17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Sarah
I wake up wrapped around Kevin like he's a body pillow, my face pressed against his chest, one leg thrown over his hip. Ranger's snoring at our feet. I can see a tiny squeeze of light around the edges of his blackout curtains and for about three seconds, everything is perfect.
Then I remember where I am. What we did last night. What we kept doing. What we agreed to keep doing.
"You awake?" Kevin's voice is only half awake, his hand already stirring as it touches my back.
"Mmm. What time is it?"
"Seven-thirty. I've got morning skate at ten."
I should move. Disentangle myself from this soft, high thread-count bedding and this very warm human and go back to the guest room where I'm supposed to be sleeping.
Yes, we said exclusive. We said we’d figure things out for as long as we had together. We did not agree that I would use Kevin St. Clair as a full-body pillow.
Or maybe we did. I don’t know anything for sure anymore.
But I do know his bed is stupidly comfortable, and he smells like something I can't easily name but want to bottle, and my brain hasn't had coffee yet. So executive function is at approximately zero.
"Five more minutes," I mumble against his chest.
He laughs, the sound rumbling under my ear. "You said that twenty minutes ago."
"Lies. Slander."
"Did too. You were half-asleep, so you probably don't remember it. You're a snuggler, Sarah Townsend. Admit it."
"I am not—"
"You're literally koala-ing me right now."
I am. My arms are wrapped around his torso, my leg is hitched over his hip, and I can't be certain that I didn't inelegantly drool on his chest or something equally ridiculous at some point during the night.
"This doesn't count," I argue, but I don't move.
"What doesn't count?"
"Morning snuggling. It's...practical. Body heat. Energy conservation."
"Right. Very practical." His hand slides lower, cupping my ass. "Is this practical too?"
"That's inappropriate workplace conduct."
"We don't work together." He sounds very confident in his practicality.
I try to logic but it's too damn early and he kept me up too damn late last night. Over and over again. "Board member. Rescue director. Close enough."
"Guess I'll stop then." But he doesn't move his hand.
"You're annoying in the morning."
Kevin resumes kneading my muscles, sliding his hands up my back. His top hand explores around my shoulders, then back down my arms. He lets his fingertips trail over the curve of my left breast. It's a hell of a wake up call.
"You're grumpy in the morning," he says, doing his best to tease me out of my uncaffeinated coma.
I can't stifle a yawn. "I haven't had coffee yet."
"I can fix that." He kisses my forehead and starts to sit up, but I tighten my grip.
"Five more minutes. For real this time."
Focus, Sarah. You have work. He has morning skate. This is not the time for your libido to stage a hostile takeover.
Spoiler alert: it decides to take over anyway.
"Please?" Clearly now I'm willing to beg. Just a little.
He settles back down, pulling me closer. "You're going to make me late."
"You're the one who insisted I sleep here."
His grin goes crooked. Dangerous. "Best decision I've made all year."
We lie there in comfortable silence, and you know what? I’m going to let myself have this. Let myself pretend that waking up in Kevin St. Clair's bed is normal. That being exclusive will be fine. That his contract situation isn't a ticking time bomb.
That this could actually work, even though he is who he is and I am who I am. That this doesn’t have to have an expiration date.
Even though I know that it does, just like my five minutes on the clock.
"I should feed Ranger," I say as the clock on the bedside table indicates time is up.
"He can wait five more minutes."
"You just said I was going to make you late."
Kevin grins. "Turnabout's fair play."
But Ranger has other ideas. He jumps off the bed with a huff and pads to the door, looking back at us with clear disdain for the delay of breakfast.
"Your dog is a judgey diva," I say as I stretch my arms and legs, trying to will myself into the inevitable.
"You're the parent he's been with all week. Clearly, you're the problem."
I swat Kevin's chest and roll out of bed, immediately missing the warmth. "Don't look at me like that," I warn.
"Like what?"
"Like you're thinking about round four."
"I'm always thinking about round four." He props himself up on one elbow. "But I actually do have to get to morning skate early. Quinn will murder me if I'm not there with enough time for her to tape my shoulder."
"Then get up."
"You first." He is absolutely not committing to this play.
Didn't I just get out of bed? He has to be messing with me. Right? "I'm up."
"Debatable. You're standing, but your eyes are still closed."
He's right. I force them open and immediately regret it when I see the clock again. "Shit. I have to be at the rescue by nine. Barb wanted to go over her ideas for the fundraising campaign and I have no idea how Diane's going to take that."
