Chapter 18
ROMAN
The team plane to Canada is the usual chaos.
We’ll be gone for ten days on this swing and I’m already feeling every minute of the tension between me and Marnie.
I’m supposed to be reviewing game tape on my tablet. Barrett wants us prepared for Montreal’s new defensive setup, their tendency to collapse low in the zone.
Instead I’m watching Marnie one row up and across the aisle, curled up with a book, completely absorbed in whatever she’s reading.
The cover’s visible from here—shirtless guy in goalie pads, title in cursive font: Five Hole Fantasy.
I lean forward between the seats. “Five Hole Fantasy? Really?”
She doesn’t look up. “It’s very educational.”
“It’s porn.”
“It’s romance.” She turns a page without glancing back. “With plot.”
“The plot is him scoring. I can tell from the cover.” I pause. “Wait, do you even know what the five hole is?”
“You’re just mad because it’s about a goalie,” Brody calls from across the aisle, grinning. “Cap’s got goalie envy.”
“I don’t have goalie envy.”
“You literally just complained about her book choice.”
Marnie finally looks back at me, eyebrow raised. “Are you jealous of a fictional goalie?”
“I’m concerned about your taste in literature.”
“My taste is fine.” She turns back to the book. “Maybe if captains were more interesting, authors would write about them.”
Dex decides this conversation is worth joining. “Maybe she wants someone who can actually find the five-hole.”
Rodriguez leans over the seat. “Oh shit, he went there.”
“I know where the five-hole is,” I say, but I can feel heat creeping up my neck, which is unacceptable. I never let their chirping rattle me. Especially not about this. Especially not in front of her.
Brody’s grin widens. “Knowing and scoring are two different things, buddy.”
“Captains are plenty interesting,” I say, trying to redirect.
“Name one captain in a hockey romance,” Marnie challenges.
I can’t. Because I don’t read this shit.
“That’s not the point.”
“That IS the point.” She’s trying not to smile now. “Goalies are mysterious. They’re weird and intense and they live in their own world. Captains are just... bossy.”
“I’m not bossy.”
“You literally just told Rodriguez to sit down three times before takeoff.”
“Because he was being an idiot—”
“Bossy,” Marnie says, and goes back to her book.
Brody’s laughing hard enough that Dex elbows him in the ribs. “Cap, you just got destroyed by the PT.”
“I’m aware.”
Jake, sitting behind Marnie, leans forward. “I think captains are very interesting.”
“Thank you, Jake.”
“But goalies are definitely weirder. That’s just facts.”
“You’re all fired,” I mutter, and try to focus on the game tape.
Twenty minutes later, I lean forward again. “What’s it about?”
She tilts it so I can see the description. “Rookie goalie falls for a teammate’s daughter. She lies about it, he has to take them through playoffs while keeping the secret. They have lots of extremely athletic sex.”
“That sounds awful—”
“It’s actually quite funny.” Her voice is carefully neutral, but there’s color in her cheeks.
“His teammate’s daughter? That’s Rule Number One in hockey code. Family members are off limits.”
We stare at each other across the aisle. The plane noise fades. The team fades. It’s just her eyes on mine and the weight of everything we’re not saying.
“Do they at least win the cup?” I ask quietly. “Or does his teammate murder him?”
Her breath catches. “You’ll have to read it and find out.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Doc!” Rodriguez twists around in his seat. “Question about my PT exercises—can I do extra sets if everything feels good?”
“No,” Marnie and I say at the same time.
Rodriguez grins. “You two are very in sync for people who definitely aren’t fucking.”
“Rodriguez,” I warn.
“Just an observation, Cap.” He turns back around, still grinning.
The moment’s broken. Marnie goes back to her book and I pretend to watch game tape while actually thinking about goalies and captains and how I’m absolutely going to prove that captains are more interesting.
Montreal’s game is rough.
We win 3-2 but it’s ugly—too many penalties, too much time in our own zone, Luca standing on his head to keep us in it. I take two stupid penalties that nearly cost us, playing angry without knowing why.
Except I do know why. I’m watching Marnie between shifts, professional and focused, and thinking about the other night.
Back at the hotel, I text her.
Room service?
Marnie
Exhausted. Rain check.
I try to read meaning into the words. Is she actually tired or avoiding me?
Tomorrow?
Marnie
Maybe. Sleep well.
I don’t sleep well. I lie awake thinking about the way she shut down when I tried to reciprocate, the relief in her eyes when I didn’t push.
Next morning is a travel day to Ottawa.
