Chapter eighteen
Sudden Death - Overtime where the first goal ends the game.
Dante
Watching Theron’s face was a revelation.
My mind had gone through and scoffed at all the alien fantasy stories I’d loved as a kid.
I mean, for starters, the aliens were usually the bad people, but I knew Theron wasn’t.
I just didn’t know exactly what he was. I didn’t drop my gaze even as my mind wandered.
One of my dad’s favorite films had been Highlander with Sean Connery, and even better, they were doing a remake with Henry Cavill as the immortal hero, and what was there not to like about that?
I almost missed his quiet whisper. “Don’t make me answer that.”
Which was the answer itself.
“I promise I’ll tell you as soon as I can.”
I kissed him instead of answering. Pressed my lips to his in a way that I hoped conveyed everything I was feeling—that I trusted him, that I believed him, that whatever secret he was keeping didn’t change how I felt about him.
When I pulled back, his eyes were searching mine. “You’re not afraid?”
“Of you?” I shook my head. “No. Of what might happen to us? Yeah. But not of you.”
He pulled me closer, burying his face in my neck, and I felt him exhale against my skin. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Probably not,” I agreed, which made him huff out a laugh. “But you’re stuck with me anyway.”
We stayed like that for a while, tangled together in his enormous bed, and eventually exhaustion pulled me under. When I woke up, early-morning light was filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I was alone.
I sat up, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar space. The bedroom was huge—probably bigger than my entire apartment—but it looked almost unlived in.
I found my briefs on the floor and pulled them on before following the smell of... burning?
I made my way to the kitchen and stopped in the doorway, trying not to laugh. Theron was standing at the stove in nothing but sweatpants, his hair still messed from sleep, frowning at a pan that was producing an alarming amount of smoke.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He looked up, and something in his expression was almost sheepish. “Attempting to make breakfast. It’s not going well.”
I crossed to the stove and peered into the pan. Whatever he’d been trying to cook was now a blackened mass that might have once been eggs. “How long have you had this on?”
“Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen?”
“On high heat?”
“...Yes?”
I turned off the burner and opened the window above the sink to let out the smoke. “Okay. New plan. I’m cooking.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Theron.” I turned to face him. “How often do you actually cook?”
He was quiet for a moment. “I usually eat at the arena. Or order takeout.”
“In this kitchen?” I gestured at the professional-grade appliances, the vast counter space, the double oven that looked like it had never been used. “This is a crime.”
“I bought the house for the land and the privacy,” he said defensively. “The kitchen came with it.”
I shook my head and started opening cabinets, taking inventory. He actually had food—basic staples, eggs that weren’t expired, cheese, vegetables that looked reasonably fresh. Someone had stocked this kitchen even if he never used it.
“Sit,” I told him. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
He leaned against the counter instead, watching me work with an expression I couldn’t quite read. I found a pan that wasn’t ruined, cracked some eggs, and started making an omelet properly—medium heat, patience, actually paying attention to what I was doing.
“My ma taught me to cook,” I said as I worked. “She said no son of hers was going to starve because he couldn’t feed himself. Made all of us learn, even though Marco complained the whole time.”
“You’re close with your family.”
“Yeah.” I added cheese and the sautéed vegetables to the omelet, then carefully folded it. “They drive me crazy sometimes, but I love them. They’ve always had my back, even when I couldn’t tell them about why things went bad in Chicago.”
I could feel his eyes on me as I plated the omelet and started on another one. There was something intimate about this—cooking for him in his kitchen, both of us barely dressed, the morning light making everything feel soft and unreal.
“This is nice,” he said quietly.
I glanced over at him. “What is?”
“This. You. Here.” He moved closer, his hand settling on my hip. “Someone to wake up to. Someone who looks at home in my space.” His thumb traced circles through the thin fabric of my briefs. “I’ve been alone a long time.”
My chest tightened. “You’re not alone anymore.”
He kissed my shoulder, then my neck, and I had to focus very hard on not burning his omelet. “You’re going to distract me.”
