Chapter 8 #2
"Declan Morrison, I swear to God—" She lunges off the desk and immediately remembers her leggings are around her ankles, stumbling, and I catch her, laughing, the vibrator still in one hand.
"You know I'm keeping this too, right?" I say.
"You are absolutely not."
"Souvenir number two."
"Find the tissues! It's now sliding down my leg!"
I finally locate the travel pack of tissues wedged in the very bottom of her bag, and I set the vibrator down with great ceremony, still grinning. She glares at me the whole time, cheeks burning, as I gently turn her and clean the mess from her back, her ass cheek, and yes, her leg.
I finish wiping her down with a tenderness that surprises us both.
"There," I murmur, tossing the tissues. "Good as new."
She turns in my arms, and for a second we just look at each other, and the look that passes between us isn't banter and it isn't heat.
It's something I don't have a name for. Something I've never felt before.
Just as Josie opens her mouth to say something, a loud CLATTER echoes from somewhere down the hall.
Her eyes go wide. My fucking heart stops.
"Shit," we hiss in unison.
We move like the building's on fire. She yanks her leggings up, going commando because her panties are currently in my pocket, and I snatch my shirt off the floor and shove it over my head.
"Go! Go! Go!" I bark, trying not to trip over.
She grabs her bag, I grab her hand, and we bolt for the door, half-laughing, half-terrified, sprinting down the dark corridor like a couple of teenagers about to get caught by their parents.
We burst out the player's entrance into the warm night air, and only when we're a hundred feet from the building, both of us doubled over and gasping, do we finally slow down.
"That," she pants, hands braced on her knees, chest heaving like she's just finished a marathon, "absolutely cannot happen again."
I look at her. Her hair's a disaster, her cheeks are flushed, her shirt's on inside out.
"We said that last time."
She straightens up, points a finger at my chest, then drops it, defeated. "...We did, didn't we."
"We did."
She laughs, shaking her head, and I can't stop the smile pulling at my mouth.
"Come on." I tip my head toward the boardwalk. "I'll walk you home."
"It's not far."
"Don't care. Last time I let you walk somewhere alone, it didn't exactly end with us being strangers."
She doesn't argue.
We walk the boardwalk in the dark, the string lights swaying overhead, the carousel quiet and still, the only sound the waves and the soft scuff of our footsteps.
She doesn't take my hand and I don't take hers, but we walk close enough that our shoulders keep brushing, and I make damn sure to keep it that way.
When we reach the Beachside Hotel, she pauses at the entrance. Twin brass lanterns flank the doors, flickering with real flames that catch in her eyes.
It's then that I realize, standing here in the lantern light with her panties still in my pocket and her vibrator absolutely not in my pocket, that I would happily set this entire building on fire just to keep her looking at me the way she's looking at me right now.
"This is me."
"Yeah. I guess it is." I shove my hands in my pockets. The torn lace is still in one of them and I twirl my finger around it nervously. "Go on. Get inside."
She gives me one last look, like she's thinking about kissing me, but then, without another word, she disappears through the doors.
I stand there in the dark like a fucking idiot, watching the windows, until a light flicks on three floors up.
She's safe.
Only then do I turn and walk back toward my Rover.
I climb in, drop into the drivers seat, and pull out my phone to check the time.
A new message is sitting at the top of the team group chat. From Tyler, Josie's little assistant from the other day.
It's a photo. A screenshot of the box office portal for this weekend's game.
TYLER: GUYS. The ticket promo is WORKING. We're at 70% sold. SEVENTY PERCENT. We haven't been past 30% all season. JOSIE IS A WIZARD.
I stare at the screen.
Seventy percent.
That's a fucking packed house by the Bear Cave's usual standards.
I set the phone down and grip the steering wheel, and a feeling I haven't had in years uncoils in my chest. It takes me a second to recognize it, because it doesn't belong here, in this place I came to disappear.
Excitement.
And right behind it, hot on its heels…
Fear.
Because a sold-out arena means people. People in seats. People with phones and expectations and a reason to give a damn.
It means the coasting is over.
It means I'm actually going to have to play hockey again. Real hockey, the kind I buried somewhere along the way.
I start the engine, the headlights cutting across the empty lot.
But for once, the fear doesn't feel like a weight.
Because now I've got a reason to give a damn too.
The locker room is electric tonight.
I've never heard it like this. Usually pre-game is dead quiet around here. A few guys taping sticks, somebody half-asleep in the corner, that flat energy of a team that's already decided how the night's going to go.
Not tonight.
No fucking way.
"You hear that?" Beck's bouncing on the balls of his feet, fully geared up, gloves smacking together. "Listen. Just listen."
We all go quiet.
And there it is.
A low, rolling rumble bleeding through the concrete walls. The noise of a crowd. Our crowd. Thousands of voices stacked on top of each other, building, swelling, broken up by the bass thump of the warm-up playlist.
"Holy shit," Mason murmurs. He's lacing his skates, but his hands have gone still. "That's—is that—"
"That's a full house, boys," Coach Pearson says, stepping into the center of the room.
He's in his game-day suit, tie already loosened, and he looks around at all of us with something burning in his eyes I haven't seen since I got here.