Page 116 of In It to Win It

He stares at me.

Tears threaten. I swallow, my throat strangled. Does he really believe I was using him to make Manny jealous?

“No,” he says slowly. “You’re nothing like Emma. That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, that’s what it sounded like!”

His head moves from side to side. “No.”

“I get why you feel like I was using you. Believe me, I’ve been over and over that. It’s why I feel guilty. But I wasn’t using you. The night before the wedding, when I came to your room . . . that had nothing to do with Manny.”

Some of the tension eases from his rock-hard jaw as he watches me. Listens to me.

“I was . . . attracted to you. I wanted to be with you. And it was the same the night of the wedding. I just . . . didn’t mind if Manny saw us together. I never thought he was going to start a fight with you. And that’s on him.”

His shoulders slump. “Fuck. You’re right.” He slides a hand around the back of my neck and pulls me up against him, pressing my cheek to his shoulder. “You’re right. I’m an asshole.”

Now I’m shaking even more, with relief. “Yeah, you are.”

His soft laugh ruffles my hair. “I get frustrated when I think I’ve screwed up again.”

“It . . . hurts that you think being with me is screwing up.”

His chest expands against me and his arms wrap tightly around me. “I don’t think that. I was wrong. I didn’t screw up. You’re honest and real and you don’t play games. I lost my temper because . . .” He tenses. “I hated to think you only wanted to be with me to get back at someone else. That already happened to me once.”

Oh. Oh God. I can tell how hard that is for him to admit. My heart softens. He blames himself for hurting his brother by going out with Emma, but the truth is, he got hurt too, when he found out she didn’t really care about him. I hate that . . . but I hate her more, for hurting him.

“I’m still here,” I say gently, laying my hands on his face, holding his gaze steadily.

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes, and covers my hands with his, then brings each palm to his mouth to kiss. “I don’t know why. Like I said, I’m an asshole.”

“Yeah. Sometimes you are.”

“Thank you for calling me on it.”

I smile and kiss his mouth. “Anytime, Killer.”

24

JP

Tonight,our first game after the Christmas break, we’re playing in Nashville.

Yep, that means me and Manny Martinez on the ice together again. He pissed me off in that preseason game we played against the Predators, but that was months ago. Hopefully he’s over Taylor now. I just want to play hockey.

I’ve been doing so well. When we played Boston, that shit-disturber LeHane was on my ass all night. He’s a fucking pest, and his whole role on the team is to annoy the opposing team and try to draw penalties. I’ve gotten sucked into it in the past, but not this year.

The guys who are like that know me. They know my temper, they know they can get to me with chirps and dirty hits behind the play, trying to get under my skin. I was doing pretty well at ignoring LeHane but when he stood in front of Mac, our goalie, hassling him, my anger started growing. I didn’t let it take over, though: I channeled it for good and laid a crushing hit on him on our next shift together. Totally clean, but he had to pick himself up off the ice, shaking his head. That sent a message.

Martinez is not that kind of player, so there shouldn’t be problems tonight. I just want to play good hockey. The Preds are in a different division, but we need every two points we can get. Right now, we’re on track for a playoff spot and we need to stay there. I’ve been scoring goals; in fact our entire line has been hot lately, getting more minutes, getting recognition from Uncle Mark in the dressing room and when he talks to the media. I don’t want to let down the team by taking dumb penalties or letting someone mess with my game.

I tape my stick before the game, part of my routine. You want to know something weird? Every Wynn family hockey player tapes his stick the same way. We have different preferences when it comes to the actual stick—length, lie, weight, curve, flex—but taping is something I learned from my dad, who learned it from Grandpa. This is weird, because usually hockey players have pretty individual preferences when it comes to taping sticks, but it’s kind of a family superstition or something that we all tape our sticks the way Grandpa did—white tape on the knob and shaft, the first piece twisted into a rope that’s wound around the handle exactly five revolutions, creating grips. White tape over that starting from the top. Then black tape on the blade, leaving the tip bare. Heh. I remember the discussion that night at Taylor’s new apartment when she moved in.

The precision and care needed to get it perfect helps me get in the zone. I’ve got earbuds in and I’m listening to “All Night” by Walk the Moon, part of a motivational playlist I put together that I’ve been listening to. The steady beat has my head moving. I feel great.

I’ve had this feeling for a while now. Like everything is going right. Things have been relatively peaceful with my family. The team’s been playing well and I’ve been contributing. And . . . Taylor.

I have to say, I like it when she’s there when I get home. I like it when she’s in my bed all night. I really like it when we have days off together and we can have morning sex and coffee in bed, and take Byron for long walks on the beach, and cook dinner together or hang out with my friends or with Théo and Lacey. I like . . . her.

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