Page 39 of Pucking Unhinged
Another rush comes hard. Their winger cuts across the slot, rips one high glove. I snap it out of the air, squeeze the puck tight, hold it up just long enough for him to see what he didn’t get. The whistle blows.
I should be celebrating the stop, but all I can think about is my girl. If I’m honest, I want to be in our room right now. With the way Winter sleeps curled into me at night, the night terrors have all but left me. I know I’ll never sleep soundly without her. But I won’t have to find out what that would be like because she’ll always be there, clutching me in her sleep like she needs me just as much as I need her.
I’ll never breathe right without her. And she doesn’t even know the depth of it yet.
WINTER
Ijust got home from ballet practice, still feeling warm and fuzzy from the ride back on Tristan’s bike. There’s nothing like pressing into his back, the steady rumble of the engine beneath me, letting him take the lead so I can finally shut my brain off. No music to count, no mirrors to glare at me, no pressure, just him and the road and the feeling that I’m safe.
I stayed late tonight, pushing myself until my muscles burned, trying to perfect my routine. I’ve got a solo performance coming up, and it’ll affect my grade if I don’t give it everything I have. It’s not some big show, not something that will lead to a career in a company, but I want to do well anyway.
I’ve told Tristan about my dream of teaching ballet to foster children, of giving them something steady to hold on to when the world keeps taking things away. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tell me it was unrealistic. He’s already been sending me listings for buildings that could work. He believes in it. He believes in me.
Lately, it’s been hard to think about anything that isn’t him. Not in the bad way, like when grief and fear used to swallow me whole, but in the best way. In the way where I’m so freaking happy that I just want more and more of him.
Tristan wakes in the middle of the night sometimes still. I feel it the second his body jerks, the way his hand clamps around me, pulling me flush to his chest. He whispers, “You’re here,” like he needs to hear it out loud, like he’s reminding himself that the life we’re building together is real. Then he always sinks back into sleep while holding me too tight to ever let me slip away.
We haven’t fixed every traumatic thing we’ve been through. We probably never will. But God, it feels like we’ve finally made it out of the dark water we’d been treading, trying to keep our heads above water.
I’m in our room, slipping out of my leotard and tights when I hear the rush of water. The sound pulls me toward the bathroom, and that’s when the scent hits me. It’s my favorite, bergamot, warm and sweet. I smile to myself because Tristan is running me a bath.
When I step inside the fancy bathroom completely nude, my chest floods with warmth. Tristan is standing there in just his boxer briefs, steam curling around him, and I know instantly he plans to get in with me. My heart stutters at the thought. We have always been bonded in a way that is so unbreakable. I can hardly contain the love rising in me, pressing against my ribs like it wants out. He hasn’t said it yet, those words I ache to hear, and I’d never push him. But if I’m not careful, I’ll blurt them out to him.
“You did all of this for me?” My voice is softer than I mean for it to be, my eyes catching on every detail. Rose petals float across the water, scattered over the edge of the tub. He’s lighting candles that are flickering on the counters. I realize he planned this long before he picked me up from the dance studio.
He glances up from the match in his hand, that quiet, devastating smile tugging at his mouth. “Do you like it?”
Do I like it? My throat tightens as I watch him blow out the match once he’s satisfied that all of the candles are lit. He doesn’t even understand what this means to me. What he means.
I nod, wonder sparking in my chest, and then he’s moving toward me. His head dips, his lips finding mine in a kiss that makes me forget how sore I am, how tired. He lifts me like he was made to hold me, carrying me to the tub. His hand dips into the water first, testing, always making sure I’m safe, before he lowers me carefully into the warmth, the scent of bergamot curling up around us.
“Oh my God, you have no idea how good this feels.” I sink deeper into the bubbles and water, the heat seeping into my sore muscles. “I’m so sore from practice today.”
Tristan frowns at me, the crease between his brows making my chest ache. It shouldn’t make me happy that he looks mad at my muscles for hurting me. It’s really kind of endearing though that he cares, always, about every little thing that has to do with me.
“Come on, get in with me,” I tease, scooping a handful of bubbles and blowing them in his direction.
His mouth curves into a smile, but then he leans down and kisses me hard, thoroughly enough to leave me breathless. My eyes flick lower, and I can see how hard he is beneath his dark boxer briefs. Heat flares in my cheeks as I slide my wet hand down his warm stomach until I cup the thick bulge straining against the fabric.
He groans, breaking the kiss, his voice rough. “I have something to show you. And if you keep touching me, I’ll forget about everything except getting as deep inside you as I possibly can.”
I rest my arms on the edge of the tub, watching as he disappears into our room. He’s only gone a moment before he returns, and my heart stops when I see what he’s holding.
His leatherbound journals.
I gasp. My throat clogs because Tristan Vale, who rarely lets anyone see inside his head, is standing there with his secrets in his hands. His cheeks actually flush as he looks away, then back. The sight of him blushing about what he’s about to show me is a sight so heartbreakingly sweet I almost tear up.
He crouches beside the tub, hands me a small towel to dry my fingers before he passes one of the books over.
“Are you sure?” I whisper, clutching it like it might dissolve in the steam. “I’ve always been curious, but this has to besoprivate.”
His palm comes up to cup the side of my head, fingers stroking gently through my damp hair. “Baby, these aren’t journal entries about my life. They’re for you… to you, I mean. Open it.”
I sink deeper into the water, my pulse thundering, and flip the cover open. His handwriting is neat, meticulous, and the sight of my name on the page makes my breath catch.
Behind me, I hear the rustle of fabric. His boxer briefs hit the floor, and then he’s sliding into the water, the heat rippling around us as he settles against my back. His lips brush my ear, his voice low and reverent.
“Read to me this time, dushen’ka.”
