phone out of my hand.
“Watch it, asshole.”
“You’re gonna be late.”
Fuck. If Kane’s the one making sure I’m getting to class on time, I’ve lost the plot. I shove my phone into my bag.
By Wednesday, I’m more exhausted than usual. Coach has been grinding us with the conference finals approaching. I’m fighting my eyelids, and I almost don’t see him, but as soon as I do, that spike of adrenaline hits my veins. What’s he doing here this time of day? Doesn’t he have a team to coach?
Tate, a werewolf in a suit, leans against the boards on his forearms. I try not to stare, but it’s hard. My dick is conditioned to rise for him by this point, and even if it wasn’t, the predatory way his gaze travels over me would do the trick. He’s the most beautiful man on earth, and he’s all mine.
Coach Bruce skates over to chat with Tate, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Torin glides over. “Should we be worried?”
I shake my head. “The opposite. We should be in for an easier practice.” Not easy.Easier.Coach goes overboard and should be written up by someone. Or fired. It’s a miracle our injury roster is as low as it is.
He blows his whistle, and we all take a knee so he can tell us that Coach VanCourt will be observing our practice. It’s clear he’s pissed about it. If only he knew Tate would be spending more time looking at my ass than anything to do with the hockey team, maybe he’d relax.
Ugh. But with Tate in that suit, I’m having extreme difficulties staying focused. The puck sails by me, an easy passfrom Becks. Beckett is our goaltender in case anyone forgot, which means his passes are hard to miss.
