Chapter 20
Twenty
KAI
Thinking of only me?
I nearly choke on a chunk of shrimp in my taco.
Bass grins and takes a sip of horchata. “I’m serious.”
“You’re relentless.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re being dangerous.”
“There’s no other way to be, Vega.”
I glance away, watching a bride in heels and a too-short bodycon dress stumble past, laughing with her friends.
This city never sleeps, never stops. Maybe that’s why I feel so unsteady around him—it’s the same energy.
Chaotic.
Intoxicating.
“What about you?” he asks. “What keeps you up at night, except when I’m inside of you, of course.”
“You’re a funny dude,” I let out a low chuckle. “What keeps me up at night? Deadlines. Sue’s late-night baking. The usual.”
He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “I know about those things already. Give me something real, Vega, something I don’t know.”
I consider his ask for a moment, and suddenly, my mom’s voice pops into my head. You shouldn’t give your body to someone if you can’t also give them your hopes and dreams, Kai. As usual, even in my head, she’s right. So I tell him what’s been on my mind lately.
“I think about what’s next after VCU. If I’m good enough to work in such a competitive field. A male-dominated field. Sometimes I fear that none of this work I’m doing with you will even matter.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then says to me, “It will. You are.”
It’s not just the simple words of affirmation he offers—but it’s how he says them. Like they’re facts. As if he really means it.
“You don’t know that,” I say. Doubt overshadowing his well-intended words.
“I know what it’s like to have the world expect you to fail. And I know what it looks like when someone’s fighting like hell not to,” he adds.
I look at him then—really look. The sharp jawline, the way his lashes frame those impossibly dark eyes, the little scar near his left brow, I’ve never noticed before. His entire body is relaxed, confident in the way athletes are, but there’s something softer underneath tonight.
Something that makes my chest ache a little. Something that makes me yearn for…more.
I’m scared to admit it, but I do believe I really like this self-proclaimed hockey god, and not just in the obvious “he’s fucking me well” kind of way.
There’s a mutual admiration we have for each other that feels different than any other relationship I’ve been in before. I don’t have the best track record when it comes to romantic relationships.
The air between us hums with unspoken things. Questions. Hopes. Heat.
But neither of us acts on them.
Not right now.
“I’m a little ashamed to admit this, Morelli, but as much time as we’ve spent on your social media, I’ve never asked you the obvious question–why hockey?” I ask him.
“You want the real truth?”
“Always.”
“I didn’t like my stepfather very much, especially when I was a kid. Sports were a way to stay out of the house after school so that I didn’t have to deal with him.”
“You never talk about him much.”
“My mom finally divorced him a few years ago, so there isn’t much to say about him anymore. That tie is severed.”
“Did he hurt you or your mom?” I ask, worried that I’ve brought up a traumatic subject.
“No, nothing like that. He was just wrong for her, and I didn’t have the words to tell her that when I was a kid. Not that she would have listened to me anyway.”
I can tell this is not a pleasant topic for him, so I try steering him back to hockey–the one thing that makes his face light up like a Christmas tree when he talks about it.
“Okay, but I bet you could have played any sport, so why hockey?”
“Right place at the right time.” His posture changes as he shares the story with me.
“I was in the middle of sixth grade, just fucking around with my friends at the rink, and my first coach approached me.” He laughs as he shares his recollection.
“At first, I thought he was a creeper. He wasn’t with anyone as far as we could tell.
But he told me I was fast on the ice and asked me if I ever thought about playing hockey for the Falcons. ”
“Who are the Falcons?”
“The local hockey league in my town. I knew they were legit, and soon discovered that he was the head coach. He told me if I was interested, to have my parents bring me to the next practice, and that was all she wrote. I took to the ice like a fish takes to water.”
“So in just one random afternoon, he noticed your potential.”
“Yeah, for sure. He knew I’d be a monster on the ice. I was big for my age, kind of a bully, and I loved putting on skates. I was perfect for hockey. I was built for it.”
“So while that might of been a right place at the right time scenario, it’s been your hard work and dedication that have gotten you to this level.”
"See, that's why we get along so well, Vega." He smiles. “I love how you have a fantastic understanding of my magnificence.”
“Yes,” I laugh out loud. “I’m definitely starting to.”
We drive back to my apartment in silence, the city lights fading behind us. It’s the quietest we’ve been with each other since we met. It’s weird, but nice.
Bass drives an old Ford truck that I think he sometimes shares with his teammates, but it feels like the perfect ride for him, tough and unassuming. He’s got the windows down, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually across the console like it’s waiting for mine.
I don’t take it.
Even though I want to.
He’s so damn sexy.
But handholding is for relationships. This is a situationship. Getting caught up in temporary feelings could cause me permanent problems. I need to always remember that.
When we pull into my complex, I unbuckle my seatbelt but then hesitate.
“This was…unexpected,” I say.
“But good?” he asks, hopeful.
“Yeah,” I admit. “It was good.”
“So, you’d be cool with doing it again?”
Another date?
“I mean…sure.”
He leans back, studying me like he’s trying to memorize something. “I like being around you when it’s not about hockey or strategy or fixing my mess.”
I smile, small but genuine. “You’re still a mess.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “But you like me messy.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I flirt back.
There's a long pause, and a moment passes between us, where I think he might try something, but then he hesitates as if he's just talked himself off a ledge.
“Get inside before Sue thinks I’ve kidnapped you.”
“She probably already does.”
“And save me some of that peach pie of hers.”
“Bye, Morelli.”
But before I climb completely out of the car, he grabs my wrist, pulls me back inside, and claims my mouth with the hungriest kiss, leaving me wet and wanting.
“Text me once when you’re in your place,” he says against my skin.
I pause.
“You’re not my boyfriend,” I tease to stop all the fluttering going on in my chest.
“No,” he grins. “But I fucking should be.”
I exit the car and shut the door before I’m forced to respond to that.
Because if I let myself linger on the words, I just might tell him the things I’ve been too afraid to say. That may be he’s a hundred percent right. And I’m starting not to give two fucks who knows it.
Bass Morelli should be mine.
And in our private little situationship bubble, he already is.