Chapter 20
TWENTY
ANNIKA
I lie on my side, facing him. The early morning light slips through the curtains and stretches across Parker’s shoulder, making his light golden skin glow even more. His skin is warm and his muscular arms hold me tight in his sleep and this still doesn’t feel real.
The world feels quieter here. Not silent, just softer and safer. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones.
Even though he’s asleep, his fingers trace my arm, just letting me know he’s here.
Last night the edges blurred, not like last time where it felt like we were crossing ethical boundaries. This time I feel chosen. I’m not a mind reader but I’m not sure either of us understands what’s happening between us.
I know this because I understand how the brain responds to situations.
What I do know is that neither of us walked away. Instead, we stepped into each other. Listened. Comforted.
Parker lets out a dreamy sigh and his eyes flutter open. He brushes his thumb over my wrist, over the place where my pulse dances a little too fast.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he whispers.
“Me too.”
He snuggles closer. “I’m glad you told me.”
“I wish I hadn’t. You’ll never look at me the same way again.”
“When I look at you I see a perfect ten. From every angle. Inside and out,” he says, his voice unwavering and without judgment.
That alone makes something inside my chest loosen.
“I didn’t tell you everything,” I say echoing my words from last night.
His fingers rest against my skin for a moment, then resume their path, grounding me to the present.
“You don’t have to tell me everything all at once. I trust you will.”
I study this devilishly handsome man. The version of Parker I knew in college would’ve pushed, teased, and deflected.
This Parker, well, he waits until he knows I won’t say any more. Until I’ve let it sink in. That’s what surprises me the most.
You know what surprises me even more? That I want to tell him everything.
Not the polished version. Not the parts I’ve told myself to keep from shaking.
The whole ugly truth. The words have been there—waiting, like they’ve been trapped there for years and suddenly found a door and Parker is the one holding it open.
“I got my first letter during senior year,” I admit, my voice scratchy, “Right before graduation.”
He pulls me closer. “Like the one you showed me?”
“Similar. I thought it was a mistake at first. Or a prank. It didn’t make sense.” My shoulder lifts as I suck in a breath. “It just said… enough to make me realize someone knew who I was.”
His jaw tightens. “And that’s when you changed your name?”
“That’s when Annika died.”
The word sits heavy. Died.
But it’s the truth.
“Parker, I didn’t just change my name. I had everything erased in America about Annika Pencheski. Records. Schools. Hockey. Anything that tied me to the scandal or that version of me.”
He watches me carefully. “And you’ve been looking over your shoulder ever since.”
It’s not a question. It’s the truth, but I nod once anyway.
I murmur, “I just didn’t want to deal with the past,” letting him absorb it.
“You were a kid,” he says in a tender tone.
“That didn’t stop it from happening.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
I look at his big, beautiful eyes and his messy chocolate brown hair. “Easy for you to say.”
“Is it?” he asks, something shifting in his tone.
Quieter.
Deeper.
“What does that mean?” I feel my brows knitting together.
He exhales through his nose, the air warm on my neck. His hand moves from my arm to the space between us. Like he’s preparing himself for an important revelation. At least that’s what I would think if we were in a session.
“My mom died giving birth,” he says, unable to look me in the eye.
His words are soft and low, but they carry an immense amount of weight.
I know how heavy simple sentences can be.
“Most people don't talk about it,” he continues. “It’s one of those things that exist in the background.”
I try to read him and look for a reaction he’s trying to hide.
He’s not looking at me now. He’s looking past me. Somewhere else.
“We all carry it,” he chokes out. “Me, Greyson, J.D., Noelle, Dad. It changed everything.”
His jaw trembles and I see his tears for the first time welling up behind his lids.
He adds, “We O’Ryan’s don’t speak it out loud, but it’s there. The feeling that … something good cost us something we can’t get back.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Witt?” I ask, the words coming out softer than I expect.
I stretch my neck enough to give him a peck on the lips, letting it linger so he knows I care about his trauma too.
“We’ve spent our life walking on eggshells around him,” Parker admits, “Even now, there are conversations we don’t have in front of him.”
I track every expression. He’s vulnerable and sad, but he doesn’t let the pain define him.
“And you think that’s the same guilt I feel?” I ask quietly because Parker did nothing wrong and what I did was a betrayal. I was weak and cowardly.
“No, but it’s a version of it.” Our eyes meet as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Guilt doesn’t have to make sense to exist,” he adds.