“That’s the plan.”
I laughed and nudged him away with my elbow. “Food first. Then you can distract me all you want.”
We ate at the kitchen island, and I watched him take his first bite with an expression of surprise. “This is really good.”
“It’s just an omelet.”
“It’s significantly better than anything I’ve ever made.” He took another bite, and I found myself charmed by how much he seemed to be enjoying it. “You’ll have to teach me.”
“Deal. But fair warning, my ma’s standards are high. You’re going to have to actually pay attention and not just set everything on high heat and hope for the best.”
“I can do that.”
We cleaned up the kitchen together, and I tried not to think about how domestic this felt. How right it felt to be moving around his space, passing him dishes, bumping shoulders as we worked.
“We should probably talk about work,” I said finally, closing the dishwasher. “About how we’re going to handle this.” I wanted to talk about more, but I’d promised to give him time and I would.
His expression shifted, becoming more serious. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“And?”
“I don’t want to hide.” He turned to face me fully, his hands settling on my hips. “Not from people who matter. Most of the team won’t care—Cole, Keegan, Ash, they’ll just want you happy. Max might give me shit about it, but he’s not going to make it a problem.”
“But?” I could hear the unspoken caveat in his tone.
“But the league, management, the media—that’s different.
If this gets out before we’re ready to control the narrative, it could get ugly fast.” His thumbs traced circles through my borrowed shirt.
“I’m thinking we get through the playoffs first. Focus on hockey, keep things professional at the arena.
Then when the season’s over, we sit down properly and figure out how to do this right. ”
“I can do professional,” I said. “Lots of people navigate workplace relationships, but you’re going to have to stop looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now when we’re at the arena.”
“What way?”
“Like you’re thinking about what we did last night.”
His eyes darkened, and he pulled me closer. “I’m always going to be thinking about what we did last night.”
Then he was kissing me, and all my concerns about his secrets evaporated. His hands slid up under my shirt, warm against my skin, and I pressed closer, already wanting more despite the fact that we’d spent half the night tangled together.
He kissed me like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. Deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my knees weak. One hand fisted in my hair, holding me exactly where he wanted me, while the other traced down my spine to grip my ass.
I made a sound that was embarrassingly desperate and felt him smile against my mouth. I knew we had to leave, but for the first time, hockey wasn’t the most important thing in my life. Did that make me crazy stupid? Or did that make me crazy in love?
His hands were already working my borrowed shirt up, and I helped him get it over my head before my fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants. We stumbled backward toward the island, and suddenly I was being lifted, my ass hitting the cold granite countertop.
“Fuck,” I gasped at the temperature shock, but then his mouth was on my neck, and I stopped caring about anything else.
He stepped between my legs, pressing close, and I could feel how hard he was through the thin fabric separating us. I hooked my ankles behind his thighs, pulling him closer, needing more friction, more contact, more everything.
“We should—” he started, then stopped when I ground against him. “Christ, Dante.”
“Should what?” I asked, deliberately doing it again. “Because I think we should keep doing exactly this.”
His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, and I loved it. Loved the evidence of how much he wanted me, how little control he had when we were like this. He kissed me again, harder this time, all teeth and desperation.
I got his sweatpants down just far enough, then my own briefs, and then we were skin to skin, and I was pretty sure I was going to lose my mind. He wrapped his hand around both of us, and the sensation made me see stars.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough in that way that went straight through me.
I forced my eyes open, meeting his. The copper was back, glowing faintly in the morning light, and instead of being frightened, I found it incredibly hot. Whatever he was, whatever secrets he was keeping—this was real. The way he was looking at me was real.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, his hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes that were going to kill me.
“You,” I managed. “Just you. However I can have you.” His eyes darkened at that, and his hand moved faster, his grip tightening in a way that made me gasp. “I’ve got you,” he murmured against my mouth. “Let me take care of you.”
I was already close—too close, considering we’d barely started. But something about being here in his kitchen, in the morning light, with him looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered—it was overwhelming in the best way.