Chapter Five #2
He's silent for a second, and then his hand slides down my back, slow and careful. "You can, but I won't force you. Just know the offer is there, baby."
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything else. If I open my mouth, I might cry. Or I'll say yes, get attached to his family, and then when this all goes to hell, I'll be alone again, only worse.
He finishes his eggs, then leans in and kisses the side of my head.
I let myself lean into him, willing him not to break my heart. I'm a little afraid it's already too late for that, though.
C leaning up the kitchen after breakfast takes way longer than it honestly should. Every time I try to load the dishwasher, Trent sneaks up behind me and grabs my ass. At one point, he lifts me onto the counter and stands between my legs, kissing me so hard I forget what planet I'm on.
When I finally break free, we're both breathing hard.
"You're not supposed to be manhandling people. You almost died yesterday," I remind him, but the protest comes out weak…mostly because I'm smiling like an idiot.
"You're not people," he says, nipping my earlobe like that proves his point. "You're Dani. That's different."
God, help me. I can't resist this man.
"Hands off, Trent," I warn him, giving him the sternest expression I can manage as he actively tries to slip his hand up my shirt.
He rumbles a laugh and backs away with his hands in the air as if he knows when he's beaten. I still make sure to keep one careful eye on him as I wipe down countertops, just in case.
We finally manage to finish cleaning up, but the mess inside my head only grows worse with every passing minute. The longer I'm here, the deeper I sink. It's a serious problem, especially when I don't really want to leave at all.
There's a saying about fairytales. What is it? Oh, right. They happen to other people. And being with him feels a little bit like magic. I want to keep it.
He leans back against the counter with his arms crossed, watching me like he's waiting for something. Eventually, I can't take the silence.
"What?" I ask, pretending I'm annoyed and not two seconds from tackling him to the floor.
He shrugs, but there's a challenge in his eyes. "You said no to Christmas," he says. "Fine. I don't like it, but accept it. You're coming with me to Colt's party tonight, however."
My heart slams against my ribcage, a nervous pit opening in my stomach. "Colt's Christmas party?" I ask. "You mean, with the team?"
"It's not as awful as it sounds," he says through a chuckle. "You'll have fun."
"I'll have an aneurysm," I correct, pressing a hand to my chest. "You want to bring your physical therapist to a team party, the day after we" —I gesture between us because, like a dork, I can't say the words— "and you don't think that's going to be the talk of the locker room until the end of time? "
He just smirks, pulling me into his arms. "I don't give a single fuck what they talk about, Sunshine."
"You're not supposed to date support staff," I whisper, but it comes out weak and unconvincing because I'm not actually sure if that's a rule for them or one for us.
Players can pretty much get away with anything so long as they don't make the team or the league look bad.
We're the ones with a list of rules a mile long.
And I'm the one who's broken the big one repeatedly.
"What we do is our business." He says it with all the confidence of a man who won't be at risk of losing his job when the execs find out. He has that luxury. I don't.
I also don't have the energy to argue, not with his hands on my body, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin under the edge of my shirt.
He shuffles us until I'm crowded up against the counter, trapped between it and his body. "You afraid they'll judge you?"
"No," I say, which is a lie. They will absolutely judge me.
Girls like me do not end up with men like him anywhere except in movies.
"Maybe? I don't know. I just… I need this job, Trent.
I can't screw it up because I–" I almost say, "love you," but manage to keep that under wraps at the last second. "Because I got carried away."
He studies me, his green eyes bright. "You think I'll let anyone threaten your job?" He drops his forehead to mine. "You think the other guys would? Everyone loves you. And I don't care if everyone knows about us. Christ, I want them to know you're mine, Dani."
I try to stay strong, but it's impossible when he's this close, this warm, and this irresistibly honest. He wants people to know that he's with me. He doesn't want to hide our relationship. If this isn't a Christmas miracle, I don' t know what is.
I sigh, caving like a paper house in a windstorm. "Fine. But I'm telling them I'm your unwilling hostage."
"Don't give me any ideas."
"That was not an invitation to tie me to your bed, Trent."
He rumbles laughter before kissing me, slow and sweet. When he pulls back, he links our fingers together, pulling me into the living room.
He flops down on the couch and pulls me with him, so I end up tucked under his arm like we've been doing this for years.
