Grizz
The lobby door to my building clicks shut behind us, and all I can think about is getting Daisy upstairs, out of that dress, and tossing her under me again.
She’s been glued to my thoughts all damn night, and the way she looked at me across that ballroom?
Yeah, I’m turned on. The cab drive home had me near delirious with her sitting so close and unable to maul her like I wanted.
She knew it too, her hand on my thigh, stroking lazy circles with her thumb.
Now she’s in my domain and I’m going to take control. As soon as the elevator door closes, I’m reaching for her waist. When my phone buzzes, I ignore it.
It buzzes again. Then again. Three short vibrations, which is Eliza’s tone. That alone puts a damper on my mood and I exhale hard as I pull the phone from my pocket.
Frowning, I see her text message: Dad had another bad day. Call me when you get a chance tomorrow.
I go still. It’s not an emergency since she told me to call when I got a moment and that’s good enough for me to ignore the problem for now.
Daisy’s hand is on my chest, warm, ready. Everything inside me slams to a halt like hitting the boards at full speed.
The elevator suddenly feels too quiet.
“What is it?” Daisy asks.
I lock the phone, shove it into my pocket, and stab the button for my floor. “Nothing.”
But she’s already seen the change in me. She’s too damn perceptive for her own good. “Grizz,” she presses gently. “What happened?”
It’s that tone that undoes me… like she really cares. I rake my hands through my hair and take a step until my back hits the wall, because suddenly I’m not in the mood for sex or flirting or pretending my dad’s decline doesn’t crawl under my skin like concertina wire.
“That was a text from my sister,” I mutter. “She said my dad had another bad day. I’ll call her tomorrow.”
Daisy studies me. And it irritates the hell out of me that she can read what’s behind my eyes when most people don’t even try. I’m both touched and scared of it at the same time. The elevator chimes, indicating arrival on my floor, and the doors slide open.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand. “Let’s just… have a drink.” It’s the only thing I can think to do that doesn’t involve talking or running.
She follows me quietly and waits for me to unlock the door. I push it open and let her step inside first. I shrug out of my tuxedo jacket, unknot the tie as I move to the butler’s pantry. I grab the second bottle of red I stole from Bartiz after the shoot, and pull two glasses from the cabinet.
Daisy shrugs out of her coat. Why do I like it so much that she’s comfortable enough in my home to slip off her shoes?
She’s quiet but present as she sits on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under her, dress riding high on her thighs and momentarily distracting me in all the ways I don’t want to pay attention to right now.
I sink into the opposite end and pour two glasses, handing her one.
For a minute, we don’t speak. The silence should feel heavy, but it… doesn’t. It’s calmer than the static in my head, calmer than the noise of tonight’s casino party echoing through my bones.
She takes a sip. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
She nods once, accepting it without pressing. I’m grateful and resentful at the same damn time.
I take a drink too big to enjoy and clear my throat. “How’ve you been doing?”
Her lips twitch and she’s trying not to smile. “Really? We’re doing small talk now?”
“What’s wrong with small talk?”
“Nothing. Except…” She gives me a pointed look over the rim of her glass. “You’re breaking your own rule.”
I freeze.
“What rule?” I ask, even though I know exactly which one.
She raises her brows. “The no-feelings, no-talking-about-our-days rule. ‘Sex only,’ remember? Your phrase, not mine.”
I feel heat crawl up the back of my neck. It’s not embarrassment but rather irritation that she’s right. That she caught me caring. That I didn’t even notice I’d slipped.
“I was just trying to make conversation,” I mutter.
“Mmm.” She sips again, eyes on me. “Sounds dangerously close to asking about my life, Grizz.”
I want to snap back. Tease her. Drag her into my lap. Anything to wipe that knowing look off her face.
Instead, I say a truth out loud that even I don’t expect. “You smiled.”
Her brows pull together. “What?”
“Before. When I asked how you’ve been.” I swallow hard. “You smiled like… you thought something.”
She tries to hide it—too late.
“What were you smiling about?” I ask, voice rougher.
She hesitates, then says simply, “You. Breaking your own rule.”
“Don’t read into it,” I mutter.
She folds one leg over the other, leaning back, unconvinced. “You’re the one who asked.”
I should stop here and steer us back to where we’re safe—sex, teasing, anything but feelings.
“You think I don’t notice things?” I ask. “Like when you get quiet before you ask a hard question. Or how your whole face softens when you talk about fashion. Or how you pretend you hate attention but walk into a room like you own it.”
Her breath catches, barely. “Grizz…”
“No,” I cut in. “Don’t ‘Grizz’ me. I see things too. I just don’t talk about them.”
She sets her wine down, studying me with that unnerving mix of gentleness and resolve that makes me want to climb walls. “Then why are you talking now?”
Good question.
A better one… why does talking to her—this woman I was supposed to keep at arm’s length—feel less suffocating than keeping my mouth shut?
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “Maybe because you’re the only person who isn’t afraid to actually see me.”
“Grizz…” Her voice is soft but also feels like it could open me to my core.
I look away instantly, a muscle jumping in my cheek. And just like that, the instinct slams back into place. This is why the rule exists. This is why I made it.
Because feelings—attachments or whatever the hell this is—they’re dangerous. Distracting. They screw with your head on the ice, in your life, everywhere. I’ve spent too long keeping myself sharp and worked too hard to get caught up in them.
