Chapter Nineteen
Owen
I wake up before sunrise, restless with memories of yesterday. Remy should have pulled away when I took her hands. We both know it. Hell, I shouldn’t have reached for her in the first place.
This is so much worse than when I kept getting hard at the mere thought of her. Chemistry is one thing. If that was all I’m feeling right now, I could let the lust run its course.
But, sonofabitch, this big and very inappropriate crush is metastasizing into something more.
Which is objectively terrible timing, considering she’s technically still my crisis manager sans crisis, and I apparently have the emotional restraint of a dog chasing a squirrel.
I don’t just want to lie on my back and let Remy ride me like a Sybian—although, now that I’m thinking about it, I would very much like that, too.
But I also want to wake up with her and cook breakfast while she makes coffee, and catch her walking around in nothing but my jersey, and…
Okay, see, this is the problem. I’m not allowed to want these things. Wanting somebody’s body is easy. Wanting their everyday life feels a lot more dangerous.
I press my palms to my eyes. “Fuck,” I groan. If I lie here any longer, I’m going to lose my mind. I’ll start imagining a future that’s already dead in the water.
Remy doesn’t want me. I’m damaged fucking goods, even if she doesn’t recognize that yet. Eventually, she will. People always do.
I haul my exhausted ass out of bed, rub out a guilty orgasm in the shower, and find ways to channel my energy. Like getting off to thoughts of her somehow makes this whole thing more real. Can’t sleep? Great. The kitchen needed a thorough clean, anyway.
I spend the next two hours scrubbing everything until it gleams and slamming espressos. Apparently, anxiety and caffeine are going into business together this morning. Shutout keeps getting underfoot.
“You’re a trip hazard,” I scold.
He howls back at me and lies down right in the middle of the floor.
I nudge him with my toe. “You eat my food, you sleep under my roof, you don’t pay rent, and now this? Unacceptable.”
Shutout does the thing where his bones turn into jelly. I truly don’t understand how he can expand like that.
“Oh, and now you take up the whole floor.” I shake my head at him. “Mooch. Freeloader.”
Shutout may be fixed, but he still has the balls to wag his tail at my tirade. I swear this dog thinks every emotion is positive attention.
It’s not a bad morning. It’s fine. It’s completely and totally okay that Remy doesn’t text once. Does that bother me? No, not at all. Not even a little bit.
My fourth espresso says otherwise.
* * *
My cleaning frenzy only gets me so far. It’s still early when I pull into the arena parking lot, but I’ve had so many espresso shots now that I can actually see into the future if I squint.
I’ll blame the caffeine for the jitters I get when I realize that Remy’s already here.
Her car is parked in its usual place. Give it a few more weeks, and we’ll all think of that spot as Remy’s spot.
The thought settles into me with embarrassing domestic ease.
Give it a few more weeks, and she’ll be out of your life for good.
That hits harder than it should, considering we’re not even officially anything.
With that bleak thought, I head inside.
Remy is standing at the boards in faded light-blue jeans rolled up at the cuffs and an oversized sweater that swallows her frame. She’s staring out at the crease. The soft sweater and messy hair situation are not helping my ability to behave normally around her.
“You’re early,” I say. Seeing her here before everyone else feels weirdly intimate.
She jumps, having evidently failed to notice my approach. “Oh! Geeze, yeah. You snuck up on me there.”
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Her hair falls loose around her shoulders. She looks so soft and casual. Comfortable, instead of buttoned-up and rigid. “Yeah. I was a little…” She makes a buzzing sound with her lips and wags her hands in a way that accurately mimics my current caffeine buzz. “What’s your excuse?”
“Just had a lot of stuff on my mind lately.” I could end it there and let her draw her own conclusions, but even when she’s pissed off at me, she’s never been mean. Maybe I can’t tell her everything, but I think I can trust her with a little bit of the truth. “I’m worried about my mom.”
The confession leaves my mouth before I can decide whether I actually wanted to say it out loud.
Remy’s eyes widen. “Oh. Do you maybe want to… talk about that?”
“Can we take a walk?” I point up the stairs toward the silent concession stand. “We could stroll the arena for a bit. I think I need to move.”
“Sure.” She leaves her things and follows me up the steps.
I don’t say anything right away. For one thing, these steps are steep as shit, and I don’t want to tumble to my death. I also need time to think about what I’m going to say.
Eventually, I decide start with the basics. “My mom’s name is Patty. She’s pretty independent, but she’s getting older, and I worry about her. The roof on our house is kind of jacked up, and there was a problem with the wiring, and it kills me that I can’t check in on her.”
Remy hums.
“What?”
She licks her lips and stares down at the toes of her shoes as we pace the hall that circles the arena. I like that she takes her time with her words, too. Most people rush to fill silence. Remy actually listens to it. “I get the impression that your dad isn’t in the picture.”
