Chapter 32 Sonya
SONYA
Hughes drops his shirt to the ground in one fluid motion, and I can’t look away. It’s not that I haven’t seen him half-naked before. I have, but that robe-opening moment was different. We were scrambling and too close for his body to be properly visible.
Now he’s openly standing in front of me with this sexy music playing, and his hips swaying, and it’s too much. I tip my head up. Not the best idea, because that puts me more at chin level with his crotch. A distracting, sizable, heavy-looking area covered by the straining light denim of his jeans.
God, he’s so tall and big and broad, and that’s making my heartbeat go frantic. There’s also those annoying little details like the pronounced veins in his forearms and that dimple creasing his cheek. How can a simple divot be loaded with such disarming charm?
I need to yawn now or roll my eyes. Anything that hides how hard I’m biting the inside of my cheek just to keep looking unaffected. I should do those things, but I’m inhaling softly as soon as I notice Hughes discreetly wiping his palms down on his pants.
As confident as his quirked mouth and half-lidded eyes suggest he is, maybe Hughes isn’t as cocky as I think he is. Maybe he’s struggling to understand what to do with whatever he’s feeling on the inside just like I am.
“This okay?” he murmurs, his voice low and threadbare, confirming my suspicions.
I squeeze my fingers together in my lap. Is it okay? Not exactly. I feel way too close to panting. But do I want him to stop? I guess not because I nod that I’m okay.
That slight encouragement makes my hockey captain light up. “You’re going to laugh, I swear. Don’t hold back, okay?”
He starts moving. I don’t understand it at first, but when his leg comes up a few inches off the ground, shocked amusement streaks through me. What kind of silliness is this? It’s not like anything I’ve experienced in my life before.
Hughes is giving me a performance. One where he’s trying to be a ballerina. He tries to go on his toes and grins. “Keep watching, Sonya. I want to show you how much you inspire me.”
My face, neck, and shoulders flush. A strip show I might’ve survived—probably not—but Hughes being sweet while also half-naked? I’m so damn screwed. My chest rises and falls watching him.
Hughes’ mouth curves to one side, his expression so cocky and smug as he twirls.
Other men might balk at making themselves look ridiculous like this, but not him.
The space between my legs pulses. It shouldn’t be so sexy how boundless this man is when it comes to not being embarrassed and putting in the work, but it is.
Heat gathers in my belly as I try not to think about what having sex with someone like him would be like. It would be so out of control.
“I’m nailing it, aren’t I?” Hughes brags, crossing his fingers behind his head in a way that makes his biceps ripple as he kicks one leg to the side. “I’m such a good ballerina. Almost as good as you, baby.”
My mouth drops open. Did he just claim…? He did! I can’t believe he just said that! A healthy dose of competitiveness floods my veins. “Yeah, right! That foot is a clunky broom dusting the air—”
“How about this?” he asks, going faster. “Better, right? It’s not that hard.”
It’s nowhere close to being any kind of proper form, and all I want to do is to cover my face with my hands and snicker. Instead, I give him the most exaggerated frown I can manage. “Kindly, fuck off!“
His blue eyes twinkle. “You want to fuck me?”
This loud I-can’t-believe-you noise bursts out of me.
That only makes him grin wider. “I love it when you lose control.”
His arms lift above his head. My lips part.
Then close. No, don’t. I can’t actually laugh!
I don’t want to lose this random bet he’s concocted, but more so, a new worry pinches my body.
That if I laugh now, I’ll unlock something inside me that might never close again.
The lightness I’m feeling now could stay and grow bigger… especially any time Hughes is around…
Desperately, I take out my phone. Either it will embarrass him enough to stop (not likely) or lend me some artificial distance. Instead of me and Hughes. It’s me, the screen, and Hughes.
As soon as he notices me recording, his chest puffs out. His hand caresses a line down his carved abs and his hips undulate. “Darling, look, I’m majestic!”
I bite my lip hard. It’s not enough. Not when he’s starting to leap across the room. God, if I let myself, I could fall to the ground and lose it completely. Inside my chest are so many bubbles floating that I can’t pop them fast enough.
Hughes twirls—loses balance—twirls again—loses balance—and no, can’t be, is attempting the splits???
There’s no hope.
A smothered giggle escapes.
He straightens and rushes over to crowd me. A gleeful predator zeroing in on his prey. His victory. “Was that a laugh?”
My phone accidentally drops onto my lap. “No, it wasn’t! This is actually really, really boring,” I lie so completely that thunder will come down and smite me.
Hughes’ eyes flash even brighter with challenge. His legs graze my knees. Gently, my hand is captured and brought forward. Slow-motion crossing a threshold, towards…where? The waistband of his jeans?! Along the way, I choke back a gasp.
