Page 81 of Hard Check

A commercial came on—something absurd involving a dancing insurance gecko—and Carver laughed. It wasn't his usual snort of derision. It was a playful laugh. I stared with a goofy smile on my face.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just..." I shook my head, still smiling. "You know what's weird? I feel lighter. Like, physically lighter."

He considered my comment, rolling his beer bottle between his palms. "No big surprise. I've been dragging around guilt like a Zamboni. I think we just cut the towline."

The metaphor was so perfectly Carver that I laughed out loud. "Did you compare your emotional baggage to ice maintenance equipment?"

"If the analogy fits." He grinned, and that laugh bubbled up again. "Have you seen how much those things weigh? I've been carrying that weight around for weeks."

I set my container on the coffee table and shifted closer until my knee pressed against his thigh. "So what happens now?"

"Now we finish this terrible Chinese food and watch hockey players make questionable life choices."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant." He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me in close. "Now we stop hiding."

"Carver?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For being brave enough to let Coach see us."

He squeezed my hand. "Pretty sure you were the brave one. I was only trying not to shit myself."

I laughed, and the sound echoed off the walls of his small apartment.

The transition from couch to bedroom wasn't dramatic. Carver didn't put on any sultry music, and we didn't leave a trail of clothes down the hall.

Carver just stuffed the rest of the sweet and sour chicken into his mouth, while I tried to pretend that wasn't weirdly hot. We traded sleepy smiles as we cleared takeout cartons and flicked off the TV.

"Guess we're doing this," he said, wiping his hands on a napkin like we were about to settle a poker debt.

"We've done this," I reminded him as I wove my fingers together with his and tugged him toward the bedroom. "But tonight, we're doing it with ambiance."

He snorted. "Is that what we're calling my dusty-ass bedroom now? Ambiance?"

I kissed the edge of his jaw, where stubble met soft skin. "You're not gonna be able to hide how romantic you are forever, old man."

"Who says I'm trying?" He promptly tripped over his laundry basket.

I caught him by the waistband of his jeans. "You always this clumsy when someone's trying to seduce you?"

He braced a hand against the wall. "Only when it's working."

I walked him backward until his knees hit the edge of the bed. "You gonna fall for me again?"

"Oh, I'm already falling." He playfully toppled back onto the mattress like a fainting Victorian heroine. Arms flung wide. Sigh included.

I climbed on top of him. "Wow, that was dramatic. Do you need smelling salts or a rescue inhaler?"

"Shut up and take your shirt off." He grabbed me by the belt loop.

We collapsed into a heap of knees and elbows and increasingly inappropriate giggles. It took five minutes to get his jeans off because we kept getting distracted by things like ticklish spots.

Eventually, I ended up straddling him, shirtless, one hand pressed on his muscular pecs, the other slapping his already stiff cock against mine. I stretched out my index finger to touch a scar on his shoulder. "Tell me about this one. Sword fight with a pirate?"

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