My jaw twitches so hard I nearly bite my tongue. “Yeah.”
“Do you see yourself as her protector?”
The question lands square in the center of my chest because the answer has always been yes.
I could kiss her for not pressing the issue of my dad.
Not that I need much convincing. “I was her protector. And I don’t mean that I was the man of the house or whatever bullshit people say to imply that I was in charge of her somehow.
She was a great mom. Is a great mom. But she forgets things, she procrastinates, and things fall through the cracks. She’s getting older.”
And distance feels a lot worse once you know what can happen when you aren’t there.
“I know what you mean. You’re an only child, right?”
“Yeah. He died when I was twelve.”
“Me, too.” The quiet understanding in her voice loosens something in me before I can stop it.
She runs her hands through her hair. “When my mom died, my dad changed. He’s great, and he’s always been supportive, but…
” She lets out a long exhalation. “My dad was trying to do two parents’ worth of work while working through his own grief.
Granted, I was old enough that I was pretty independent, but we never got back to normal.
Sometimes, I feel awful leaving him back east on his own. ”
I let out a little laugh, though there’s nothing funny about any of this.
Remy’s brow furrows. She crosses her arms protectively over her chest. “What?”
“I’m not laughing at you.” I stop in front of a long case that includes giant photos of past Venom players. “Can I say something that’s going to sound selfish as hell?”
“Of course.” Remy’s still frowning, but she’s listening. So few people want to hear what I have to say that her undivided attention makes my skin prickle. I’m not used to this.
“All these guys.” I point to the photos of the legacy Venom players from back when Dante first bought the team.
The names are familiar: Newberry. Abbott.
Hale. Beck. Sawyer. The fathers of so many of my current teammates.
“They’re the OG Vegas Venom. They played so well that Dante obtained their kids, which is kind of insane, by the way. Like who does that?”
“Someone with a huge bankroll. The Venom is certainly unique in that regard,” Remy deadpans.
“The thing is, they’re all great guys. I’ve met them.” Good fathers. Good husbands. Men people wanted to become instead of escape. “And then there’s you, with your father. I’m not making light of your loss, but if I’d ended up with only my dad?” I roll my lips together. “He was a piece of shit.”
The words come out flat from overuse, worn smooth from years of trying to make peace with them.
Remy doesn’t make a sound. In the glass, her reflection stares up at mine, but I don’t dare turn my head to meet her eyes.
“When I was a kid, he’d beat the hell out of my mom.
Then he’d be nice for a while, and things would be good, until they weren’t.
” My own hands clench into fists at the memory.
“When I was a kid, I couldn’t do anything.
But when I got old enough, when I got strong enough, I could be the wall.
I could put myself between her and his fists and stop them from getting through. Goalie instincts.”
Even now, I still measure my size by whether I could stop him. At this, Remy lets out a tiny sound, so small I almost miss it.
“So, yeah. All these guys are here because everybody loved their dads so much they couldn’t get enough. And then there’s me.” The outlier. The cautionary tale. The guy nobody’s quite sure what to do with. I shrug off anything else I want to get off my chest. Talking like this is exhausting.
I stand there staring at the photo of Noah Abbott, my current goalie coach. Remy still hasn’t responded, and every muscle in my body is tensed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Well,” she says at last, her voice rough with some repressed emotion. “It sounds like your mom is really lucky to have you.”
I finally let myself look at her. She’s so close, I could wrap her in my arms without taking a step. I want to, desperately. I want to bury my face in her hair and breathe in the clean floral scent of her shampoo.
“Do you want to go down to the film room?” she asks.
Bless her for giving me an off-ramp from this conversation. “Sure. Sounds like a good use of our time.”
Based on how far apart we sat the other day, I expect her to maximize the distance between us. Instead, she sits on the next cushion over, with just enough room between our thighs so that they don’t accidentally touch. Which somehow feels more intimate than touching her outright.
We watch clips from a few recent games in silence until boisterous shouting in the hall clues me in to the fact that practice must start soon. I turn off the TV and start to get up.
Remy’s curled up against one of the cushions, eyes closed, lips slightly parted.
The sight of her relaxed around me does something dangerous to my nervous system.
The insomnia caught up with her after all.
I should wake her up and let her know that it’s time to get out there, but she looks so peaceful that I can’t bring myself to do it.
Before I can overthink it, I lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead.
The gesture feels weirdly intimate. Domestic in a way that makes something tight and nervous shift in my chest.
Shrugging out of my jacket, I drape it over her, tucking it around her chin so that it won’t slide off. Taking care of her feels frighteningly natural.
Remy’s lips move in her sleep. I know that she isn’t saying my name. That’s dangerous, delusional thinking. I know better.
But it’s nice to pretend.
Nice enough that I’m starting to worry pretending isn’t going to be enough anymore.