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I had. I’d put it on this morning in my Denver hotel room, and I hadn’t even admitted to myself why. But with his hands on me, there was no point in denying it.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He kissed me hard, possessive, his hands sliding around to cup my breasts through the lace. “Fuck, Ellie. Do you have any idea what this does to me?”

“Show me.”

I pulled his shirt over his head, needing to see the scars I’d memorized during treatment.

“I watched you for weeks,” I said, tracing the scar across his ribs. “I learned every one of these.” I stroked my fingers up his arms as far as I could reach. “Every place you hide tension.”

He caught my hand and kissed my palm. “I wasn’t lying about wanting you.”

I slipped my free hand to the waistband of his compression shorts. “This has to go. I need to see all of you. The way you want to see me.”

He helped me push the shorts down, revealing boxer briefs underneath. His cock thrust against the fabric.

“I’m scared that I’ll disappoint you,” he said. “That I’m not enough.”

I kissed him softly. “Join the club.”

He found the zipper of my skirt. “This too?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Don’t stop.”

I shifted back and forth as he worked the fabric down, and the skirt pooled by my feet, leaving me only in a purple lace bra, panties, and my heels.

He stepped back to look. “Fuck. You’re perfect.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are to me.” His gaze met mine. “You need to know that for me, this isn’t goodbye. I know you’re thinking about Denver. I know it makes sense. But I need you to know that if you go, I’ll follow if only for a holiday or a weekend. I’ll fly for even one day as long as I get to see you.”

Fresh tears slid down my cheeks. “That’s not fair to you.”

“I don’t care about fair. I care about you.”

“I’m terrified of you,” I whispered.

He flinched.

“Not because you’re scary. Because you make me want soft things. Stupid things. Coming home to someone. Making coffee for two on a Saturday morning. Wearing someone’s hoodie because it’s warm, and it smells like someone you care for.”

“Those aren’t stupid things.”

“They are when you’ve spent your whole life proving you don’t need them.”

“Maybe you don’t need them.” His voice went gentle. “Maybe you just want them. Need is survival. Want is living.”

He kissed me slower this time, tasting my tears, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones.

“I want to try living,” he whispered against my mouth. “With you, if you’ll let me.”

I pulled back to look at him, seeing the scared kid under the brutal goalie. The weapon that wanted to be a person. The male who’d learned his value in saves and was trying to unlearn it.