Chapter 9
Sven
nine
. . .
She blinks. She does it a few times.
“You’re autistic?” she asks.
Holding my breath, I nod.
Vanessa exhales slowly. “That makes so much more sense.”
“It does?” I don’t want her to think I’m helpless just because sometimes I’m a little awkward in social situations or have difficulty navigating sarcasm and interpersonal relationships.
“Sven,” she says, and my stomach lurches at my name on her lips. “We’re dating now.”
“Okay?”
“That means, we have to talk sometimes.”
“I’ve been in relationships before. I know how this works.”
“Yeah, but you’ve never been in a relationship with me before,” Vanessa says. “I need open communication. When I don’t hear from my partner for forty-eight hours, not even just a ‘hey, I’m alive’ message, I get insecure. I start thinking I care about things more than you do.”
“But we’re only fake dating,” I blurt.
Her face falls. “Oh.”
“What?”
“I thought…” She trails off.
Leaning toward her, I push the water glass into her hand. She needs to be coherent in order for us to have this conversation.
“Hm?”
“I thought you liked me.”
“I do,” I say honestly.
“But—” She frowns. “I’m confused.”
“So am I,” I admit.
“You wanted to ask me out.”
I nod. “But you don’t date hockey players.”
She squints at me. “I am, though. I’m dating you.”
“Because you need me. Not because you like me.” I can’t hide the bitterness in my voice.
To my surprise, Vanessa doesn’t seem put off by it. Her face clears, and she reaches for my hand. “Sven?—”
Shaking my head, I pull away. “You don’t have to pretend, not with me. Let’s not make this more than it is.”
“But—”
“Do you need to eat anything? Are you hungry?” When I’m drinking, I like greasy food that’s definitely not part of my regular diet plan.
Vanessa shakes her head. “I should go.”
“It’s late.” Well after midnight, considering I didn’t get home until the clock changed to Sunday morning.
“I know. I’ll get a rideshare.” She brushes her hair out of her face with uncoordinated limbs.
“You’re not getting in a stranger’s car at this time of night,” I declare.
Her face turns red. “Oh? And who are you to decide that?”
“There’s a guest room upstairs. You can sleep it off, and in the morning, I’ll drive you home.”
Mouth open, she gapes at me like a fish.
Leaning forward, I tip my finger under her chin, closing her mouth.
“Occasionally, I’m a decent person,” I tell her quietly. “Just don’t tell anyone.”
She stares at me for a few beats.
And then she breaks into giggles.
“Oh, Sven,” she says, delighted by her good humor, “You are very much a decent person.”
“I’m not.”
“You are to me. You’re helping me out. You?—”
Downing the rest of my water, I putter around the kitchen, putting away the glass and clearing the tidy counters.
Vanessa sits on her stool, watching. “Are you upset that I’m here?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re...” She falls silent. “Or are you upset that you have to help me?”
“It’s late. You should probably get some rest.”
“So that’s a yes, then,” she decides.
I’m not going to lie to her. But I also don’t want her to feel bad about the truth.
Feelings are complicated.
And messy.
And I’m not good at them. I stay in my little corner, isolated from everyone else. Sure, I deal with people when I have to—trainers, teammates, whatever. It’s not restful for me to be surrounded by people. I need open space, and Rupert, and my sourdough starter, and?—
Vanessa finishes her water, and I take her cup for the dishwasher.
“Are you sure you want me to stay?”
It’s not like she’ll be sleeping in my bed with me. She’ll be all the way across the hall in the guest room.
“It’s fine,” I tell her stiffly.
She follows me up the stairs. Flicking on the light in the guest room, I double-check that everything is as it should be.
“There’s a new toothbrush in the bathroom. You should be able to find everything you need.”
Vanessa nods. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Good night.” Turning on my heel, I make my way across the landing to my bedroom, closing the door behind me.
Scrubbing my hand over my face, I try to recalibrate. It’s totally not a big deal that she’s here. It’s fine. I’m fine. I can just go about my regular routine and?—
How the hell am I supposed to lay in bed and jerk off when she’s right there?