That hits harder than anything else he’s said. And I hate that he’s right.
After a moment, he says, “I don’t see you as broken. I see someone who survived something she shouldn’t have had to.”
His explanation settles deep inside me. Because I want to believe him. Believing things has never ended well for me.
I shift, pushing myself up on my elbow, needing space.
“I should go.”
His hand catches mine with cat-like reflexes. “Oh no,” he challenges. “You’re not leaving without a full belly.”
I blink and let out a half-laugh. “What?”
“Since we’ve been talking about my mom, she would be ashamed of me if I let you walk out without feeding you.”
“She might be more ashamed that you’re sleeping with your performance coach and feeding me isn’t necessary.”
He sits up, arms hanging over his knees. “It’s non-negotiable.”
I shake my head, but I don’t argue. Because part of me likes this.
The normalcy.
The ease.
Having someone care about me.
He springs up and slides on his lightweight black sweatpants and I admire the muscles in his back and of course his abs.
“Come down when you’re ready.”
I sit with a sheet wrapped around my body, feeling happier than I have in years. I see one of Parker’s shirts lying on the dresser, so I pick it up, pulling it to my nose, and I slide it over my head, enjoying the lingering scent of his cologne.
The kitchen smells like cinnamon, warm and familiar. Parker moves around the kitchen like he’s fed his guests a hundred times.
“You cook?” I ask, leaning against the counter.
“I have many talents, as you now know.” He throws me a mischievous grin.
“That’s not exactly what I asked. You’re good at deferring.”
He grins and his dimples sink deep when he sees that I have on his shirt and nothing else.
“I can cook French toast. My mom used to sit Noelle and me on the counter, and we would stir the eggs and dip the bread into the mixture. Dad has a picture of us in the kitchen. So I’m not sure if I actually remember it or if the picture is my memory.”
I watch him crack the eggs, whisking them with practiced ease. There’s something so natural about it. Watching him like this.
Not on a field.
Not performing.
Just being him.
He sets up a row of small bowls on the table.
Strawberries.
Blueberries.
Chocolate chips.
Powdered sugar.
“You made a toppings bar?” I ask. “What a host.”
“I’m a man that loves options.”
“Hmm… not sure I like a man with options.” Because I don’t want to be an option.
He plates the first two and hands me the syrup as he leans down and kisses me under the ear. “I love having the option of whether to kiss you, eat you or fuck you.”
My breath catches so hard, I can’t swallow and tingles race through my body. I think I like a little dirty talk.
“That’s thoughtful,” I squeak out. I shake my head smiling like a damn cartoon cat.
I can feel the connection. It’s strong, which is its own problem.
After I dress my French toast, I bite into it. It’s crispy on the outside, fried to perfection and soft on the inside. I’m beginning to see that the outside is what Parker showed me in college and the inside is who he is deep down.
“You put all the toppings on,” he says, like I should only choose one.
“Well, Mr. O’Ryan, I like to have variety.”
“Touché,” he says as he steals a strawberry from my plate.
“Hey that’s mine.”
“I can tell you’re an only child. You want things to fit neatly inside a box and you don’t like to share.”
“I can share,” I say as I feed him another strawberry from my fingers.
He wraps his lips around my fingers and pulls the strawberry with his tongue. “You have a skilled tongue, Mr. O’Ryan,” I let my thoughts slip out unexpectedly.
He wiggles his eyebrows, flashes his smile on high beams, showing his dimples. “Do I?”
My pale skin turns an embarrassing shade of hot pink.
All I can think is how this could end so badly if he finds out the whole truth.
But I’m going to ride this out as long as it lasts.
Maybe, I’ll get to the point where I can say the rest aloud.
I shove these thoughts from my mind, wanting to enjoy our time together.
The sun hasn’t even come up by the time we’ve finished breakfast.
As a professional athlete, Parker has a strict schedule, and I hope I’m not getting in the way. But my first appointment isn’t for a couple of hours still.
He clears our plates, rinses them and loads them into the dishwasher then reaches for my hand. “Want to take a shower?”
“Together?”
“Umm.. yeah,” he says, already leading me to his bedroom.
When we get to his master bath, it’s all dark wood with brass sconces, warm and inviting. He coaxes me into his arms with his smile. “You… wearing my old college shirt does something to me.”
“What does it do?” I ask even though I can feel it against my stomach.