He puts on a movie but immediately turns toward me, ignoring it.
"What was it like, growing up in foster care?" he asks, like it's a normal conversation starter, playing with the still-damp ends of my hair.
I snort. "Chaotic, mostly. But I didn't have to share a bathroom with a dozen other girls until college, so that was nice."
His amused laugh brings a smile to my face. "I bet your brothers were worse."
"Oh, they were absolutely worse," I agree cheerfully. "You ever seen what happens when four teenage boys get into a fight over the last bag of Doritos? There's blood. And broken bones. I got really good at patching up wounds. "
He looks at me, his head tilted. "You said that's why you got into PT?"
I nod. "That, and I like feeling useful. Like I can fix things, you know? I was never really able to do that growing up."
"You mean with your mom?"
"Yeah," I whisper, swallowing hard. "I guess I like knowing that there are things and people in this world that I can help put back together when they're hurting."
He's quiet for a second, processing my confession, and then his eyes meet mine, his expression soft and deep. "You fix a helluva lot more than you know, Sunshine."
I don't know what to say to that, mostly because I know he means it.
He's had a rough couple of years with a lot of injuries, but he keeps pushing anyway because it's who he is and what he knows.
Hockey is his life. I like knowing that I've made this season a little easier for him. He deserves that.
I lay my head on his chest and focus on the movie, which is some terrible Christmas rom-com. Trent doesn't even try to pretend he cares about it. He spends the entire time tracing circles on my thigh, or kissing my temple, or pulling me so close I'm basically on top of him.
After a while, I work up the courage to ask him what I really want to know.
"Why don't you want to retire?"
He shrugs, but there's something sad in his eyes. "Hockey's all I've ever known. I'm not honestly sure who I am if I'm not playing."
"Trying to figure out where you belong is a bitch," I say with a sigh.
"Yeah," he says softly. "It is. But you know what?" He glances over at me, his expression open and earnest. "I think I'm finally figuring it out."
Those butterflies are hard at work in my stomach again, and I don't know how to respond. Mostly because I think maybe I'm figuring it out too, and that's far more intense than I'm mentally prepared to handle while watching a Christmas movie.
"Maybe you should coach," I tease, changing the subject. "I hear Little League is a vicious battleground."
He laughs. "Are you trying to get me sent to prison for punching a ref, Sunshine? Because that's pretty much how that would work out."
"Yeah, that tracks," I say, earning a grin from him.
"What's your plan after you leave professional sports in the rearview?" he asks. "Or do you plan to stick with the team forever?"
"I haven't thought that far ahead," I admit. "I just wanted to make it through the season without getting fired."
He brushes his nose against my cheek. "You're not going anywhere. I'll make sure of it, even if I have to keep faking injuries right up until the end. "
He's teasing when he says it, but I don't miss the promise in his words, either.
"My hero," I whisper.
"Fuck yeah."
I try to focus on the movie again. I really do.
But Trent's fingers keep inching higher and higher on my thigh.
At first, I think maybe he's just being sweet and attentive.
But after five minutes of deliberate circles and random slow drags of his fingertips, I realize he is not, in fact, being sweet. He's being a menace.
I squirm, pretending I'm still absorbed in the movie. That pretense goes out the window when he hauls me onto his lap.
"Trent," I groan.
"You looked uncomfortable," he rumbles, his voice low and smug.
"You're the world's least subtle cuddler," I mutter, unable to fight a smile.
"Not a cuddler," he says. "I'm a human weighted blanket."
"Weighted blankets don't have erections," I point out, because, no, that is not a hockey stick wedged against my ass.
He just shrugs, not even a little embarrassed. "Yours does."
I'm not sure what to say. I'm not sure what to do, either. I'm not even wearing real pants, just his old hockey tee and some way-too-big boxers that keep trying to slide off my ass. The situation is rapidly deteriorating into definite pink slip territory. Again.
I glance back at the movie, but that doesn't help. The couple on screen is making out like it's the end of the world. And Trent's hand is inching steadily higher up my thigh. He's not in a rush. If anything, he's drawing this out to torture me.
I glance at him. His eyes are fixed on my mouth, like he's imagining exactly what he wants to do to it.
He catches me staring and smirks, then drops his lips to my ear.