Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Parker
I dropped my wet, soapy sponge into the bathtub, dried my hands on my jeans, and checked my phone. I calculated the time in Boston. It was late Thursday afternoon there, and by now, the Blazers’ plane should have touched down. My fingers trembled as I thumbed through my messages, looking for a text from Bowen—something, anything—to indicate he had landed safely.
But the screen remained stubbornly blank. The absence of his message weighed heavily on me, an unexpected worry that sank like a stone in my stomach.
I sighed, a sound that seemed to echo through the silence of the bathroom. With a resigned shake of my head, I pocketed my phone, the device like a brick. I turned back to the bathtub, the mundane task of scrubbing the porcelain a poor distraction from the growing knot of anxiety.
As I circled the sponge around the tub, I could practically hear Bowen’s shout of release echoing through the room as it did the previous night. My skin heated, having nothing to do with the effort I was putting into cleaning the tub.
My phone rang, slicing through the quiet like a sudden ray of sunshine. A spark of hope flared inside me. I hurriedly wiped my damp hands on a towel and fished my phone out of my jeans pocket. The screen lit up with Bowen’s name, making my heart race.
I answered quickly, trying to act casual but unable to suppress the smile spreading across my face. “Hi!”
“Hi, baby,” he said quietly, the words like a warm caress.
Baby? The endearment made a thrill run down my spine. It was the first time he’d used such a word, and it filled me with a glowing warmth.
“Why are you whispering?” I whispered, teasing him.
He grunted, amused and gruff. “I’m on the team bus on the way to the hotel. These assholes don’t need to hear me talking to my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” I echoed, my smile widening.
“Yeah. That’s you.”
I chuckled, the laughter bubbling up effortlessly. “Glad to hear you called the right woman.”
“There’s no one else.” He dropped to a husky murmur, sending a shiver of excitement along my spine.
“Same here. There’s no one else for me.”
“Damn straight there isn’t.”
I rolled my eyes at his overbearing confidence, though the smile on my face remained in place. “How was your flight?”
“Good. The flight attendant reminded me of you.”
I furrowed my brow. “How so?”
“She spilled a drink on me.”
A laugh burst from me, despite the pang of embarrassment that came with the memory. “Did she spill a pint of beer on your suit?”
“Nah, nothing like that. I’d changed out of my suit and into a T-shirt and sweatpants when I got on board. She was handing me a glass of ice water when we hit turbulence. Dumped the entire glass in my lap.”
I stifled a laugh, picturing the scene with a mixture of sympathy and humor. “Did you have to sit in wet pants the rest of the trip?”
“Had another pair of sweats in my duffel. No harm, no penalty.”
“Well, that’s good.”
After a brief, comfortable silence between us, he asked, “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning the bathtub,” I said in a sultry tone as a suggestive reminder of our shower.
“Really? Tell me more about this bathtub of yours,” he teased for my ears only.
His deep voice went straight to my lady bits, and I shivered with desire. It would be a long four days before he returned.
“You’ll have to come and see it sparkle when you get home,” I taunted.
He growled. “Count on it.” Voices rose in the background. “Gotta go. We’re at the hotel. Call me on your break tomorrow night?”
“Talk to you then.” I hung up, grinning.
Early the next evening, as the buzzer sounded in Boston, I cringed over the boos from the Friday night crowd. Boston had scored on all four of its power plays, the empty net, and more, ending the game with a 7-2 final score. Boston took the lead in the series 2-1. Ouch . The heavy atmosphere in the bar was probably nothing compared to the mood in the locker room. Would Bowen even want to talk?
Determined to reach out, I arranged for an early break and settled into the privacy of my car. I glanced at my clock and adjusted for the time difference. Eleven on the East Coast. Each second stretched out as I waited for Bowen to answer. Just as I thought the call would go to voicemail, my breath caught when he picked up.
“Parker?” He sounded hurried, almost winded. “I was carrying my duffel and unlocking my hotel room door and didn’t have an extra hand to answer.”
“No problem. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk.” I treaded carefully around the topic of the loss, my heart heavy with hesitation.
“Always want to talk with you.”
Relief unfurled in my chest, and I released a sigh. “I’m sorry about the game.”
He grunted, the frustration palpable even through the phone. “Drew too many penalties and had sloppy PK. Better believe we’ll be working on that tomorrow.”
A knock interrupted him, followed by the muffled sounds of a conversation.
Chase’s voice drifted through. “…to the bar?”
“No, thanks.”
“…talking to Parker?”
I imagined Bowen nodding.
“…to Emily on the bus…let you go.” The door clicked shut, leaving us in an intimate silence.
“Sorry about that.”
“You don’t want to go to the bar with your teammates?” I asked, trying for levity, though a trace of disbelief colored my tone.
“Why would I? You’re not there.”
I inhaled sharply, the words surprising me. “Is that why you go to Scrimmage’s? What about being with your teammates?” My voice wavered with vulnerability and curiosity.
He grunted again, and I could almost picture his shrug. “I see those assholes every day,” he said without heat.
“Well, you’re the reason I look forward to my shifts on home game nights,” I confessed, my heart pounding with the weight of my admission. “I miss you when you’re on road trips.”
“Miss you too,” he rumbled.
A dopey grin spread across my face, and I exhaled, a warm thrill bubbling up inside me. “My break is over, but I wanted you to know I was thinking of you. Again, I’m sorry about the loss.”
“You made everything better,” he murmured, as if speaking to himself more than to me.
I hung up with a fluttering heart, joy and satisfaction filling me.
Mid-Saturday afternoon, as I carefully swept my eyelashes with mascara, I thought Bowen wouldn’t call before I had to leave for my shift. But just as I was about to resign myself to wait until after work, my phone rang. A surge of excitement flitted through my chest like hummingbirds on a nectar high.
“Hi!” I answered, my grin wide enough to light up the room.
“Hi, baby,” he said, barely audible. Those hummingbirds twirled and tickled. Louder, he said, “Need you to settle an argument. These idiot friends of mine are debating the best place to get classic Boston food.”
“Ooh. I can help you there. Do you want Boston baked beans, clam chowder, lobster rolls, Yankee pot roast…?” My mouth watered as I listed the dishes I grew up with.
He repeated the options to his teammates, then came back on the line. “The majority want lobster rolls.”
“Good choice. The High Tide Shack on Boylston serves hot lobster rolls with drawn butter and cold rolls with mayo.” My stomach growled in response. “Wish I was going out with you,” I added wistfully, though I had left that life behind.
“I’ll make a reservation at Maestro’s steakhouse for us. They serve lobster mac and cheese. How about that?”
“Another good choice.” I could almost taste the creamy cheese and rich lobster. “Mmm.”
“It’s a date. Can’t wait.”
“I miss you,” I said in the quiet bathroom, a pang of longing in my chest.
“Miss you too.” In the background, I heard hoots and catcalls. “Assholes,” he called out good-naturedly.
I chuckled. We said our goodbyes, and I hung up feeling a deep, happy connection.
Though we were three thousand miles apart, Bowen was opening up, bringing us closer. Joy lit my heart. No secret would tear us apart.
I would tell Bowen my father was Benjamin Brevos as soon as he came home.