Page 112 of Almost Ours
Ryan glanced over his shoulder, his eyes landing on the frame for a split second before cutting away. “Kyle.”
I tilted my head, taking in the image again. “You guys played hockey together?”
“Yeah. We played on the same college team.” Ryan’s voice was clipped, stripped of his usual easy warmth.
I frowned. The air between us shifted–subtle yet undeniable, like a cold draft slipping through the room. I could tell from the way he kept his gaze anywhere but on me that I’d brushed against something he didn’t want touched.
“Did he play in the NHL too?” I tried again, my tone light, casual, but his shoulders tensed at the question.
“He did,” he said finally, the words short and flat. “He was an incredible player–” He stopped there, the pause hanging heavy, like he’d yanked the rest of the story back before it could escape.
Something about the sharpness in his voice made me tread carefully. “And you guys are all still close…?”
Ryan’s jaw flexed. “As close as we can be. He lives in Oakville.”
I opened my mouth to ask more–because I wasn’t prying, I just wanted to know him better–but the look on his face stopped me. His eyes were darker than usual, something hard and shuttered settling there.
“Ryan…” My voice was quiet, careful.
He blew out a slow breath, rubbed the back of his neck, then forced a crooked smile. “How are the raspberry scones coming along at Benny’s? I was thinking of stopping by to grab one tomorrow morning before work. Maybe I’ll snag one for Shane too.”
The deflection was clumsy, obvious. My chest tightened and I leveled a look at him–steady, unblinking.
His eyes flicked away, landing on the far wall like maybe the wood grain could give him a better excuse. “We should take Connor up to the mountain next weekend. Snowboard’s just sitting there–he’d love a proper day out.”
“What are you doing, Ryan?” I asked, firmer this time, and he finally looked at me.
Something cracked across his expression–frustration maybe, but also fear. He shifted closer, his hand brushing mine like he could erase the question with touch alone.
I gave him another look–the kind that said I knew he was dodging me. His throat bobbed, his mouth opening, then closing again like he’d thought better of speaking. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.
And then he leaned in.
The first brush of his lips were soft, tentative, as though he was asking permission. But the second kiss wasn’t a question–it was an answer, the only one he was willing to give. It was hungry, desperate, his fingers threading into my hair, holding me there like he could keep me from talking more.
I felt it in my bones: he was hiding something. But God, the way he kissed me… it unraveled me, heat spreading fast, replacing the ache in my chest with something reckless and consuming.
His mouth trailed along my jaw, his breath hot against my skin. My hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, turned urgent, like neither of us could get enough. My pulse raced, my body responding before my mind could catch up, before the questions I still carried had a chance to break through.
I should have pressed harder. Should have demanded words. Instead, I let myself melt into him, into the weight of his bodypressing me back against the couch, into the way his touch silenced every fear just for a little while.
The world blurred until there was nothing but heat, nothing but us.
The past monthhad been nothing short of incredible. Life had settled into a rhythm I never knew I needed–a balance between work, coaching hockey, and every moment I could steal with Harper and Connor. If someone had told me six months ago that sneaking into a woman’s house late at night just to hold her in my arms–feeling like a damn teenager again–would be the highlight of my days, I would’ve laughed.
Now, though? Those quiet hours were what I looked forward to most.
I’d mastered the art of climbing the creaky porch steps as quietly as possible, slipping in through the back door with a single knock or a quick text to let her know I was there. And the way Harper’s face lit up when she opened the door–her hair a little messy, drowning in one of those cozy sweatshirts that always seemed too big for her–got me every time. Sometimes, we’d sit on the couch and just talk, her head resting on my shoulder while the house settled into silence around us. Other times, the second the door clicked shut, I’d have her backed against the wall, kissing her senseless, her laughter turning into quiet gasps.
Of course, Connor made sneaking around… tricky. Like when I’d steal a kiss in the kitchen, only to hear footsteps on the stairs, forcing us to break apart and pretend we were just… standing there. But those moments? Half the fun.
It wasn’t just about Harper, though. Connor had worked his way into my life in a way I hadn’t expected. Whether it was playing street hockey in the driveway or sitting on the floor with him, building LEGO towers that inevitably turned into spaceships, he’d become part of my day-to-day life. It felt as natural as breathing. I couldn’t imagine not having him around, not hearing his laughter filling whatever room he was in.
The six of us–me, Harper, Connor, and the little circle we’d built with Nina, Shane, and Liam–felt like a makeshift family in a way that warmed something in me I hadn’t even realized was cold. Whether it was chaotic game night or taking the kids sledding again, the past month had been filled with moments I wouldn’t trade for anything.
Then there’d been yesterday.
Harper standing in my living room, looking at that old photo of me, Shane, and Kyle. Her voice had been curious, light, and the second she started asking questions, something in me had locked up. I’d given her clipped answers without even meaning to, retreating behind a wall I’d built years ago. I didn’t want to. Hell, I’d been so close to telling her everything. So close to finally saying out loud the thing that still kept me awake some nights.
