Page 122 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“You took your sweet time, Crawford.” I glare at her, not even bothering to hide the way my chest is trying to beat its way out of my suit. “Eight weeks and five fucking days.”
Her mouth twitches like she wants to smirk, but her eyes are too soft to pull it off. Eyes that melt me where I stand to strip every layer of bullshit away until there’s nothing left but this desperate, frayed thing that’s hers and has been for a hell of a lot longer than I’ll ever admit out loud.
“You scored a hat trick,” she murmurs, like that somehow excuses that she was gone for so long. “It was worth it, wasn’t it?”
That’s nonsense. I’d rather have her by my side, but there’s no point in arguing, is there? I drop my bag without looking, the dull thud bouncing down the hall. My hands find her instinctively—one sliding around her waist, the other threading into the loose strands at the back of her neck—and she steps into me like we’re magnets finally closing the last impossible inch between us.
We stand there, forehead to forehead, breath to breath, not moving, not speaking. The world shrinks until it’s just her heartbeat against mine, her warmth bleeding into me through layers of fabric and skin that might as well not exist.
There’s no script for this, no game plan. Just the wild, stupid, beautiful fact that we’re here. Both of us. Finally.
“I missed you,” I breathe, the words cracking apart before they even make it out of my mouth.
She lets out a sound—a broken laugh, a choked sob, something that guts me—and fists the front of my suit like she’s terrified I might slip through her fingers.
“Missed you too, Tate,” she whispers against my chest, the words muffled by the fabric but hitting clear enough to rattle through every nerve ending I’ve got.
I close my eyes and lower my forehead to hers, breathing her in like I’ll never get another chance. My hand tightens at her waist, the other splaying at the nape of her neck, holding her there like maybe if I’m careful enough, the world won’t yank her away again.
Slow.
Slower than slow.
I tilt my head, inch by inch, giving her time to stop me if she wants to. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. She just tilts her chin up, offering herself like a fucking prayer, and my heart makes this wild, wrecked sound inside my chest.
I brush my mouth against hers—barely, just a whisper of contact—and the world tilts sideways.
Once our lips touch, they melt. Her breath stutters. Her fingers clutch at my jacket, yanking me closer. It’s deep, desperate, and greedy, my mouth slanting over hers, swallowing every sound she makes, answering every unspoken ache I didn’t realize I’d been carrying until she filled it.
She tastes like everything I’ve been starving for, a slow, dizzy unraveling I don’t stand a chance against. She tastes like home, like something I could lose myself in and never want back.
I drag my mouth from hers just enough to see her.
Flushed cheeks, wide, glassy eyes, lips caught between her teeth like she’s afraid they’ll give her away.
She looks wrecked in the most beautiful way, and maybe I’m a selfish bastard, but I want to see it again.
I need to see it again.
So I kiss her.
Harder this time.
Hotter, hungrier, until the duffle I dropped skids across the floor from the sheer force of it. Until she gasps into my mouth and fumbles for my lapels like she needs something to hold on to before she flies apart.
The world tilts under us, every axis snapping into place with her at the center, the only thing that makes sense anymore. When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing like we just fought off an entire defensive line.
She presses her forehead against mine again, her voice dropping into a rough, shaky whisper that scrapes across my skin like a goddamn prayer I didn’t know I was waiting for.
“Hi, Tate,” she says.
“You’re here,” I say, the words breaking out before I can figure out if they’re a question, a statement, or something in between. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. She’s here. She’s real. And for the first time in eight weeks and five fucking days, something inside me stops clawing for air.
“I couldn’t miss your game,” she breathes. “I flew all the way home for this.”
“For the hat trick,” I tease, grinning against her skin as my palm skims the curve of her waist, memorizing every detail like I’m afraid it might vanish if I blink. “Knee’s working. I’m back in the game. But the most important thing . . .”
I tilt her chin and kiss her again, slower this time, like we’ve got all night to relearn each other. Like there’s nothing rushing us except the thundering beat of my heart.
