Page 95 of Perfectly Complicated
I inch closer. The hallway is dark and vacant except for us. He warned me about wanting to kiss me at the party—and now we’re finally alone. “But isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes,” he admits, his eyes wandering all over my face and neck, like he’s deciding where to kiss me first. “But I didn’t realize how it would affect me.”
My breath catches when he slides a hand along the curve of my waist, feeling the fabric. I’m wearing my ex-nemesis’s jersey, but it’s time to face the facts. I don’t care if we can’t agree about Christmas. There’s one thing wecanagree on: I like wearing his jersey. Way too much, in fact. And judging by the look on his face, he does too.
His hand curls around my back, folding me into him, his body warm against mine. Adrenaline shoots up my spine. He leans closer to my ear and whispers, “When you wear my jersey to a game, you’re telling everyone who you belong to.” Then he shifts a step and studies me, his gaze searching my face. “Are you okay with that, Bennett? Are you okay with being mine?”
This isn’t our usual banter. He isn’t teasing me about not liking hockey. He’s legitimately worried that he’s pressuring me into some kind of arrangement that I don’t want.
But what he doesn’t know is that I want this. Possibly too much.
I curl my fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. “I love this jersey. I love wearing your number and your name. Ever since I saw you on TV, I’ve been dreaming about how it would feel to wear ‘Riley’ across my shoulders. And whether I would feel different in it.”
“And do you?” he asks, moving his face closer to mine, his breathcaressing my skin. “Feel different, I mean?”
I tilt my head and hope he can see the truth in my eyes. “Yes,” I murmur. “I feel like I’m yours.”
The words feel shiny and hopeful, like my heart is a balloon rising to the sky, disappearing into the clouds.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he cups my face. “You always were, Bennett. You didn’t need the jersey to prove it.”
With his hand on my jaw, he dips down and presses his lips to mine, and the heat rushes over me like a blast of hot air.
His fingers thread through my hair as he slants his mouth over mine, drinking me in until the world blurs. I part my lips and let him lead, savoring the way he teases my lower lip with every slow sweep.
He backs me into the wall, and I suck in a breath and hook my arm around his neck. His mouth finds mine again, and I taste the promise there, every lingering pass stealing all the rational thoughts from my head. He smiles against my mouth, his teeth barely grazing my bottom lip.
“Bennett,” he says in a rough voice. “Do you have any idea what it does to me, seeing you wear my name?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper against his mouth. “But I’m starting to think you have a thing for kindergarten teachers.”
“Just one,” he murmurs, kissing the curve of my neck. “Andonlyone.” His words turn on the Christmas lights in my heart.
But then he stills mid-kiss, and that’s when I hear it too—footsteps coming this way. He steps away just in time as Tate appears around the corner.
“I was wondering where you two snuck off to.” He crosses his arms, looking like a cop who busted a couple of kids. “Hate to break this up, but Marco’s coming this way.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “You’ve got about thirty seconds to go if you’re planning on sneaking out of here.”
Tate glances over his shoulder, then gives us a quick nod before disappearing around the corner.
Rourke exhales, and it’s all I can do not to burst out laughing. We look like a couple of guilty teenagers.
And I have zero regrets.
“Ready to go?” Rourke asks, holding out his hand.
I take it, my fingers intertwining with his. “Let’s get out of here.”
When we arrive at the arena, I have no idea what to expect. According to the girls’ text thread, Rourke’s surprise needed the whole team’s help, which means he planned something for tonight.
As we make our way down a maze-like series of hallways, he stops at a large door, types in a security code which releases a lock, then pushes it open. A cold rush of air hits my face. We step inside the cavernous arena, and suddenly the jersey I’m wearing feels more real than ever. This is where Rourke plays—the rink I’ve watched on TV more than a dozen times, the place where his fans scream his name.
I know that the night I return for a game, I won’t just be a teacher at Sully’s Beach Elementary. I’ll be a professional athlete’s girlfriend.
The rink stretches out before us in near darkness—no overhead lights, just dim emergency lighting casting everything in shadows. I can barely make out the ice, dark and gleaming like black glass.
As we make our way to the team bench, I hold on tightly to Rourke so I don’t trip.
“So, what are we doing? Because if skating is on the schedule, I kind of need some lights,” I say. “Otherwise, I’ll break something—probably a lot of somethings.”
