Page 22 of The Goalie's Gamble
“This is probably a mistake,” I say hoarsely.
“Probably,” he agrees, his forehead resting against mine.“But it’s the best one I’ve ever made.”
I nod before I can stop myself, and God help me, I kiss him again.
SEVEN
CJ
I pull back enough to breathe, enough to see her kiss-swollen lips.Her eyes are dark and a little dazed.
“Come home with me.”The words jump out of my mouth before I can tackle them to the ice.
I hear it in my voice—low, rough, and pleading like a breakaway one-on-one—and I immediately brace for the glove save.This is usually where a sane person says, “No, CJ, be serious,” and shuts the door.I fully expect Olivia to do that, and it will likely set me back with her.
Instead, Olivia blinks once, takes a small, steady breath, and nods.“Okay.Let’s go.”
For a beat, I just… stare.I’ve taken slap shots to the ribs with less impact than her words.
“Yeah?”I rasp, because my brain is a hamster on a Ferris wheel, and vocabulary seems like a myth at this moment.
“Yeah,” she says with that quiet conviction she has when she’s about to lift a building with her bare hands.
Something in her shoulders unclenches.Her fingers are still fisted in my jacket.I peel them gently free so I can hold her hand instead, and, God help me, I kiss her knuckles like I’m in some black-and-white movie and she’s the only thing in color.
We race down the stairs, then we’re outside, cold air biting at the heat coming off both of us.I tuck her close as we walk to my car.She lets me, which feels like another small miracle.
The drive is quiet, not awkward.Not empty.Full.We hold hands, and my heart races out of control as we drive across town to my apartment.Streetlights strobe over her skin, and I keep catching my breath at the curve of her cheek, the line of her throat, the way her mouth is soft now, kissed-lazy.
My building is brand new, all clean angles and key fobs.I park in my spot in the underground garage, jog around to open her door—because my mother did, in fact, raise me right—my heart thumping like warm-up drums.In the elevator, I punch the button for the top floor and move to the opposite corner like I’m trying not to crowd a skittish wild animal.
Olivia curls her fingers in the lapel of my coat and pulls me back where she wants me.“Closer,” she says, soft as sin.
I go.Of course, I go.
We kiss until the elevator dings and the doors glide open.Then we’re heading into my apartment.
My place smells faintly like cedar and laundry detergent, the way every hockey guy’s apartment does when he spends half his life hanging gear to dry and the other half buying candles to mask the stink of the hockey gear.Floor-to-ceiling windows show Maple Creek scattered with lights, the rink three blocks away lit like a spaceship.
I toss my keys on the console, suddenly grateful that I stress-cleaned my apartment earlier today.For once, I don’t bother with a joke to lighten the mood.I just stand there, hands planted on my hips, and let myself look at her.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, because not saying it feels like lying.
She steadies herself with one palm on the wall as she kicks off her shoes.“Take off your clothes.”
I grin and reach back, pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it aside.My hair is a mess from her fingers and the night.She steps in, slides her hand up my chest, and pulls me down to her.
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with her.“You sure?”
Her chin tips up.“I’m sure.”
I meet her halfway.
This kiss is different.Not a question.An answer.She opens to me like she’s been wanting to for a week, for a month, since the second I leaned on her office doorframe and said something stupid to make her roll her eyes.My hands find the curve of her waist, the warm give of her there, a live wire under my palms.She hums into my mouth, and I swallow the sound like I’m starving.
We bump a console table, and a framed photo of the team threatens to faceplant.I fumble it upright without breaking the kiss, because priorities.Then I’m walking her backward toward the living room and the big couch that has seen a thousand naps, zero women, and one horrible flu week where I watched four seasons of a cooking show and decided I could pan-sear anything.
“Bedroom,” she whispers against my mouth.
