Chapter 9 Marnie #2
“So answer it,” Elliot says.
“It’s Roman.”
The room goes silent.
I sink into the couch cushions, praying for death.
“Why is Roman here?” Elliot asks slowly.
“He says Coach wanted him to bring me a puck?”
“A puck.” Her voice is flat.
“A special puck.”
“Brody Carter, if you orchestrated—”
Roman appears in the living room entrance, looking deeply uncomfortable. He’s holding a completely normal puck.
“Coach said you needed this,” he tells Brody, then his eyes find mine. “Dr. Walker.”
“We were just discussing shower logistics!” Sarah announces brightly. “Marnie was providing medical insight.”
“I wasn’t—”
“She mentioned your thigh tattoo,” Chloe adds helpfully.
I’m going to murder everyone in this room.
“My thigh tattoo?” Roman asks, and there’s definite amusement in his voice. “Is that relevant?”
“Everything’s relevant at book club,” I mumble into my wine.
“Well if it’s for book club,” Roman says, and then—oh God—he’s walking over to the couch. “You all seem very interested in the constellation.”
He props his foot on the coffee table and pulls up his shorts until the full tattoo is visible.
I’ve never seen anything beyond glimpses during PT—we work on his shoulder, not his legs—and the constellation wraps around his quad, disappearing under fabric at a point that makes my mouth go dry.
The room goes completely silent.
He’s casually standing there, like he hasn’t just exposed most of his thigh to five increasingly feral women. “The coordinates underneath are from my hometown.”
“That’s...” Sarah starts, then stops.
“Higher than I expected,” Goldie finishes.
“The tattoo or the shorts?” Chloe asks.
“Yes,” Elliot and Sarah say in unison.
I’m frozen, wine glass halfway to my mouth, because those stars curve up and inward toward—
“Medical thoughts, Doc?” Roman asks, and when I look up he’s watching me with an expression that’s pure challenge.
“I... that’s not... we don’t work on legs in shoulder rehabilitation—”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Brody bounds up from the basement. “We’re showing tattoos? I have tattoos!”
Before anyone can respond, he’s pulling his shirt over his head with one hand.
“See? This one’s a phoenix!” He twists to show the elaborate design that starts at his right pec, curves over his shoulder, and flows down across his shoulder blade.
“Got it after my first season when I thought I was getting sent down but made the roster instead.”
“We know, baby,” Elliot says, but her voice has gone soft. “You tell everyone that story.”
“Because it’s a good story!” He flexes unnecessarily. “And look, the flames connect to this part—”
“Very impressive,” Elliot stands and steers him toward his shirt, but not before trailing her fingers lightly over the ink on his shoulder. “But you’re supposed to be in the basement.”
“But Roman’s here—”
“With his special puck,” she reminds him.
“Right. The puck.” Brody grins at Roman. “Super important puck.”
“Critical,” Roman deadpans.
“Life-changing,” Brody agrees, pulling his shirt back on. “We should probably go... examine it. Downstairs. Away from here.”
They disappear, but not before Brody winks so obviously at me that I want to throw my wine glass at him.
Two hours and three more glasses of wine later, the discussion has devolved into ranking hockey players’ Instagram thirst traps.
“Roman doesn’t have Instagram,” Chloe points out.
“Because he’s above thirst traps,” Sarah says.
“He has that whole brooding captain thing,” Goldie adds. “Very mysterious.”
“Very boring,” Elliot counters. “No social media presence at all.”
“I like it,” I say, then realize everyone’s staring at me. “What? It’s refreshing. No curated workout videos or sponsored protein powder posts.”
“You’ve looked for his Instagram,” Sarah accuses.
“For medical purposes.”
“What medical purpose requires Instagram?”
“Checking for... form issues in posted workout content.”
“And when you couldn’t find his account?”
“I was relieved. Medically.”
Roman chooses that moment to reappear from the basement. “Brody’s trying to prove he can do a backflip on his new mat.”
“Christ,” Elliot mutters. “I should probably—”
A crash from below.
“I’m okay!” Brody’s voice carries up.
Elliot sighs. “I should go check. Make sure he hasn’t broken anything expensive. Or himself.”
She heads downstairs.
Roman looks at me, and I realize I’ve been staring.
“I should probably head home,” I say, standing carefully.
“I’ll drive you,” Roman says immediately.
“I drove here.”
“You’ve had four glasses of wine.”
“Three and a half.”
“Marnie.” The way he says my name makes the argument die in my throat.
“Let me get my things.”
The goodbyes are full of knowing looks. Sarah hugs me and whispers, “That man showed you his entire thigh for no reason. Think about that.”
“Text us when you get home!” Chloe calls as Roman guides me out with his hand barely touching my lower back.
The truck is stupidly high. I stare at it, calculating the physics of entry in a dress.
“I’ve got you,” Roman says, and then his hands are on my waist, lifting me easily onto the seat.
For a moment, I’m looking down at him, my hands on his shoulders for balance. His hands are still on my waist.
Neither of us moves.
“Seatbelt,” he says finally, voice rougher than usual.
He reaches across to buckle it, and I’m surrounded by him. His warmth, the smell of his soap, the way his hand brushes my hip.
“Address?”
I give it to him, proud that my voice only shakes a little.
We drive in silence for a few minutes before I break.
“You didn’t have to show them your tattoo.”
“They seemed interested.”
“You pulled your shorts up really high.”
“Did I?”
“You know you did.”