He stops the forward trajectory. Our fingers interlace instead, hanging in the air.
I glance up furtively.
His neck is corded in some strange, quiet agony. We’re both holding our breath. I can’t speak, but my pulse is a drum as I wait to see what he does next.
Finally, Hughes closes the distance.
I blink rapidly, my expression going slack as his mouth comes down. A soft kiss is placed against my knuckles.
My heart rate spikes. “Why?” I whisper.
“I want you to know that you can trust me with your laughter. I won’t tell anyone about it.”
I’m incoherent as he slowly kisses each knuckle separately.
“Nothing changes how strong and intimidating and capable you are, Sonya. It’s so inspiring to see you go after your dreams like you do. You are incredible and lovely, and all I ask is that you laugh and rest. Can you trust me enough to let go—“
Trust?
That’s a very dangerous word.
Trusting means vulnerability, and being vulnerable means it’s going to hurt a million times more if you’re wronged than if you weren’t ever vulnerable in the first place.
I tug my hand so it lifts from his mouth.
Why did he have to call me capable, inspiring, and ask me to trust him?
The ground underneath my feet might shift if I believe all those words.
He’s not being literal, is he? I’m not the first person he’s said that to, right?
He must have an arsenal of lines he uses on women.
The thought of all that suddenly—I can’t stand it. I hate it. I hate it so much. This level of jealousy feels like a sinkhole I didn’t see coming that knocks me off my feet. “You sound like someone who wants to get laid,” I impulsively bite out.
I’m such an asshole. I feel like garbage. But I’ve said what I said.
Hughes steps back. Far enough that we’re not touching anymore. He chuckles, a hollow sound that makes me feel like absolute crap. “Is that what you think? Okay. Sure. We’ll go with that.”
My chin dips and I wince. “Wait. Hughes?”
He pauses and stares at me.
“I did…laugh. So…you won.”
“I…won?”
“…yeah.”
For one painful moment, I’m really afraid. He’s finally realized my personality sucks. It’s too unpalatable. That shouldn’t surprise me. People don’t stick around. Nothing lasts. I’m always alone at the end of the day. This will be a good reminder of that.
Hughes looks at me, and—he starts whooping loudly.
Relief swamps me. Hughes can forgive and not hold grudges. He’s also the kind of person to save a person from the hospital, to bring them to a rage room because that’s what they need, and pay for a bunch of experts to figure out what’s wrong.
Maybe that’s why when he says, “Okay, now you have to listen to me,” I quickly agree. “Fine.”
Until he clarifies. “Take a break for three whole days.”
I stand up. “Sorry, what?”
“Team Nutcracker recommended three days.”
“No—I can’t. Principal dancers have to be the best. If I lose even a bit of my technique, they won’t pick me.”
“They won’t pick you if you still have the yips.”
I feel myself flinch.
Hughes also flinches. “Fuck. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I meant to say, perfectionism makes the yips worse, right?”
“So, what? What do you expect me to do in the meantime?” My arms cross, and I’m shaking my head.
Before he can answer, his phone buzzes. A few times. I tell him to answer it. Hughes takes it out, looks at the screen and pales.
I’m moving and now my hand is on his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Jung. The rookie our GM wants to trade.. I have to find him. I know where he’s going next.”
“Where?”
“Oslo.”
“The World Hockey Championship,” I realize.
“Coach Forrester wants him to come home as soon as possible. We need to figure out how to help him stay with the Wings.”
“Okay, call him. Tell him all that.”
“I can’t. His phone broke or something. And the only way I know he’s going to Oslo is because Quinn got ahold of his roommate, but they’ve split up since. They’re not together anymore. Shit. I can’t ask Quinn or anyone else here to look for him either. They need to focus on winning.”
He’s running a jerky hand through his hair, and his brow is crumpled.
Hughes is actually stressed.
This stifling sense of dread gathers inside me.
We have our deal, about scales balancing for all the help I’ve gotten for my ballet.
I haven’t forgotten about that. And there’s the fact that he’s right about me overworking myself when I was told explicitly not to dance for the next three days.
Before Hughes came into the gym, my performance was awful.
Practicing more isn’t working. It’s making it so much worse.
It seems like I have no choice but to wait for Team Nutcracker’s solutions.
I wish I could say that’s why I offer what I’m about to, but those are flimsy justifications. Right now, what matters—all that matters—is the misery etched in his expression. It doesn’t belong there. Not at all. I never want to see it again.
That’s why I put a hand on his arm.
“Okay, let’s go find Jung. Let’s go to Oslo.”