Chapter 20
Grant
My alarm blares on the nightstand, jarring me out of sleep. I’m normally awake at least a few minutes before it sounds, but not today. Even with my eyes still half-closed, I know there’s nothing normal about this morning.
For starters, I don’t feel rested at all. Instead, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
No, that’s not right. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck and then dragged behind it for several miles.
Because of last night.
The memories come flooding back as soon as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and the feeling that I’ve fucked up is so overwhelming that I have to stop for a second just to keep my stomach from turning.
Ugh, this is worse than a hangover, and I didn’t even have a drop to drink.
But between the length of time we spent sweating in the sauna and the mind-shattering orgasm that has my toes curling just thinking about it, I’d say I’m probably on the verge of being dehydrated.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heels of my hands against them, then count to ten before opening them again.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. No, I wasn’t thinking. That’s the problem. I was operating on pure instinct and desire, and now I’ve really, truly fucked up.
The confused, hurt look on Heather’s face as I walked away keeps replaying in my mind. I should have stayed and talked, or made sure she was okay at the very least. But I bolted, like a fucking idiot.
I sigh and start going through the motions of my morning routine, pulling on some gym clothes and heading downstairs for the less intense, weekend version of my daily workout.
The exercise helps, but my head isn’t fully in it. Even the most grueling sets can’t drown out the sound of Heather saying my name as she came apart in front of me.
Hell, I’m half-hard just thinking about it now.
I push those thoughts away and finish my workout, then head upstairs. I’m not sure what I’m going to say when I see Heather, but I can smell coffee and something sweet—pancakes, maybe—so I have about three seconds to man up and figure out how to fix this.
“Good morning,” I say as I enter the kitchen.
I’m doing my best to keep my tone casual, but I can see the way Heather tenses up from twenty feet away, so I’ve probably missed my mark by a mile.
“Good morning,” she replies without turning to face me.
Her shoulders are so tense they’re practically up by her ears, and I still don’t know how I’m going to make this better.
But then I catch a glimpse of her profile as she flips a pancake, and I’m right back in that sauna, watching her bite her lower lip as her fingers moved between her legs.
I can remember exactly the way she looked at me, with her eyes half-closed and her cheeks flushed with heat. She trusted me in that moment, and she looked fucking perfect when she finally let go.
I walk to the fridge for some water and try to think about literally anything else.
I shouldn’t have left like I did. I know that now, and I knew it in the moment. Just like I know that’s why she’s pulling away and putting up walls between us that weren’t there before.
April is the only one who seems unaffected by the tension in the room, chattering away about her plans for the day while Heather and I move around each other like we’re walking on eggshells.
We can’t keep going on like this, but I’m not sure when we’ll get more time to ourselves so we can hash things out without April overhearing.
Which means that for now, I’m actually relieved when it’s time for me to leave for practice. At least I know that once I get there, I can get out of my own head and focus strictly on the puck and my ability to stop it.
But that’s easier said than done.
It seems like no matter where I go or what I do—even out on the ice—my mind keeps drifting back to last night, then to this morning. Everywhere but here and now.
“What the hell is wrong with you today?” Noah skates up beside me after I let an easy shot slip past my glove during a routine drill. “I know this shit is usually child’s play for you, but that doesn’t mean you get to pretend like you’re a rookie all over again.”
His words sting because they’re true. We both know I’m not playing anywhere near the top of my game today, and I’m the only one who can fix it. The last thing I need is to double my problems by letting the shit going on at home affect my practice time or my ability to give my all in a game.
“There’s nothing wrong,” I lie. “I just needed to warm up a little more. Let’s reset and do it again.”
He gives me a look that says he isn’t buying the bullshit I’m selling, but I tap my stick against the goal post insistently, three times to center myself. “I said it’s nothing. Let’s go. Let’s run it again.”
The rest of practice goes better once I force myself to focus, but then my day goes to shit again as soon as I see Margo in the locker room doorway.
She has her clipboard and camera in hand, and she looks way too cheerful for someone who is about to herd a bunch of sweaty hockey players through a PR event.
“Okay, gentlemen, you have thirty minutes.” She double-checks her watch, then nods to herself. “Get cleaned up and meet me in the conference room. We have about twenty donors to meet and greet, plus some photo ops for social media.”
A groan goes up from most of the guys, but we all know the drill.
I don’t have anything against Margo herself. She’s been great for Noah, and she’s a sweet person, but she also happens to be the face of everything I dislike about my job.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the immense opportunity and privilege that comes with playing professional sports, but I want to be on the ice.
I want to play hockey. I don’t want to meet new people or take pictures with strangers, or sign autographs that are just going to get sold online nine times out of ten.
At least this event is for a good cause. These people have donated a lot of money to a children’s hospital, so it won’t kill me to shake a few hands and smile for a few photos.
Well, we’ll see about the smiling.
I shower and change into the team polo shirt we’re supposed to wear for these things, then head to the conference room with the rest of the guys.
There are two long tables set up with refreshments, and Denver Aces branding everywhere. A photographer is already positioned in the corner, checking his equipment when we walk in, and small groups of donors are scattered around the room.
I’ve sat through enough of these things to tell at a glance which ones are here for the children’s hospital and which ones have less charitable motives.
