Page 18 of Slap Shot
"Easy," he said, his voice so close to her ear that she shivered.
The lock clicked open. She pushed through the door fast, needing space to breathe, but Oliver was right behind her, bringing all that careful energy into her living room. Charlie pushed past both of them, completely unbothered by the tension crackling between them.
Charlie settled onto the carpet in the living room with a contented sigh, as if he'd been here dozens of times before. Heather watched him claim his spot, using the moment to steady her breathing. Her mouth was dry, and she wiped her palms against her jeans.
"Would you like something to drink?" The words tumbled out faster than she'd intended. "I have beer, or wine, or I think there's some whiskey somewhere if you—" She caught herself rambling and forced her mouth to stop moving. Oliver was watching her with those dark eyes, and she couldn't read his expression in the dim light filtering through her blinds.
"Wine sounds good," Oliver said. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of her couch.
Heather nodded and escaped to the kitchen, grateful for something to do with her hands. She pulled a bottle of red from the small rack on her counter. It was nothing fancy, but it was better than the cheap stuff she usually bought. The corkscrew was clumsy in her fingers as she worked it into the cork, hyperaware of Oliver moving around her living room, probably taking in the sparse furniture and the bank of laptops on her coffee table. She'd never brought a man here before. Never wanted to.
The cork came free with a soft pop, and she poured two glasses, the wine splashing slightly as her hand trembled. When she turned around, Oliver was standing in the doorway between her kitchen and living room, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and she stared at his forearms, at the way the fabric pulled across his chest.
"Your place is nice," he said, accepting the glass she offered him.
She took a sip of wine, hoping it would calm her nerves, but the alcohol only seemed to heighten her awareness that Oliver was in her personal space. "It's nothing special. I haven't really had time to decorate much since I moved in."
Oliver's gaze moved around the room, taking in the bare walls and minimal furniture. "How long have you been here?"
"Six months." She wrapped both hands around her wine glass, using it as a barrier between them. "I had to sell the house in the divorce. This seemed like a good fresh start."
The mention of her ex-husband hung in the air between them, and Heather immediately regretted bringing it up. Nothing like talking about your failed marriage to kill the mood. But Oliver didn't seem fazed.
"Fresh starts can be good," he said, stepping closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes."Sometimes you need to burn everything down before you can build something better."
The wine glass was slippery in her hands. Heather set it down on the counter behind her, needing something to anchor herself as Oliver moved even closer. The kitchen suddenly felt small, the air thick with everything they weren't saying.
"Is that what you did?" she asked. "Burn everything down when you stopped hacking?"
"More or less." His free hand came up to touch her face, thumb tracing along her cheekbone. "Had to leave a lot behind to get here."
Heather's breath caught. She wanted to know all about his life before hockey, but she didn't push. Instead, she focused on the warmth of his palm against her skin, the way his eyes were devouring her.
"Oliver." His name came out as barely more than a whisper.
He set his wine glass down beside hers without breaking eye contact, the soft clink of glass against granite loud in the quiet space. When his other hand settled on her waist, Heather’s pulse jumped.
"Tell me to stop," he said. "If this isn't what you want, tell me now."
The words stuck in her throat. This was exactly what she wanted, had been wanting since that first day in the coffee shop when he'd looked at her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve. But wanting something and being brave enough to take it were different things entirely.
"I don't want you to stop," she said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded when everything inside her felt like it was shaking apart.
When he leaned down to kiss her, it was nothing like the desperate collision on the ice. This was deliberate, unhurried,the kind of kiss that made her forget there was anywhere else she needed to be.
When he backed her against the counter, she didn't resist. The granite edge pressed into her lower back, but she barely noticed, too focused on the way Oliver's mouth moved against hers, patient and thorough and completely devastating.
"Bedroom?" he asked, the single word heavy with hope and barely restrained want.
Heather nodded, not trusting her voice. She took his hand and led him down the short hallway, past the guest room she used as an office, past the bathroom with its stack of towels that never seemed to stay folded properly.
The room was sparse like the rest of her place. There was a queen bed with white sheets, a dresser she'd bought at IKEA, and a single framed photo of her college hockey team on the nightstand.
"Second thoughts?" he asked, and she realized she'd been standing frozen in the doorway.
She turned to face him, taking in the way the hallway light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the patient way he was waiting for her to decide what happened next. Oliver wouldn't push. She understood that about him now. He was the kind of man who would walk away if she asked, no questions, no pressure, no making her feel guilty for changing her mind.
That certainty made the choice easier.
