Page 37 of Mile High Coach

He’s so much older than you.

What would Chrys think about my arrangement with him? Getting sperm—having a baby—the old fashioned way, with a man I barely know.

Except I know plenty about him, now. I know that he grew up in West Baltimore, that he lost his mom—something we have in common. I know that he hums old songs under his breath all the time, that he hates when the break room has bagels instead of donuts, and that he always gets lunch from the same deli.

“Want to move to the couch?” he asks, breaking me out of my thoughts, and I realize I’ve finished my pasta. He takes my plate, rinses it, and sticks it in the dishwasher.

This is not the same kind of man I’m used to dating—the kind that Postmates Taco Bell and asks for half of mine before I’m finished eating. Harrison has this loft, has the skills to cook an amazing meal. He bought me that organic, locally-sourced fertility tea.

“Yes,” I say, nodding and hopping down from the stool, blood already starting to buzz at what we’ll be doing next.

I think about those donor profiles, about trying to pick a man from a catalog, my eyes trailing down to Harrison’s strong fingers, the subtle quirk of his eyebrow when I say something funny.

Maybe I don’t know everything about him, but I know enough for right now.

Chapter 16

Harrison

Lovie takes a seat on the couch, her brown eyes fixed on me. She has that serious look again—the strict, librarian thing that only heightens the arousal stirring in my stomach.

I think about what she said earlier—about this only being sperm. I think about what I said—feeding her in pursuit of the goal. But maybe the truth is that I’m just old fashioned. There’s a certain rightness to cooking for a woman—feeding a woman—before you take her to bed.

Cooking for her felt right. Having her there, sitting at the counter, sipping on her tea and watching me work—it’s the first time in a long time I had a sense of satisfaction after finishing a meal. I was pleased to see that she liked it, hungrier at seeing the pleasure on her face.

There’s something about her presence in this apartment that makes it feel far more like a home.

Now, I join her on the couch. The TV is still on, volume low, and Lovie glances over at it, a laugh bubbling up out of her throat.

“Shit, sorry,” I mutter, reaching for the remote. Hockey is probably the last thing she wants to think about while trying to get in the mood.

When I glance up at the screen, I realize it’s playing a recap of our game from last night—the win we barely scraped together.

“It’s okay.” Lovie surprises me by reaching out and putting a hand on my arm, keeping me from turning it off. Her eyes are on the screen. “Were you watching it?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat, slowly set the remote back on the coffee table. When I glance at her, I expect to see a thinly veiled anger, something like what used to live on Eliza’s face when I spent too long away, kept the game on the TV, brought it up in conversation.

Lovie shakes her head, crosses her arms, leans back, and says, “I was, too. Before coming over here.”

Something light and warm opens up in my chest, and I clear my throat, leaning back, too, glancing between her and the TV. “Did you want to…?”

“We could just finish watching it,” she says, tilting her head at the screen. “Based on the data I’ve been gathering, it seems like the mental resiliency training has been working. But Greenhill’s test showed he didn’t need it. Would you agree with that assessment?”

“Ha.” The laugh comes out of me, the sound dry, when I think of the third line right winger with a quick-flare temper and a penchant for snapping hockey sticks. “I would not.”

For the next hour, we sit together, watching the game, cracking jokes, and pointing things out. Lovie impresses me with her new knowledge of the game, and I’m reminded of just how smart she is when she points out minor details most players wouldn’t even notice.

At the start of the third period, I reach over and put my hand on her thigh. At first, it doesn’t seem like she even notices, but then she shifts, sliding so her leg is closer to me.

My focus on the game wanes as I touch her, sliding my thumb over her knee, getting my fill of the feeling of her skin—so impossibly soft. She has to be one of those women with a ten-step skincare routine.

I imagine her here, stepping out of the shower in her towel, sitting on the edge of the bed, running lotion over her legs. Looking up and smiling at me when I walk through the door, when I start to untuck her towel and push her back onto the bed?—

Lovie lets out a little noise, and I realize my hand is between her legs, my fingers grazing the edge of her panties, teasing.

“You like this?” I ask, voice low and rough as I slide a hand over her neck, my fingers in her hair, my thumb brushing over her cheek. I trace the path of her throat as she swallows, turning to me with a dazed expression on her face.

“Yeah.” She nods, and I lean forward, taking her lips with mine. Right now, she smells like shampoo and vanilla lip balm, which I feel transferring over to me. When I slide my tongue over the seam of her lips, she tastes sweet.

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