Kevin sits up and pushes his fingers through his hair. "So, we're both late."
"This is your fault."
He gets up and grabs a pair of boxer briefs from his top dresser drawer. "How is this my fault?"
I take off the jersey and look around for a more practical t-shirt to throw on so I can get King Ranger his breakfast. "You and your stupid comfortable bed."
"You're the one who—"
Ranger barks, sharp and insistent. I don't think I've ever been mad at Ranger, but that may change quickly. He's ruining the moment.
"Okay, okay," I tell the canine in charge. "I'm coming."
I shuffle to the kitchen with Ranger at my heels, and Kevin follows a minute later in his boxer briefs and nothing else. There are fresh scratches down his back from last night. I did that. I left marks on him.
The thought makes me feel just a little bit cocky.
Until I realize this is a problem. What if the guys notice in the locker room? I'm trying to decide whether I should say something to Kevin about this or…
"Coffee's already brewing," Kevin says, pulling Ranger's food from the cabinet. "I love having a timer on this thing. Best Black Friday impulse purchase ever."
"Always planning ahead."
"I'm very motivated by coffee."
"And other things."
He grins and my core absolutely melts. I cannot be getting wet before the day even starts, before I even have a mug of liquid nitro. This is awkward. Deliciously awkward
That shit-eating grin won't quit. "Most definitely other things."
We move around each other like it’s a completely normal, domestic routine — him feeding Ranger, me finding mugs, both of us reaching for the cream at the same time. It's so cutesy that it should come with a warning label.
But I'm too tired to overthink it. That's what I'm telling myself, anyway.
Kevin pours, slides a mug toward me. I wrap both hands around the Seattle Space Needle mug — same one I always use when I'm here — and take a grateful sip.
Then immediately want to spit it back out.
What the hell? It tastes like I'm licking a roll of aluminum foil. Metallic and wrong and—
I stare at the mug like we have never shared a perfectly normal morning of coffee before. This is my mug. Kevin's fancy coffee maker from Italy. The same cream I used yesterday.
So why does it taste like pennies?
Coffee has never tasted wrong. Not in my entire adult life. Not once. Not through studying for my vet tech exam, not through fundraising disasters, not through board meetings from hell. Coffee is the one constant.
I set it down carefully, like the problem is definitely the mug and absolutely not me. Like if I just don't acknowledge the tiny alarm bell going off somewhere in my gut, it'll shut up and leave me alone.
"Not good?" Kevin asks, pouring his own cup.
"No, it's… think something's off with the machine. Or the beans went bad." I'm already making excuses, already trying to logic my way around the fact that coffee — my beloved, essential, non-negotiable coffee — just tasted like I licked the inside of a soda can.
The fact that his coffee is clearly unaffected by whatever has happened to mine is a problem for Later-Sarah. Right-Now-Sarah needs to get dressed and get to the rescue.
Kevin's phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at it and his whole face changes. His jaw tightens and the shoulders pull back just slightly. The guy who was joking about my snuggling earlier isn't there anymore.
"Everything okay?"
"It's Dave. My agent." He sets the phone down but keeps looking at it like it might bite him. "Wants to talk about the contract stuff."
Oh.
My stomach drops the same way it does when you miss a step going downstairs. That split second of free fall before you catch yourself.
"Have you decided what you're doing?"
"Not yet." He tops off his own mug, and suddenly he's very interested in the exact coffee-to-cream ratio. Won't look at me. "Dave thinks we should stick with testing free agency, see what else is out there."
Other teams. Other cities — maybe even another country, like Canada — places that aren't here.
"What do you want?"
"I want to stay in Austin." He finally looks at me. His sounds like he's explaining a defensive breakdown to the press after a game: careful, measured, like he's choosing every word. "But it's complicated."
I want to ask if I'm part of the complication. Want to know if this thing between us factors into his decision at all. Want to know if I should be planning for him to be gone in six months.
But we agreed to focus on right now.
So instead, I just say, "You'll figure it out."
"Yeah." He doesn't sound convinced.
The kitchen suddenly feels smaller. The Space Needle mug is still sitting there between us, abandoned. The coffee maker hisses as it finishes brewing, and neither of us moves to refill.
I should say something. Should ask more. Should—
But I don't. And he doesn't. And just like that, the easy morning we were having is gone.
When Ranger and I walk into Paige's office at TexTech Arena after lunch, I get a complete BTS at what it looks like when a brand deal explodes.