Chapter 25 A Grand Gesture?
A GRAND GESTURE?
CASSIDY
Something weird is going on.
First, Ren insisted I ride with him to the game, which got me there way earlier than I would’ve liked. Luckily, I was saved by some food stalls that opened early, and I had a new book to pass my time, but these arena seats are not the most comfortable around.
Then, Declan and Issa showed up. Which wouldn’t have been weird if they didn’t have seats next to me. These seats are almost always taken, which means someone must’ve pulled some strings—some very expensive strings.
Ren skates toward me, smiling, and I can’t help but return his smile because the man is absolutely ridiculously handsome. He stops in front of the glass, taps his stick on it, his eyes lock with mine. “I got you something.”
Everyone is staring at us. Glancing around I attempt to squash my embarrassment, but being the center of attention in general has never been fun for me. I actually hate it.
Issa pulls a jersey out of her bag, holding it out in front of me.
I try to take it from her, but she waves me away, instead gathering it up in her hands and then lifting it over my head.
Ducking slightly, I help her guide it down over my shoulders, and then she’s smoothing it along my torso, looking mighty proud of herself.
Glancing down, I see it’s a team jersey, the hockey stick wielding devil now emblazoned across my chest. Part of me wants to be a brat about it, but he’s staring at me so intently, I’d feel bad if I ruined it for him.
So, instead, I blow him a kiss even though I feel silly doing so. He grins, skates backwards a few feet, his hands making a heart over his chest. He spins around smoothly, raises his stick, tapping his back with it as he skates away, and I do a double take at what’s written there.
Logan-Rafferty
“What in the—” I mutter, truly thrown by a gesture that would’ve taken a lot of planning and coordination to pull off. Because they don’t allow players to put any old name on the back of their game jersey. It has to be their legal name.
He changed his fucking name.
I’m not gonna cry.
I am not going to cr—
Of all the grand gestures the man could come up with this is a new one. And even though I technically loathe surprises, I don’t exactly hate it. My heart pitter patters in my chest, the ache that’s lived there for so long suddenly sparking with a renewed warmth that takes my breath away.
Issa’s elbow in my side draws my attention away from Ren, who’s now standing with his team, waiting for game time. “Pretty cool, huh?”
I sit heavily, suddenly exhausted, turning to look at her. “Did you know about this?”
Issa purses her lips, looking across me at Declan. Then she says, “Maybe you better ask him.”
I look at Declan, open my mouth to ask him but he cuts me off, “Now, don’t be mad at Ren.”
I raise my brows at him. “And why would I be mad at Ren?”
Declan shrugs, but then Issa reaches across me, smacks him on the arm. “You better fess up, Declan.”
Declan eyes his wife warily, and I smile at their sudden shift in power dynamic. At a glance, I take Declan to be a potentially overbearing, dominant man. But the more time I’ve spent with him has revealed a man who is so enamored with his wife, I’d bet he’d even crawl to her if she asked him to.
Sighing, Declan reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a small yellow envelope, and hands it to me. “Here.”
Tentatively, I take it, then turn it over in my hands a few times while I eye him curiously. “What is it?”
“Your updated legal documents.”
Slowly, I open the envelope, remove the contents. My license. My passport. Both with the same name.
Cassidy Logan-Rafferty.
“He changed my name?” I manage to ask even though my breath is stuck in my throat. “Ren changed my name.”
“Well,” Declan responds. “Technically, I did.”
My eyes fly to his. “You changed my name?”
Now he’s beginning to look a bit unsure of himself, a fact I find rather amusing because I consider Declan to be rather unflappable.
“Declan’s a dumb ass,” Issa interjects. “And he’s very sorry.”
He glares at Issa, sputters, “Don’t go putting words into my mouth, wife.”
“What words would those be?” she asks sarcastically, “Because you are a dumb ass and you better be fucking sorry.”
I hide my smile behind my hand, uncertain exactly what is going on, but enjoying their bickering far more than I should. Eventually, they quit snarking at each other and Declan turns to me and says, “Ren asked me to assist in getting the name change taken care of. So, I did.”
Issa is glaring at him still. “And?”