I drag a hand through my hair and force my voice steady. “Forget it,” I mutter, taking one long swallow to drain the rest of my glass. “Pour another drink.”
But Daisy doesn’t reach for the bottle. Instead, she sets her glass on the side table and scooches closer, near enough that I feel her warmth.
“Grizz,” she says quietly, “you don’t have to bulldoze every vulnerable moment.”
Her eyes are locked on mine.
I break first. “So… tell me something about you,” I say, rubbing my thumb along the stem of my glass. “A fact or two about your family. Your life before New York. Whatever.”
It surprises her. “My backstory?” she repeats, almost teasing, but not quite.
I nod. “Yeah. Figured if you’re going to be calling me out on my own shit, maybe I should know who’s doing it.”
She releases a small smile, softer than the ones she gives at work, and settles into my side. The weight of her against my arm feels too fucking good.
“Well,” she begins, “I grew up outside DC. Two academic parents. Sweet, supportive, very ‘attend every school play’ energy. I was not the rebellious child. I was the… curious one. The one who wanted to understand how the world worked. One sister, who’s the complete opposite of me, works in finance. ”
I listen. Really listen because if I’m being honest, Daisy is the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met.
She touches her hair, thinking. “My parents still live there. Same house. Same routine. They’re very big on tradition.”
“Let me guess… big Thanksgiving dinner with special china that has turkeys on it?”
“Bingo,” she says with a laugh. “Thanksgiving is huge in our family.” She gives a small shrug. “I can’t wait for the trip home to spend it with them.”
“Yeah? So you’ll be back for Thanksgiving weekend?”
“Probably. I haven’t been home since summer.” She twirls her glass, eyes lifting back to mine. “What about you? Do you ever go home for the holidays? I mean… I get you Canadians do Thanksgiving in October, but do you spend it at home?”
A beat. Then another. “Sometimes,” I say.
She waits, the silence open but not pushing—just leaving space in case I want to fill it.
“My sister does Canadian Thanksgiving right,” I say. “Full spread. The good stuff. But she’s been busy lately. Or rather it’s just that she’s been doing everything.” Another breath. A longer one. “Taking care of our dad.”
Daisy’s eyes soften and I continue before I chicken out.
“He’s getting worse and it seems to be snowballing.
His memory… you know, it comes and goes.
But mostly goes. My sister’s been carrying the brunt of it, handling all his doctor’s appointments and making sure he doesn’t walk out in the snow wearing slippers.
And I’m…” I shake my head. “I’m here. Playing hockey.
Sending money. Pretending that’s enough. ”
Daisy’s voice is soft, tissue thin. “I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, even though it’s clearly not.
“It’s just—” I pause, searching for words that feel both true and fair.
“You already know he wasn’t a good dad. I mean…
he tried. In his own fucked-up way. He worked two jobs and he found ice time for me wherever he could.
Drove me everywhere and paid for gear he couldn’t afford.
He pushed me harder than anyone ever has and…
I became what I am today because of him. ”
Daisy’s eyes grow concerned, grief and understanding mixing.
“But he also constantly tore me down. Every mistake I made, he made bigger. Every game I didn’t dominate? He made that my fault. Every error was a weakness. Every weakness was a failure.” I run my hand down my face. “And the praise… the warmth… never got it, not a fuckin’ whiff of it.”
Her brows knit, her throat working like she has to hold back her own emotion. For some reason, seeing the glint of empathy in her eyes has my words tumbling out.
“And now,” I say, “all the shit he did? All the ways he broke me down? He doesn’t remember any of it. Not one fucking thing. He remembers taking me to tournaments. He remembers goals I scored. But the screaming, the pressure… the… hurt?” I gesture helplessly. “Gone.”
She leans forward, voice barely above a whisper. “That must feel like… a betrayal. Like he gets to forget the pain you’re still carrying.”
I go rigid.
Because that’s exactly it. Exactly the thing I’ve never said out loud. Exactly the thing I didn’t want named.
“Grizz,” she says, “you don’t have to hold that alone. The conflict you feel—loving the parts of him that built you and hating the parts that broke you—it’s real. It’s—”
No. Nope. That’s one notch too far. A door too far open. A truth too exposed. I don’t want to hear it, and I most certainly don’t want this conversation anymore.
So I do the only thing I know how to do when the walls start cracking and I shut her up with my mouth.
I lean forward and kiss her. Hard. The kind of kiss that swallows words and steals breath and replaces all the vulnerability with heat.
My glass hits the carpet and she melts into me instantly, hands finding my jaw, pulling me deeper. I shift, dragging her across the couch, her legs sliding over mine as her chest presses into me.
Her breath catches, and I take that moment—that tiny surrender—and break the kiss just enough to murmur against her lips, “No more talking.”
She exhales, shaky. “Yeah… okay.”
I kiss her again, harder. She grips my shoulders, nails biting into my skin.
The wine, the confessions, the emotions still vibrating under my ribs—all of it funnels into one need, all consuming.
I scoop her up with one hand behind her thighs and stand. She gasps softly against my neck as her arms wrap around me. I carry her down the hall into my bedroom without breaking stride.
Into the dark. Into anything that isn’t talking.