Chapter 34 Grant
Grant
“Hold it there.” Melanie presses against my quad as I push through the resistance band exercise. “Good. Now release slowly.”
I follow her instructions, controlling the movement the same way I’ve done a thousand times before. The familiar burn in my muscles is almost meditative at this point.
She moves to adjust the band tension for the next set, and I use the break to grab my water bottle. Outside the windows of the training facility, snow is starting to fall in fat, lazy flakes. We have a game tomorrow night, which means today is all about maintenance and preparation.
“Now let’s do another set,” she says, settling back into position. “Same as before.”
I nod and begin the exercise again, focusing on each controlled movement and the engagement of every muscle group, one at a time.
This is what I do, what I’ve always done.
Hockey isn’t just about what happens on the ice—it’s about every choice I make off it.
Every meal, every workout, every hour of sleep.
Or at least, that’s how it used to be.
Lately, I’ve found my mind wandering to other things.
To Heather’s laugh. To the way April’s face lit up when I helped her with her math homework last night.
To how right it feels to spend time in the evening with both of them, when we can all talk and laugh and relax in front of the TV without any outside pressure or anyone else’s expectations.
“Interesting,” Melanie murmurs, and I realize I’ve finished the set without her having to prompt me.
“What?”
She tilts her head, studying me with the same analytical expression she uses when assessing an injury. “You’re different today.”
“Different how?”
“Less tense.” She gestures at my shoulders. “You’re usually wound so tight during these sessions that I half expect you to snap. But today? You’re actually relaxed.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I state the obvious. “I’m not slacking. I’m focused.”
“You’re always focused. That’s not what I mean.” She crosses her arms and gives me a knowing look. “I’ve been doing this long enough to recognize when something has changed in a player’s life. Especially when it’s a player like you, who prides himself on never changing.”
I bite back a smile, because I’m pretty damn sure I know exactly what she’s talking about now.
After the fundraiser, something changed between Heather and me.
We stopped pretending to hold back. That night, after we got home and put April to bed, Heather slipped into my room.
I spent an hour with my face buried between her thighs, making her come so hard she had to bite down on a pillow to keep quiet.
And then she stayed. She fell asleep in my bed with her body curled against mine.
Waking up with her there—her face the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes—was something I hadn’t realized I needed until I had it.
We’ve found more stolen moments since then.
Mornings before April wakes up. Late nights after she falls asleep.
Each time, I find myself wanting more. Needing more.
The desperate edge that used to drive me toward hockey has been redirected toward the woman who has somehow managed to work her way past every defense I’ve spent years building.
“Grant?” Melanie’s voice pulls me back to the present.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“I’d say better than good.” She grabs her clipboard and makes a note. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up. Your range of motion is excellent today, and your recovery times are improving. You’re loose but still strong. It’s a good balance.”
Again, I have no idea what I’m supposed to say.
“Thanks,” is the best I can do.
I move through the rest of my exercises with the same precision I always do, but Melanie is right—something is different. I’m not obsessing over every minor adjustment or making a mental checklist of every imperfection to address later.
For the first time in years, hockey isn’t the only thing taking up space in my head.
When we wrap up, I grab my gear bag and head for the door.
“See you next week,” Melanie calls after me. “And Grant? Whatever is making you smile like that? Don’t let it go.”
I pause in the doorway and glance back at her. “I don’t intend to.”
The drive home is quick, and the streets are relatively clear even though there’s been light snowfall all morning. I’m trying not to dwell too much on what Melanie said, because I know I’ll spend way too long overthinking if I give myself the opportunity to go there.
Instead, I occupy my brain with more game prep, thinking about what I need to review and how I want to adjust my positioning on certain plays, and that keeps me distracted until I pull into my driveway and notice Heather’s car.
She shouldn’t be home yet. It’s barely past two in the afternoon.
I grab my bag and head inside, trying and failing to keep from immediately jumping to worst-case scenarios. Is she sick? Did something happen at work? Is April okay?
“Heather?” I call out as I drop my keys on the entry table.