He glares back at her and says, “And, I may have skipped the part about getting your approval and signature.”
“Obviously,” I retort, though I’m not even mad. “So, you forged my signature?”
“No,” he scoffs as he looks around. “I would never.”
Again, Issa reaches out, but this time she gives him a pinch causing him to yelp, “Ouch. You stop that.”
“Stop lyin’, then,” she responds sternly.
Declan sighs loudly. Then mutters, “Fine. Yes. But in my defense, the name really has a nice ring to it.”
I shake my head, surprised by how not upset I am at having my actual legal name changed without my permission. Or half changed anyway. I likely would be furious if he had just changed it to Rafferty, but the fact he also changed his speaks volumes on his feelings about our relationship.
The horn sounds, initiating game play. Turning my attention to the ice, I do my best to cheer and jeer appropriately. Luckily, Declan is a vocal seat mate, which takes the heat off me having to do anything other than worry Ren’s going to get hurt. Because that’s exactly what I do most of the time.
It doesn’t help that I now have two huge stakes in this game. As a team owner, making demands on the team to have a winning season. And as a player’s spouse, making demands on her husband remaining uninjured. I’m entirely used to the first part; it’s the latter that’s tough to acclimate myself to.
By the time the game ends I’m a nervous wreck. Issa is holding my hand, occasionally patting me on the arm, and I have to accept that pregnancy hormones must be making me more paranoid than usual. Because this level of concern is a bit excessive.
Declan and Issa say their goodbyes, and I head toward the locker room to wait for Ren. Deciding to wait by the player exit, I lean against the wall, quietly watching people come and go.
One by one players exit. Some meet loved ones, others friends. A few wander off on their own. I’m so caught up in my people watching I’m startled when a voice right next to me says, “Ren’s waiting for you in the trainer room.”
Frowning, I straighten. “Is he hurt?”
“Nah,” Dave responds. “Just old.”
Laughing at his own joke, he strolls off with a wave, and I make my way through the double doors headed for the trainer room. By this point in the season it’s usually a hot spot for all the players, but for some reason the place is mostly dead now.
I walk in, stopping just inside the doorway, looking around for Ren but not immediately seeing him.
I sigh, walk further into the room, then yelp as someone grabs my wrist, yanking me forward.
The door closes and then a hard body is backing me against it, hands on my waist, hot breath and seeking lips against my neck.
“Well hello to you, too,” I murmur, my fingers delving into the hair at the nape of his neck, slightly damp from his shower.
He nibbles a path up my neck then nuzzles my ear, his hands sliding around to squeeze my ass. He stoops down, wraps his arms around my waist and then lifts me off my feet as he stands back up.
I squeak as he spins, then he hustles me across the room sets me on my feet in front of a padded treatment table.
His hands on my hips turn me so I’m facing away from him.
His palm between my shoulders urges me to lean forward, so I do, bracing my hands on the table.
He smooths the shirt, obviously removing any wrinkle that might be marring the name emblazoned on my back.
“You like it, huh?” I ask with a husky laugh.
“Oh yeah,” he murmurs against my back, his hands stroking over my stomach to my breasts. He pushes my bra up out of the way, then teases my nipples. “I wanna fuck you in it.”
“We can’t do that here.”
“Yes, we can,” he replies, already attempting to lift my skirt. “I promise I’ll make it good for you.”
“But the cameras,” I protest, even as I bend further over the table. “I don’t want to be on the cameras.”
“They’re not on.” One of his hands pushes on my back, the other slides up my leg, lifting until I have my knee on the table, spreading me open for him. “I had them shut off.”
Rotating my hips, I shiver at the cool air on the heated skin of my ass. “What? Who?”
He chuckles then mutters, “You don’t wanna know.”
He’s right. I definitely don’t want to know who he asked to turn off the cameras because that person knows there’s only one reason that request gets made.
“Where do you want it?”
He steps away, and I crane my head around to look at him, watching him unfasten and unzip his pants, freeing his hard cock from his boxers. Licking my lips, I adjust my stance, curving my spine just so. “You know where.”
His smile is feral as he steps close, the head of his dick probing my slick, throbbing pussy.
