Page 272 of Playing the Pucking Game
Her face drops at my words. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to go to HR and get you moved off my treatment list.”
Reaching across the table, I take her hand. “It’s all going to be okay, Parker.” She looks into my eyes. “We’ll just turn the third bedroom into a personal trainer’s room and?—”
“Whoa, I don’t remember agreeing to being your personal servant.”
“It was in the fine print of this agreement,” I tease.
“And what is this agreement, exactly?”
“That you’re mine.”
She pauses and looks down at her dinner.
“And what does that entail exactly? I don’t want to be the woman asking what this is and where it’s going, but?—”
“It’s okay, Parker. You can ask anything.”
She nods, but no words come.
“I want this. Us. I always have. Am I scared? Absolutely. Am I terrified of fucking this up and hurting you? One hundred percent. But I’ve waited so long for this chance. I can’t do it any longer.
“Having you here…you’ve turned this apartment into a home. I love my job, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted, but for the first time ever, I’m excited to finish for the day. I want to come home to you. When I’m at the arena, it’s all I can think about.”
“Linc,” she whispers.
“I can’t promise you that I’m going to be perfect. I think we both know that I’m not. I’ve never had a relationship before, and I have no idea what I’m meant to do. But I want to…with you.”
Tears fill her eyes as she stares back at me, absorbing my words.
“I said I’d never have a relationship with a hockey player ever again.”
“I’m not just a hockey player, though, am I?”
She shakes her head. “No, you’re so much more than that, Linc. So much more.”
“So is that it? Are you my girlfriend now?” I ask. The word feels weird rolling off my tongue, and not just because I’ve never called anyone it before, but also because it doesn’t feel serious enough.
Previously, that thought would have terrified me. But not now.
Parker was always destined to be mine. And now I have her, I never want to let her go.
A nervous laugh erupts. “Lincoln Storm’s girlfriend,” she muses.
“Ah, come on. You can’t tell me you haven’t dreamed of having the position,” I tease.
She thinks for a moment. “You know, I’m not sure I have.”
“You’re such a little liar.” I laugh.
Picking up my fork, I stab a piece of pasta on my plate.
“It was all I ever dreamed of when I was a teenager, Linc.”
“And yet you walked away that night,” I mutter.
“I had to. It wasn’t our time.”