“In here,” she calls back from the living room.
I find her curled up on the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees, papers spread out on the cushion beside her. She’s wearing leggings and one of my old hoodies—the grey one she claimed weeks ago and never gave back—and her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot.
Fucking gorgeous, in other words.
She looks up when I walk in, and my chest tightens at the sight of her here, comfortable and settled in a way that I’m starting to see more and more.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, crossing the room toward her. “You’re home early.”
“I’m fine.” She sets the laptop aside and stretches her arms over her head. “There was a water main break in our building. They had to shut everything down for repairs, so everyone got sent home for the rest of the day.”
The tension in my shoulders eases. “So you’re not sick.”
“Not sick,” she confirms with a small smile. “Just unexpectedly off work.”
“Good.” I drop my bag by the couch and lean down to kiss her. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I straighten up and gesture toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I can make us something to eat.”
“I had a candy bar around noon, but I could definitely eat. What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll figure something out.” I head toward the kitchen, already running through what’s in the fridge. Chicken, probably. Definitely some vegetables. Maybe pasta.
I’m pulling ingredients from the pantry when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check the screen and recognize the number—the Canadian sports magazine that asked for an interview. An interview I scheduled for today.
Shit. I completely let it slip my mind.
I answer on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mr. Parker! This is Evelyn Chapman. We spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago.” Her voice is bright and enthusiastic. “Thanks so much for making time for this today. I know you have a busy schedule.”
“No problem.”
“Great! So I just have a few quick questions about the season so far. Should only take about fifteen minutes.”
I lean against the counter and resign myself to the next quarter hour of tedious small talk. “Sure. Go ahead.”
She starts with the standard questions. How do I feel about our record? What’s it like playing with this particular group of guys? Any predictions for the playoffs?
I answer on autopilot, giving her the same generic responses I’ve given a dozen other reporters this season. She laughs a little too hard at something I say about Theo’s terrible jokes in the locker room. That’s when I notice Heather standing in the doorway.
She’s holding her coffee mug, but she isn’t moving. She’s just watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. But when Evelyn laughs again, there’s no mistaking the flash of uncertainty. Like she’s second-guessing herself.
Like she thinks I’m interested in this bubbly reporter.
The possessiveness I feel surprises me. I like that she cares who I’m talking to. But I don’t like the self-doubt written all over her face, or the way she’s already pulling back into herself.
“—and I think our defensive pairings have really—hold on one second,” I say into the phone, then pull it away from my ear and press it against my chest to muffle the speaker.
I cross the kitchen in three strides and reach for Heather. She opens her mouth like she’s about to ask what I’m doing, but I don’t give her the chance. I kiss her hard and deep, claiming her mouth with enough intensity to make her gasp against my lips.
When I pull back just enough to speak, I keep my voice low. “It’s a work call. Some reporter asking about the season.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed immediately by embarrassment.
“I don’t want her,” I say, making sure she hears every word. “I want you.”
I kiss her again, slower this time but no less thorough, until I feel some of the tension leave her body.
“Okay.” Heather nods when I finally release her. “Okay.”
She’s smiling again, and there’s no way I can keep my hands off her now that I’ve started. I reach for her waist and pull her close again as Evelyn launches back into her questions about our upcoming game against Chicago.
“Yeah, they’re a strong team,” I say, trailing my free hand up Heather’s back. “Their offense is aggressive, but we’ve been working on—”
I lean in and press my lips to the curve of Heather’s neck, right below her ear. She sucks in a quiet breath and tilts her head to give me better access.
“—working on tightening up our defensive coverage,” I continue, lightly kissing my way down to her collarbone. “So I think we’re prepared.”
Heather’s fingers curl into my shirt, and I can feel her pulse fluttering against my lips.
The reporter says something else, but I’m only half listening now. I’m more focused on the way Heather’s breathing has changed, the way she’s leaning into me even though I’m still on the phone.