My shoes go in the closet. Unbuttoning my shirt, I deposit it in the hamper and remove my pants, leaving me in my boxer-briefs. For a moment, I debate covering up more.
She’s in the guest room. She won’t be in my room. In the morning, I’ll get dressed and?—
My skin breaks out into goosebumps. I don’t like having people in my space. It sets my entire life off-kilter. They’re not supposed to be inside my house. This is my safe space, the one place where I can hide from everyone in the world. Not even Hildy has been to my house; I always go to hers.
The only person who has ever come over is Brigitte, the med student who watches over Rupert while I’m gone, and we are never here at the same time; she has a copy of my schedule, so she knows when she’s needed, and all communication is handled via email.
The only reason I even have a guest room is because I needed someone to watch out for Rupert. If it wasn’t for that, I’d be fine with a studio. Okay, maybe a one-bedroom apartment. I like having the door closed while I’m asleep.
My heart is hammering. Despite my earlier shower at the arena, my skin is slicked with sweat.
Pulling my tablet out of my nightstand drawer, I turn on one of my favorite videos. Even though I’m always alone, I never watch it with sound. Hearing the actors’ faked moans and groans turns me off.
As I slick my hand with lube and draw my cock out of my briefs, I wonder about the propriety of doing this while she’s right there. It’s not like I’m inviting her to come in and help me out. I don’t even want her to help me out.
I don’t think I do.
I don’t know.
Maybe?
No. No, I?—
Yeah.
I do.
I really want her to.
But that’s not what we are. We’re fake dating. We’re not a real couple where we can discuss physical needs in a rational and clinical way.
My attention strays from the video, the blue-tinted light bright in the dark room. As usual, my mind drifts to one of my favorite memories.
Weddings aren’t exactly my idea of fun, and Jackson’s wedding was no exception. I was seated at the single and underage table.
And then she was there.
We drank.
We danced.
She flirted.
We went back to her room.
And then?—
My cock grows stiffer at the memory, and as I stroke myself, I think back to the way it felt to have her in my arms, the easy way she talked to me all night long, the way she seemed like she was actually — genuinely — interested in me.
Our first kiss was on the dance floor. She took the lead there. She initiated.
She wanted it, too.
She wanted it as much as I did.
Cupping my balls, I roll them in my hand and then slide two fingers under to my taint, the way she did that night. I’d never known I was so sensitive there until her.
She taught me more than I could ever expect.
And as I touch myself to the memory of that night nine years ago, my thoughts drift to the woman on the other side of my wall.
Vanessa Morgan.
She’s been off limits for so long. First, I was with someone. Then, once that ended, she made clear she didn’t get involved with hockey players.
But she is involved now. She is dating me.
She said so herself. She certainly seemed confused when I blurted out that we’re just dating for appearances.
Shifting my grip, my strokes slow as I consider the possibilities here. She’s so close but still so far away. How do I transverse this distance between us? How do I prove to her my intentions are pure? How do I convince her that I want to protect her from Andrews?
My cock jerks, and I curse under my breath, remembering the way she sucked me down. Maybe my intentions aren’t so pure after all…
Pleasure bursts along my spine, coiling low in my gut, and as my cock spills into my hand, I let out the quietest grunt, and then my body sags with a sigh.
My bones feel loosey-goosey, like marshmallows. Or maybe like Twizzlers. Ooh, Twizzlers sound good right now.
It takes considerable effort to get to my feet, and as I clean up, the bone-deep exhaustion hits. I’m so fucking tired.
It’s not that I’m sleepy, although I am. It’s more of a soul-crushing, spirit-destroying, body-melting kind of exhaustion.
My body is bruised from the game, my muscles ache, and I have a scratch on the inside of my forearm from a high-sticking penalty that didn’t get called.
I don’t know how to do this.
How do I tell the woman I’m faking a relationship with that I want it to be real?
How do I tell the woman I’ve had feelings for since our one night together almost a decade ago that she is still incredibly meaningful to me?
How do I tell the woman I called my engagement off over that once she walked back into my life, I couldn’t stand the thought of being with anyone else?