Page 102 of Racking Up Penalties
“Looking good in here,” Tristan appraises, nodding at the work Ethan and I have done so far. His voice has that warm timbre that makes you feel like he truly sees you.
“Couldn’t have done it without your heavy lifting,” I reply with a playful wink. But then, they’re both wrapping me up in their arms and for a moment, everything else fades away. There’s just this feeling of completeness.
“This is perfect,” Liam chuckles against my ear, his breath tickling my skin and sending a shiver down my spine. Tristan squeezes a little tighter, and I can feel the silent strength of his support.
“Okay, okay, guys,” I laugh, pulling back from their embrace but still caught in the warmth of it. “We’ve still got work to do.”
As I turn back to the boxes, my hands find fabric instead of cardboard. Pulling the material out, I realize it’s the outfit from the photoshoot, the one where we met.
“Wait, what’s this doing here?” I murmur, more to myself than anyone in particular. It’s a simple piece, really, but on Ethan, it had been transformative. My fingers brush over the smooth texture.
“Ah,” Ethan says, a touch of color rising to his cheeks as he catches sight of the outfit in my hands. “That was an important day.”
Hearing the softness in his voice, I glance at him. There’s an openness there, a vulnerability that makes my heart skip a beat.
“Definitely memorable,” I agree, carefully folding the outfit and placing it on the bed. The corners of Ethan’s mouth lift in a smile. “Why did you keep this?”
He pauses, tools for hanging the posters still in hand, his gaze finding mine. The intensity in those deep brown eyes shifts into something gentler, a warmth that feels like sunset light spilling into the room.
Ethan glances at Tristan and Liam before turning back to me.
“That’s the day I asked you out for the first time,” Ethan confesses, his voice barely louder than a hush, yet every word resonates clear and true, “I knew I wanted to remember that day forever.” His smile is tender, an unspoken promise hanging between us.
Ethan was somewhat of a playboy then and I didn’t think he took things that seriously so knowing he thought it was special means a lot.
My heart swells, expanding with a warmth that seeps into every corner of my being. I can’t help but step closer to him, the magnetic pull of his sincerity drawing me in. “Ethan,” I whisper, my voice laced with emotion, “that means more to me than you could possibly know.”
He closes the distance between us in two sure strides. We are a breath apart now, the electricity of our connection buzzing silently through the space. He lifts a hand, fingers brushing a strand of red hair behind my ear with an intimacy that sends shivers down my spine.
“Does it?” he murmurs, his gaze locked onto mine, searching, hoping, confirming.
“More than you realize,” I reply, meeting his intensity with my own. It’s a dance we’ve perfected, one of silent confessions and unspoken vows. His thumb grazes my cheek, a touch so light yet laden with emotion.
It’s a tender silence, filled with the promise of something beautiful, something terrifyingly real.
I lean into him, my forehead resting against his.
“Thank you,” I breathe out, the words inadequate to express the gratitude flooding through me.
His arms encircle me, strong and reassuring, pulling me into an embrace that feels like coming home. I close my eyes, allowing myself to melt into his warmth, into the safety of his hold.
“Always, Tessa,” he replies, his voice a soothing balm, “for you, always.”
Peeling away from Ethan’s embrace, I find both Tristan and Liam watching us with smiles. I turn to focus on the task at hand, the room is still a maze of cardboard and chaos, each box a puzzle waiting to be solved. I tug at a strip of tape, unfurling the flaps to reveal an assortment of books.
“Your collection of sports biographies could fill a library,” I tease, lifting a thick tome on hockey legends.
Ethan chuckles from behind me, his voice close enough to send a ripple of anticipation down my spine. “They’re inspiring.”
“Is that so?” I shoot back playfully, sorting the books into neat stacks on the shelf.
“Ah, Tessa, there’s an art to it. Like fashion, but with more body checking.” His tone is light, but I catch the underlying pride in his words. I love that about him—the way he respects the game, how it’s shaped the man he is.
“Speaking of art…” I angle my head toward the posters in my hands, their edges curling with anticipation. “Where do you want these?”
“Over the desk would be great.” He steps beside me, his presence a magnetic pull I’m all too happy to lean into. Our shoulders brush as we straighten the first poster against the wall, and I can feel the heat from his skin through the thin fabric of my shirt.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over my ear. A shiver runs through me, one that has nothing to do with the room’s temperature.