He pushes in, one hand going to my hip, the other pressing on my back right where my new name is.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he murmurs, pushing in another inch and then two.
“Never thought I’d appreciate anything more than you naked, but this is a close call. ”
I huff out a laugh, then gasp, “Maybe I’ll tattoo it somewhere.”
He jerks against me, his cock sliding in fully. He leans over my back, his voice right near my ear. “Can I choose where?”
Rolling my hips, I try to force him to move, but he remains still, nibbling gently on my neck. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
His low chuckle sends vibrations through me, and I shiver, pushing my ass back against him in invitation. He groans, both hands gripping my hips as he pulls out, drives back in, setting an urgent rhythm I’ve been yearning for.
He slides a hand around, his fingers rubbing over my clit with practiced ease. I gasp and then moan, and he pauses his movements, says, “Make sure you stay quiet.”
I turn my head, biting down on my new jersey as he resumes the press of his fingers, the rut of his cock inside me, and soon, I’m shuddering, twitching and gasping little shocks of pleasure.
He comes with a low moan and long exhale, his cock pressed deep.
He slides in and out a few times, playing in the slick mess he left behind, obviously enjoying himself.
With a final sigh he steps back, the absence of his dick punctuated by the rush of wet between my thighs, and I grumble half-heartedly.
He grabs a small towel from the shelf under the table, using it to clean between my legs gently before helping me stand. He uses the same towel to clean himself, then tosses the towel in the laundry basket before focusing on adjusting his own clothing.
Suddenly filled with an intense need tell him something, I say, “You wanna know one of the reasons I didn’t rush to tell you?”
He becomes still, his eyes clashing with mine as he says, “Yes, but don’t feel you have to tell me.”
Suddenly feeling silly, I get tongue-tied and swallow a few times before whispering, “I was afraid this would stop,” I pause, motioning between the two of us, “the physical stuff.”
His eyes widen, and he cocks his head. “You were afraid I’d stop fucking you?”
“Okay, when you word it like that, it sounds completely ridiculous.”
He smiles, finishes fastening his pants, a low chuckle dancing in the space between us. “I mean, from where I’m standing, it is absolutely ridiculous. But I understand why it might concern you.”
My heart pounds in my chest, butterflies turning in my stomach. “You do?”
He nods, steps in front of me, cups my face in his palms. “Obviously, I don’t know the particulars of what drives you, but I do know that fear has no rules, Cass. Fear doesn’t rationalize or reason. Fear takes our deepest insecurities and feeds off them, brings them to life to hurt us.”
My guts clench, my breath suddenly locked in my lungs. My hands grip his wrists, not to pull him away, but to steady myself, to keep me locked in. I focus on his eyes and my face reflected there—fear, hurt, anxiety. “You don’t need to fear me. You’ll see.”
“I don’t?” My question comes out as a whisper, barely audible, but he hears because then he says, “I’ll hunt down every demon you’ve ever had and rip them from your reality.”
“Really?”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Every. Last. Fucking. One.”
Our conversation has turned sinister so quickly I’m unsure what to make of it. All I know is I don’t hate it. Not one bit.
Still, I choose to lighten the mood. “So, you’re saying I don’t have to worry about you not wanting to have marital relations with me now that I’m pregnant?”
“Listen. We could end up amicably divorced,” he begins, then pauses and leans in, whispers, “Not gonna happen.” Smirking, he pulls back, his fingertips brushing along my cheeks as he states, “But even fifty years from now, I’ll still wanna fuck you on my deathbed.”
“Wha—” I frown then laugh and shake my head. “Rennick Rafferty, be serious.”
He grins then shrugs as he says, “I am fucking serious. If I’m breathing, I wanna fuck you. That will never change.”
I sigh and shake my head, feigning disapproving nonchalance. He holds a hand out to me. “You good with that?”
Eyeing his hand, I think over the last few months, the last few weeks, the last few days. All these moments within moments that flash by in a blink, leaving me with a deep warmth in my chest that I’ve never known before.
My eyes move to his, twinkling brightly, the grin on his face.
So, I smile. And take his hand.