Chapter 21
OWEN
I followed at a distance, keeping her taillights in sight without being obvious about it. Or at least, I hoped I wasn’t being obvious.
The image of her standing in that empty parking lot, arms wrapped around herself with dark circles under her eyes, had lodged itself somewhere in my chest and refused to budge.
She turned onto her street, and I slowed, watching until her car pulled into the driveway and the garage door rumbled open, swallowing her inside.
I sped up as I passed her road.
She was safe.
I should have felt relief, but I didn’t; I felt empty. It was such a weird feeling to miss something you knew you could never have, especially when that something is someone.
My apartment was dark when I finally stumbled through the door, kicking off my shoes, and I didn’t bother turning on any lights. The couch caught me, leather creaking as I collapsed onto the cushions.
I needed a shower. The responsible adult thing to do would be to get up, shower, maybe eat something that wasn’t protein powder, and get some actual sleep before tomorrow’s practice.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling I couldn’t see, thinking about her.
Harlow. Standing against her car with her arms crossed. The way she looked at me when I pulled up, guarded, exhausted, vulnerable in a way she probably hated. The way her voice cracked when she apologized for calling me.
Like she thought she was a burden.
You can always call me. Always.
I meant it. Every word, and that was the problem, wasn’t it? I kept drawing lines and then immediately stepping over them. Keep your distance, Owen. Stay away, Owen. Don’t text her, don’t think about her.
My phone was heavy in my pocket. I pulled it out and opened our text thread.
The cursor blinked at me.
You make it home okay?
I stared at the words and then deleted them.
Just wanted to make sure you got home safe.
Too formal. Deleted.
Hey, you good?
Too casual.
I dropped the phone on my chest and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until I saw stars.
I was the one who asked for space, the one who sat across from her on my coffee table and told her we needed to stay away from each other. I was the one who kept making all these rules, drawing all these boundaries, convincing myself it was the right thing to do.
The problem was, I didn’t want space.
I wanted to close every inch of distance between us and be the person she called when things went wrong, not because there was no one else, but because she wanted it to be me.
And if it wasn’t for Jax...
I groaned, rolling onto my side and burying my face in a throw pillow.
Jax. The guy who was always in my corner through every fight, every failure, every bad decision I ever made. The guy who trusted me with everything, his secrets, his house, his family.
His sister.
The best friend who gave me a family when I lost mine…
If I started something with Harlow and fucked it up the way I fucked things up with Cam.
.. Jax would never forgive me. The friendship we built over two decades would crumble, and I would lose the only family I had left.
Kaia would look at me with that disappointed expression that was somehow worse than anger.
Trystan would probably beat the shit out of me, which honestly seemed like the more merciful option.
And Syn…
She would cut my heart out with a spoon. A dull rusty spoon. She told me once, in vivid and anatomically creative detail, exactly what she would do to anyone who hurt Harlow. I laughed at the time, thinking she was joking.
She wasn’t joking.
But beyond all of that, there was the simple, terrifying truth that I didn’t want to hurt Harlow.
And I had a terrible track record.
What if I broke her heart and had to watch her look at me the way Cam looked at me that evening at the beach house?
The risk was too high. The potential for destruction was too massive.
And yet.
And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about her and wanting things I had no right to want.
My phone dinged, and my heart did an embarrassing little leap as I grabbed it, hoping…
Sydney: Hey, handsome. You up?
Sydney Davis.
Sydney was a fixture at every hockey event, every afterparty, every bar within a five-mile radius of the rink. Pretty, persistent, and absolutely uninterested in anything serious. She was the girl you could call at 2 AM when you wanted to forget your own problems for a few hours.
Another message popped up before I could respond.
Sydney: I’ve been thinking about you all night. Want some company?
A photo followed that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, all tan skin, lingerie, and a smile that promised exactly the kind of distraction I should probably want.
I stared at it.
Nothing.
I felt absolutely nothing except a vague irritation that she interrupted my pathetic spiral about someone else.
Sydney: I could be there in 20 minutes. Do whatever you want to me. No strings.
The old Owen would have said yes and let Sydney come over, exhausting him until he forgot. He would have used a physical distraction to avoid any type of emotional reality, the same way he’d been doing for years.
But all I could think about was Harlow.
I groaned, pressing my phone against my forehead like I could somehow physically expel Sydney’s messages from existence.
This was pathetic. A grown man, lying in the dark, turning down a sure thing because he couldn’t stop obsessing over someone he couldn’t have.
My thumb moved before my brain could stop it, deleting and blocking.
Sydney Davis vanished from my phone.
And because I was apparently determined to make the worst possible decisions tonight, I opened Harlow’s messages and typed before I could talk myself out of it.
Owen: You make it home okay?
I hit send. Stared at the screen and immediately regretted it.
The seconds stretched into minutes. No response. No little dots indicating she was typing. Just silence, and the gradual death of my dignity.
She was probably in the shower. Or asleep. Or ignoring me because I spent the last week telling her we needed space, and now I was texting her at one in the morning like a hypocritical asshole.