Three women in particular catch my attention, and not because I’m interested in talking to them. But they’re going to be hard to ignore now that they’re making a beeline straight for me.
“Grant Parker, it’s so good to finally meet you.” The first one reaches out to shake my hand. She’s blonde, probably late-twenties, and wearing a dress that’s definitely too formal for a casual meet-and-greet. “I’m such a huge fan. That save you made in the playoffs last year was incredible.”
“Thanks.” I shake her hand briefly before letting go.
Her friends flank me on either side, and now I’m boxed in by three very attractive women who are all smiling from ear to ear like I’m the grand prize at the fair.
“We were hoping we’d get to meet you,” the second one says. She’s a redhead with green eyes and the kind of easy smile that’s probably gotten her whatever she wanted her entire life. “You’re even taller in person.”
“And more handsome,” the third one adds with a laugh.
I force what I hope is a polite smile and try to think of something to say that will shut this conversation down without being rude.
I’ve dealt with puck bunnies before—women who are more interested in dating a hockey player than actually knowing anything about the sport—but it never gets less awkward.
The blonde leans in a little closer. “So, Grant, do you have any plans after this? We were thinking of grabbing drinks, and we’d love for you to join us.”
Before I can figure out how to say no without sounding like a dick, I catch a glimpse of a familiar figure near the doorway.
Heather.
I’m not sure what she’s doing here, but her hair is pulled up into a messy bun with strands falling out everywhere, and she’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that has what looks like syrup stains down the front.
Or maybe paint? I can’t tell from here, but I’ve seldom seen her this disheveled, and never in public.
Now that I’m looking closer, I’m pretty sure her shirt is on backwards since I can see the tag at her throat.
She makes a beeline for Margo, who is standing near one of the refreshment tables.
I can’t hear what they’re saying from across the room, but Heather’s body language is urgent.
Her hands are moving frantically as she talks, and I recognize the gestures from other times she’s been stressed or upset about something.
Margo’s expression shifts from confused to concerned as she nods along with whatever Heather is saying. I take a step in that direction, but still can only catch fragments of words—something about a work emergency, and April, and watching her for an hour or two.
Margo nods again and gives Heather a quick hug, then Heather turns to go. Her eyes sweep across the room until they land on me, and our gazes lock for a split second.
But then her attention shifts to the three women still flanking me, and I see something flash across her face before her expression goes carefully blank. She looks away quickly, but I can see her cheeks flushing pink even from this distance.
One hand comes up to touch her hair, like she’s just realized how disheveled she must look, then she crosses her arms over her chest and puts her head down as she quickly walks toward the door.
“Grant?” The blonde woman touches my arm again. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Whatever it was, I must have missed it completely. I barely register what she’s saying now. All I know is that my chest is tight, and I have to get to Heather before she makes it out of here.
“Excuse me,” I say to the women without bothering to finish the conversation or offering any kind of explanation.
I’m already moving, leaving three confused, annoyed donors behind me.
I don’t care.
The one woman who matters to me just slipped through the door, and she’s already halfway down the hallway before I catch up with her.
“Heather, wait.”
She takes another step, then stops but doesn’t turn around for another couple of seconds. Her shoulders are still so tense, and she’s still looking down at the floor when she finally does turn my direction.
“Is everything okay?” I ask even though it’s a stupid question. Of course everything isn’t okay. Nothing seems to be okay right now. “I saw you talking to Margo. Do you need help with something?”
“It’s fine.” She waves a dismissive hand. “It’s just a thing for work. I needed her to pick up April from school and watch her for a bit while I deal with it.”
“You could’ve asked me. I would’ve picked her up.”
She lets out a short noise that would be a laugh if there was any humor in it. “Grant, please. Just stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop trying to be so nice to me.” She crosses her arms tightly over her chest again and looks past me back toward the conference room. “You don’t have to do that. Not after last night.”
My jaw clenches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I get it, okay?” Her cheeks turn from light pink to a deeper red as she finally meets my eyes.
“You felt sorry for me. Poor Heather hasn’t had an orgasm in eight years, so you decided to help out.
But then it got weird and uncomfortable, so you left.
And now you’re trying to be nice because you feel bad about it. ”
Shit.
I knew I’d messed up, but not like this. If I’d known that’s what she thought, I would’ve made time this morning to set the record straight.
“Is that really what you think?”
“Yes.” She lifts her chin in that tough, defiant way I’ve seen her daughter subconsciously mimic a dozen times. “That’s exactly what I think.”
The cautious, rational part of my brain shuts down. I take a step forward, and she instinctively takes a step back until her shoulders are pressed against the wall.
I plant my hands on either side of her head, boxing her in without actually touching her. She sucks in a ragged breath as her eyes go wide.
“Do you wanna know why I left? The real reason?” I have to fight to keep my voice from carrying down the hallway. “The reason I walked out of that sauna had nothing to do with pity. Nothing.”
“Then why did you leave? If it wasn’t pity, what was it?”
“I don’t feel sorry for you, Heather. I never have.
What I feel is so damn desperate to touch you that I had to leave before I did something we couldn’t take back.
I was going to bend you over that bench and fuck you until you couldn’t walk.
I was going to make you come on my cock instead of your fingers, and I wasn’t going to stop until you were screaming my name so loud that the whole neighborhood could hear it. ”