When I look at her, I can see her mind working in real-time. I can literally see the wicked thought forming as she slowly drops down to her knees in front of me and runs her hands up and down my thighs.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” I ask. I don’t know what the fuck Evelyn just said, and I’m having a really hard time pretending to care.
“I said, what are you most looking forward to in the rest of the season?”
“Hockey,” I say, and Heather chuckles softly at the obviousness of the response.
It’s impossible to come up with anything deeper while Heather is busying herself with the button on my pants and slowly drawing the zipper down.
Fuck, she’s trying to kill me.
“Um,” I try to refocus on the last question, “I mean, obviously, winning. That’s always the goal. But also…”
But also, the feeling of Heather’s lips brushing against my abs as she pulls my boxers down is fucking distracting.
“But also, spending time with the people in my life who matter.”
Heather’s fingers wrap around my cock and start stroking up and down the length. My hips jerk involuntarily, and I’m pretty sure she can tell how close I already am.
“That’s a fantastic answer,” Evelyn says. “I love it.”
Heather licks a long line up the underside of my shaft, and then swirls her tongue around the tip before slowly wrapping her lips around me and taking me deep. I watch as the first several inches of my cock disappear between her lips, and have to bite back a moan.
“Thanks,” I say, because it’s the only response I can manage.
Evelyn keeps talking, but I’m not hearing anything she says. The world has shrunk to the feeling of Heather’s mouth wrapped around my cock, her hands gripping my thighs, her hair between my fingers.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Uh, nothing. One second,” I grunt, barely finding the mute button in time before Heather pulls a desperate moan from my lips.
I thread my fingers through her hair, guiding her movements. I know how big I am, and I’m careful not to push too deep, but god, the needy little noises she makes as she tries to take more are driving me out of my mind.
Jesus. I can’t keep going like this. Not without making a huge mess right here in the middle of the kitchen.
“Wait,” I say, hating myself for stopping her but also physically pulling her off my cock because it’s the only way I can trust my own willpower. “Wait, Hurricane. If you keep going like that, I’m gonna lose control.”
“Good.” She licks her lips as she looks up at me. “I want to make you come. That’s exactly what I want.”
I’m torn. I want to finish the interview with answers that are halfway coherent. But I also want to shove my cock right back into Heather’s warm, waiting mouth.
“Mr. Parker? Are you there?” Evelyn’s voice pulls me back to reality.
I glance down at Heather, and she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
I unmute the call, but keep my hand in Heather’s hair. “Spit on it,” I mouth, then watch as she immediately follows the command.
“Sorry. I’m here, Evelyn,” I say. “What was the question?”
“What can you tell me about the team’s plans for the playoffs?”
“Well, the most important thing is to get out there and just play. When you start overthinking, that’s when it gets tough. We just want to focus on our game.”
“That’s a great answer,” she says. “You’re always so level-headed.”
Heather’s lips press softly against the head of my cock, and then she slides her tongue around the ridge and sucks it back into her mouth. She’s going slow, and the teasing is almost more than I can handle.
“What about the team chemistry?” Evelyn continues. “How do you think the season has been for everyone?”
“Good. Really good.”
Heather takes me deep, and I nearly forget how to breathe.
“I mean, we’ve had a great year,” I manage.
Evelyn says something else, but Heather takes the opportunity to suck harder and stroke her hand along the base of my shaft.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I think we must have a bad connection. Could you repeat that?”
“I said I think that’s all I have for you right now, but is there anything else you’d like to share with our readers?”
“Just that hockey is a team sport.” My hips are moving without conscious thought, thrusting into Heather’s mouth. “And I couldn’t do what I do without the people who support me.”
I’m gonna come. Any second now, I’m gonna fucking come.
“Wonderful, Mr. Parker. That’s perfect. Thank you for your time today.”
“Thank you.”
Heather bobs her head, taking me in and out, in and out, her eyes glued to mine. She only eases up and rocks back on her heels to take a deep breath once I’ve ended the call and tossed the phone aside.
“Fuck, Hurricane. You’ve been a very, very bad girl.”