He glances at me. “Did you mind?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“Which is it?”
“I’m drunk.”
“You’re tipsy.”
“I’m confused.”
“About?”
“About why you really came to Brody’s. About why you’re driving me home. About that tattoo and where it goes and why I can’t stop thinking about—”
“Marnie.”
“What?”
“You’re saying all of that out loud.”
Oh my God.
“There was a lot of wine.”
“And a lot of romance novels,” he adds, but there’s something in his voice that makes me look at him. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
“Did you really come for the puck?”
“No.”
“Why then?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer.
“Brody said you were there. Said you looked happy. I wanted to see that.”
“You wanted to see me happy?”
“You’re always tired at the facility. Always worried about something. Tonight you were laughing.”
“And?”
“And I liked it.”
The admission hangs between us, filled with meaning I’m not sober enough to fully process.
Roman pulls into my building’s parking lot and cuts the engine.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Thanks for driving me,” I say, reaching for the door handle.
“Wait.”
He’s out of the truck before I can respond, coming around to my side. When he opens my door, I’m reminded of just how high up this truck sits. And how tall he is.
He offers his hand to help me down and when I’m standing on the running board we’re almost at eye level. I can see the moment he makes his decision. His eyes flicker down to my lips, then back up, pupils dilated in the parking lot lights.
“Marnie,” is all he says before he’s lifting me slightly, pressing me back against the cold metal of the truck door.
No hesitation. No asking. Just his mouth on mine like he’s been thinking about this for weeks the same way I have.
The muscles of his shoulders are knotted with tension under my hands as he holds me steady, all that famous control coiled tight. He kisses with the same control at first, measured, almost testing, but when I bite his bottom lip—not hard, just enough—everything changes.
That sound he makes, low and involuntary, vibrates through both of us and suddenly his control isn’t quite so controlled anymore.
His hand slides into my hair while the other grips my hip, thumb finding that hollow above the bone that makes me gasp into his mouth.
My fingers find the tendons at the back of his neck, that spot where tension always collects in athletes, and when I press there he groans and pushes closer, one thigh sliding between mine as much as our position allows.
When he angles my head to deepen the kiss, I can feel his pulse racing under my fingertips. As fast as mine, maybe faster.
He breaks away only to trail his mouth down to my jaw, and there’s the rasp of stubble against my skin that sends heat straight through me.
“Fuck,” I breathe, and I feel him smile against my neck.
“Been wanting to do that since you called me out for adding weight to my workouts,” he murmurs, voice rough, then catches my earlobe between his teeth and my knees actually give out.
His arm bands around my waist, those hockey reflexes keeping me upright, keeping me close.
The parking lot could be full of people for all I care. There’s just Roman’s mouth on mine again, harder now, kissing me like he’s trying to make up for weeks of restraint in this one moment.
When he finally pulls back, I’m gripping his shoulders just to stay standing. My lips feel swollen and oversensitive. Through my palms I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his muscles are bunched with tension like he’s physically holding himself back from doing more.
My legs are unsteady—some combination of the height differential and what just happened—and he keeps his hand on my lower back as we walk to my building. The heat of his palm burns through my dress, grounding me when I feel like I might float away.
At my door, I fumble with keys that suddenly seem impossibly complicated while he stands close behind me. Not touching, but I can feel the warmth radiating off him and my hands won’t stop shaking.
The lock won’t cooperate. I can hear his breathing, still not quite steady.
The lock finally clicks and I turn to face him, back against my door frame.
“Do you want to—”
The words die as he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with deliberate slowness. His fingers trail down from there, barely grazing along my jaw, then across my collarbone. So light I shiver.
He watches the path of his fingers like he’s memorizing it, and when his eyes finally meet mine again, they’re dark with want but also something else.
Resolve.
“See you Monday, Marnie.” He says softly, like saying those words costs him something.
His hand drops, and he takes a step back.
Then he’s walking to his truck with that athlete’s gait, all controlled power, leaving me standing in my doorway with an unfinished invitation on my lips and my skin still burning from that barely-there touch.
Inside, I lean against the closed door, fingers automatically going to my lips where I can still feel the pressure of his.
My whole body feels like every nerve ending is firing at once.
My hair is wrecked. I can feel where his fingers tangled in it.
And tomorrow there will definitely be marks on my hips from where he gripped me.
What the hell just happened?
My legs are still shaky as I make my way to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror.
I look thoroughly kissed. Swollen lips, flushed cheeks, hair a disaster.
I look like someone who was just pressed against a truck and kissed within an inch of her life by a professional hockey player who’s apparently been thinking about doing exactly that.
My phone buzzes.
Roman
Sweet dreams, Doc.
I stare at the words, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. What do I even say to that? Thanks for the life-altering kiss? My legs still don’t work properly? I tried to invite you inside and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed that you didn’t let me finish that sentence?
I finally settle on the simplest answer.
Night Captain.
Two words that feel safer than everything else I want to say.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately wonder if that was too casual, too flirty, too something.
God, Monday.
How am I supposed to do Monday? How am I supposed to walk into that training facility and pretend my entire world didn’t just shift in a parking lot?
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every second. The way he looked at me in the truck. The sound he made when I bit his lip. The deliberate slowness of that final touch at my door.
“See you Monday, Marnie.”
Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was giving me time to think about it.
Like he was torturing us both on purpose.
I roll over, punching my pillow, trying to find a position where my body stops humming with leftover adrenaline and want.
Monday.
I’m so screwed.