18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
18
She never ceases to amaze me. She does things on a daily basis that make me fall deeper in love with her. And this weekend was no different. After our meeting in Boston, I knew it would be a while before I would see her again. We were both missing each other pretty badly by game three in Chicago. This series would clench our spot in the playoffs, and I needed to stay focused.
After the end of the game, I decide to go back into my hotel room to take a nice, hot shower. I throw my bag on the bed and lay down next to it. Stupid fucking bag. I just want to be with Rory. I begin drifting off, hoping to at least fuck her in my dreams, but a loud knocking at my door awakens me.
“Fuck you! Go away, you fuckers! I’m not going out tonight...” But as I open the door, ready to beat one of my teammates’ asses, I am met with the most beautiful pair of green eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Well,” she says, “I was just going to suggest we stay in tonight, but if you had other plans...”
My heart skips a beat as I take her into my arms. The fact that she has flown out to spend time with me tells me all I need to know about this woman.
“Surprise!”
“Baby, you are the best surprise I could ever ask for.”
“Listen,” her smile turns into a stern gaze. “I’m not here to distract you from what’s important right now.”I lean in for a kiss and a whiff of her perfume. “Distract me from what?” I tease.
“Stop it, Wells. I know you need to focus on beating the Red Wings, but I thought... one night couldn’t hurt.”
“Who are the Red Wings?” I manage to muffle through my kisses.
She laughs as I take off her dress and carry her into the bedroom.
One night is all I need right now.
***
As the elevator doors close, my arm finds its way around Rory’s waist before I pull her in for a heated kiss. It's enough to make my heartbeat echo throughout the confined space. I can't get enough of these stolen moments in time, her surprise visits.
I could get used to that.
"I hate that you have to leave already," I murmur, pressing another quick kiss to her lips and trying to commit the feel of her mouth to memory until the next time.
"I know," Rory whispers back, her hands finding my chest as if grounding herself, “But we have to keep juggling for a bit longer."
The word 'juggle' doesn't sit well with me anymore. It tastes like a compromise, a stopgap, a way to bide our time until we figure out how to make this work.
I press my forehead against hers, taking in her scent, the same one lingering on my pillowcase when she’s with me long after she's gone.
"We’re getting pretty good at this bittersweet routine, aren't we?" I ask, half-joking, but the reality is shittier than I want to admit.
She responds with a small, pained smile, her eyes betraying the same heartache I feel every time we get to this part—the goodbye.
"Too good," she agrees.
With every elevator descent, I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach. The thought of her taking to the skies without me is maddening.
"I don't want 'goodbye' to be part of our vocabulary," I say, the words thick in my throat because each one is harder than the last.
"Then let's say 'see you soon' instead," she offers, but her voice breaks the tiniest bit, showing me how much she wishes that weren't the case. “And we will.”
The elevator dings softly then, announcing our arrival at the lobby level and signaling my time is up.
She needs to go home, and I need to continue keeping my head in the game.
As the doors slide open, I steal one last kiss, deeper than the rest, my hands cradling her face. “I’ll miss you, Snowflake.”
“I’ll miss you more.”
I force myself to step back and grab her hand to lead her into the bustling area of folks checking in and out of the hotel.
Outside, it’s a beautiful day as I flag down a cab. It does nothing to lighten my mood as I turn around and face her one last time.
She tries to smile at me again, but this is starting to become a bitch. I have weeks until the season ends, and it feels like a century. I’m unsure how I will last, but I will because of her.
“You good, baby?” I solicit before she gives me a nod. “Text me before you take off and when you land, okay?”
“Okay.”
Giving her one last kiss, I reach for the door and open it to get her inside, and that’s when it happens.
Where our lives change forever in multiple flashes that blind us.
Like a swarm of locusts, the paparazzi have descended upon us, and it’s over.
Our secret is out.
Her name ricochets off the hotel walls, paired with mine in a strange and unwelcome chorus.
"Are you two a couple?"
"How long has this been going on?"
The questions are fired off in rapid succession. I am stunned, standing there with a million questions in my head. How?
How did they find out?
What did we do wrong?
"Rory, how's your father going to react to you dating Wells?" one of the paparazzi shouts, and that’s when it hits me.
We’re fucked.
Blocking the view of her, I try my best to block the cameras from getting her face on anything, but they know her name.
They are fully aware of who she is and what this means.
"Does the league know about this?" someone yells, and my jaw clenches, frustration boiling over—they're fucking relentless, and they’re not going to stop.
As I shut Rory's door to shield her from the onslaught, I know it's not just the wind that feels like a slap—it's the knowledge that our private lives will be trending on all social media outlets within the hour.
I straighten up, facing the barrage with as much professionalism as possible. "Please give her space," I demand, as I feel every camera lens trained on me, every reporter waiting for a slip-up of information.
As the taxi pulls away, I catch Rory's gaze through the window—the uncertainty, the 'what now?' evident in the depths of her eyes.
I can't answer her, not yet.
This kind of play—you can't train for it or predict it. But much like the ice, you learn to adapt; you find your footing eventually.
For now, though, I stand there a moment longer, the flurry of questions ricocheting off me.
They want my truth.
They want me to tease and spill everything.
But the truth is unavoidable. Our private lives are now in the public domain, with every move and kiss open for analysis. It's not just a game of hockey anymore—it's our lives under the spotlight.
I force my way back into the hotel room, bumping into bodies as I attempt to gain peace.
We'll need to face this—her father, the press—everyone. It's time to lace up, face-off style. We've got a new season ahead, and it's not just about hockey anymore.
I don’t want her to lose the big picture.
That we can do this.
Together.