The team’s loose in the hotel lobby, talking shit and stealing each other’s coffee. Marnie’s with Jake, going over something on his tablet, looking more tired than yesterday.
On the bus, she sits three rows up. Close enough to see, far enough to maintain distance.
She’s reading again. Different book, same general aesthetic—shirtless hockey player, title I can’t quite make out from here.
I should let it go. Should focus on Ottawa’s defensive setup, on the power play adjustments Barrett wants to implement.
Instead I’m thinking about how three days ago when she completely rocked my world and then wouldn’t let me return the favor.
We check into the hotel, and I’m supposed to rest before tonight’s game but I can’t sit still. Can’t stop replaying Friday night, looking for the moment everything shifted.
I grab my phone.
Need to talk.
Five minutes pass.
Marnie
About?
The night of the Colorado game.
Marnie
Roman, I’m fine. We’re fine.
Then why are you avoiding me?
Three rows away on the bus. Different elevator at the hotel. “Rain check” last night.
Marnie
Fine. After the game. My room.
Ottawa’s game is better.
We win 4-1, I get two assists, and the team’s energy is back. But I’m distracted through all of it, watching the clock, counting down to when I can get answers.
Back at the hotel I shower, change, and at 11 PM I’m standing outside Marnie’s door.
I knock before I can talk myself out of it.
She opens the door in sleep shorts and a Puckaneers t-shirt, hair down, glasses on instead of contacts.
“Hey.”
“Can I come in?”
She hesitates just long enough for me to notice, then steps aside.
Her room looks like mine—generic hotel furniture, view of the skyline, her things organized precisely. Her book’s on the bed, another shirtless hockey player on the cover.
“Reading about goalies again?” I ask.
“Centers this time. Expanding my horizons.” She crosses her arms, defensive. “What’s wrong?”
“Why didn’t you let me touch you?”
The question hangs between us and she looks away.
“At my house,” I continue. “You went down on me then shut down completely.”
“I didn’t shut down—”
“You absolutely did.” I step into her space, watch the pulse jumping in her throat. “Did I do something wrong? Say something? Because I’ve been trying to figure it out for days and I can’t.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then what?”
She turns away. I think she might not answer.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Come. With someone else.” Her face is red now, embarrassment radiating off her. “I’ve tried. Multiple times, multiple guys. It just... doesn’t happen. So I figured why waste your time trying when I could just—”
“Waste my time?” The words come out sharper than intended and she flinches. I force myself to breathe, to soften my voice. “You think touching you would be a waste of my time?”
“I think it would be frustrating for both of us when nothing happens.”
I stare at her, processing. The deflection makes sense now. The careful distance.
“How many guys?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah. It matters.”
“Four. Maybe five.” She’s looking at the floor now, shoulders curved inward. “Look, it’s not a big deal. I can take care of myself. But with someone else, I just... overthink it. Get in my own head. And then it definitely doesn’t happen. So I’ve accepted it.”
“You’ve accepted it,” I repeat slowly.
“Yeah.”
“Accepted that you’re just never going to come with a partner.”
“Yes, because—”
“Those guys were idiots.”
Her head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“Idiots or selfish or both.” I move into her space now, backing her up until her legs hit the bed. “You said you overthink it. That means they weren’t giving you enough reason to stop thinking.”
“It’s not that simple—”
“It is though.” I lean down, mouth close to her ear. “You know what I think? I think you’ve been with guys who didn’t pay attention. Who didn’t care about learning you. Who treated getting you off like a chore instead of what it should be.”
“And what should it be?”
There’s disbelief in her voice but also something else. Something that might be hope.
“A challenge.” I smile slowly. “Everything’s a challenge I need to win, Moxie. And you just told me you think you can’t come with someone else?”
“It’s not a challenge you need to—”
“Challenge accepted.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You heard me.” I straighten, putting space between us even though every instinct says to close it. “I’m going to teach you.”
“Teach me what?”
“How to stop overthinking. How to let go.” I watch her face. “How to come when I tell you to.”
“That’s not—you can’t just—”
“I can. And I will.” I reach out, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “But not tonight.”
“Not tonight?” She sounds confused and frustrated and maybe a little relieved.
“No. Tonight I’m going to show you what you’ve been missing.
Get you right to the edge.” I lean in again, voice dropping.
“And then I’m going to stop completely. Leave you wanting.
” I pull back. “You’re going to go to bed desperate and frustrated and thinking about my hands.
And you’re not going to touch yourself.”
“You can’t tell me—”