I set the phone on my chest and closed my eyes. Counted to ten. Opened them again.
Still nothing.
“This is fine,” I muttered to the empty apartment. “Totally normal. Not pathetic at all.”
My phone buzzed.
I grabbed it so fast I nearly launched it across the room.
Harlow: Yes. But you already knew that.
A smile cracked across my face before I could stop it.
She called me out. She knew I was following her the whole time, probably watched me in her rearview mirror, and probably rolled her eyes at my terrible attempt at subtlety.
Owen: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Harlow: Sure, you don’t. That’s why you drove approximately 3 mph behind me for fifteen minutes.
Owen: I was being cautious. Late-night driving is dangerous.
Harlow: Uh-huh. And the fact that you magically took the exact same route as me to get to your apartment, which is in the completely opposite direction?
Owen: Coincidence.
Harlow: You’re a terrible liar.
Owen: It’s true.
A pause.
Harlow: Thank you for coming to get me and for the escort home, even though you’re pretending it didn’t happen.
Owen: Anytime, Har.
Harlow: Careful. I might hold you to that.
Owen: I’m counting on it.
Too flirty. Too much. I watched the message sit there, delivered, waiting to see if I crossed another line I shouldn’t have crossed.
The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Harlow: You should get some sleep. You looked almost as wrecked as I felt.
Owen: Excuse me, I looked ruggedly exhausted. Very different.
Harlow: You looked like you’d been hit by a truck made of hockey pucks.
Owen: That’s not even possible. Trucks aren’t made of pucks.
Harlow: Go to sleep, Owen.
I didn’t want to go to sleep. I wanted to do this all night.
Owen: Go to sleep, Harlow.
Harlow: I need a shower first. Someone made me stand in a cold parking lot for like ten minutes.
Owen: It was five minutes.
Harlow: Felt like ten.
Owen: Drama queen.
Harlow: Good night, Owen.
Owen: Night, Har.
I set the phone down, still smiling like an idiot.
She said she needed a shower, and now that image was lodged in my brain. Harlow in the shower, steam curling around her, water trailing down the curve of her back to that little heart tattoo I definitely shouldn’t have been looking at that morning...
That morning.
The morning after Jax’s bachelor party, when she walked out of my bathroom wrapped in my towel, blonde hair dripping onto bare shoulders, looking at me with those wide blue eyes like she wasn’t sure if she should run or stay.
The morning that had changed everything between us.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, but it didn’t help. The image was burned in. Her, silhouetted in the doorway. The steam was rolling out around her. The way my body wash had smelled different on her skin.
I closed my eyes as my hand traveled down my chest, stopping at my waistband. My cock throbbed against the fabric of my shorts, a hard, insistent pulse that mimicked the frantic beat of my heart.
Harlow.
That memory, the one I tried to bury under logic and loyalty, surged forward.
She stood in my bathroom doorway, wrapped in white terrycloth too big for her frame, gaping slightly where she held it at her chest. Water beaded down her collarbone.
Steam surrounded her, carrying the scent of my soap on her skin.
My breath hitched as my fingers slipped beneath the elastic. I wrapped my hand around myself, hissing at the contact. Already slick, already sensitive. One slow stroke, and a groan tore from my throat.
I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to.
My mind shifted, the memory deepening, twisting into the fantasy I barely dared to entertain. It wasn’t just her standing there anymore. She was on her knees on the cold tile of my bathroom floor, looking up at me with those ocean-blue eyes, her lips parted.
In this version, I didn’t hesitate. I stepped forward, fingers tangling in her damp hair. She leaned into the touch, her cheek nuzzling my thigh. The towel fell away, my world narrowing to the heat of her breath.
“Owen,” she whispered.
Lifting my hips, I shoved down my shorts with my free hand so I could move faster. In my mind, her mouth wrapped around me, taking me deep. Velvet heat, the flick of her tongue, her throat opening. I fucked into my fist, imagining it was her.
“God, Harlow.”
Her hands gripped my hips, nails digging in. She looked up, gaze locked on mine as she took me deeper, swallowed around me. Pleasure ripped through me, and my hips jerked.
Just like that. Don’t stop.
She set a ruthless pace. Pleasure coiled desperately in my gut. My breathing turned ragged. Every muscle clenched. All that existed was the building pressure and the filthy sounds filling the silence.
“I’m gonna…”
She hummed, the vibration traveling up my spine, as she took me deeper.
The orgasm ripped through me, and my back arched as I came, my release pulsing hot across my stomach.
“Harlow.”
I didn’t move, I just lay there, wrecked, my heart hammering against my ribs, my hand still wrapped around my slowly softening cock. The phantom sensation of her mouth faded, leaving only the sticky, cooling reality on my skin and a profound, hollow emptiness within me.
My phone rang.
The sound shattered the silence like a gunshot, jolting me upright so fast I nearly fell off the couch. My heart slammed against my ribs, adrenaline flooding my system.
I grabbed the phone, squinting at the too-bright screen.
Harlow…