Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Lainey
“Do it, Mom!” Ollie orders, his stuffed Ollie tucked under one arm as he dances around the living room. “Do it!”
Grinning, I put my laptop aside and reach for my phone.
“He won’t see it until after the game,” I remind him. “Which means you’ll be in bed. Asleep,” I add pointedly.
“That’s okay!” he says completing his dance. “He should still know we think it’s a good goal!”
It wasn’t just a good goal. It was a beauty of a goal—something I wouldn’t have been able to distinguish before Faye started dating her hockey player.
Before I started dating mine.
Dating.
God, is that what I’m doing?
Well, it’s certainly not all innocent dinners and friendly conversations, that’s for damn sure.
The man’s mouth and fingers—
“Moooom!”
I shake myself, pressing my thighs together to alleviate the ever-present ache that’s been there since Sawyer and I had our first night together.
No, from before that.
From the first time I noticed how sweet and strong and amazing he was.
“Mom—”
I ruffle Ollie’s hair. “I’m working on it, kiddo.”
“No,” he grumbles. “You’re just sitting there staring at nothing.”
“I’m trying to figure out what to type.”
“It’s easy, Mom. Just tell him he did good.”
I smile at him. “You’re right, peanut. It is easy.”
I tap at the screen, hit the little blue button to send the text.
Whoosh!
LAINEY: Ollie says good goal.
“Good job,” he says, patting the top of my head. Then he goes back to dancing around and watching the Grizzlies take on the Cougars.
It’s a back-and-forth battle, mostly because Ace’s brother, Beck, is a force on the ice.
He’s not as showy as Ace, doesn’t have that million-dollar smile and all those sponsorship deals. But he’s fast and he’s strong and he’s freaking tenacious as all get out.
The man does not give up.
Maybe it’s an Ambrose thing.
Maybe it’s just a hockey player thing.
Either way, it makes for an exciting game.
Ollie and I watch and chat (and I do a bit of editing while he does more than a bit of dancing) as the second period winds down.
Intermission means bath time, and then I let Ollie hang out through most of the third period.
He drops off just before the Cougars tie it up and sleeps through my tense observation of regulation time turning into overtime turning into a shootout.
Gray goes first for the Grizzlies, lining up at center ice, waiting for the ref to give him the signal.
Then he shoots forward, scooping up the puck, skating with it in a wide arc before cutting in and—
“Damn,” I whisper when the goalie from the Cougars makes the save.
Then I watch as the Grizzlies goalie prevents a goal.
Rip takes his turn, making an approach much like Gray had…
To similar results.
The Cougars goalie makes the save.
“Damn,” I whisper. And then again, “Damn,” when the Cougars go down and score.
Sawyer skates to center ice as the announcers explain it’s a must-score situation. As if he needs any more pressure, what with the twenty-thousand-odd fans watching him from the inside of the arena, the countless more watching from home just like me.
The whistle trills and he starts forward.
But he doesn’t do that wide, slow arc like Rip and Gray had.
He shoots straight to the net with a speed that takes my breath away.
The goalie comes out to meet him.
And then I don’t even know how to describe what I see next—the puck drops back to Sawyer’s skates and for a second, I think he’s lost control of it. But then he kicks it forward and it’s back on his stick as he cuts sharply to the side and—
I gasp as the puck flies up.
Up. Up.
Home.
“Holy shit,” I whisper as the goal is called and the light goes on and the crowd groans.
How did that happen?
How did he move like that?
But I don’t have time to sit in that because the Cougars still have another chance to score.
“I can’t take this,” I whisper, heart pounding as I watch the player get set up at center ice. I clamp my hands together, lean forward and—
“Yes!” I screech when the Grizzlies goalie makes the save.
Ollie jumps, but thankfully doesn’t wake, and I hold very still as he settles down, burrowing into the couch cushions. I straighten the blanket, tuck stuffed Ollie close, and watch as the post-game show comes up.
And I don’t know if I’m consciously waiting for it as I jot away in my notebook.
But it comes about thirty minutes later.
Buzz. Buzz.
I reach for my phone.
SAWYER: When he wakes up in the morning, tell Ollie thanks.
My heart skips a beat.
LAINEY: How’d you know he’s asleep?
SAWYER: It’s past eight-thirty.
Damn, this man is…dangerous. Thoughtful. Sweet. Aware.
Someone I want in my life.
There. I said it.
“That’s obvious, Lanes,” I mutter. “Considering the last few weeks.”
So why is admitting that equal parts exciting and terrifying?
Because what I could feel for Sawyer, if I only let myself—
Buzz. Buzz.
SAWYER: Are you writing The Book That Shall Not Be Written?
I laugh, my eyes going to my notebook…and the scenes I’m plotting for the rogue book that’s taken over my brain.
LAINEY: Not so much writing as plotting.
SAWYER: Good.
LAINEY: It’s not so good for the deadline I have coming up. But for my soul, it’s been great.
A dashing hero with long blond curls and a physique that rivals Greek gods. A quest for an ancient artifact that will change the world.
Dragons and black magic.
Danger and intrigue and a dark, slightly twisted plot.
Yeah, it’s going to kick ass.
Now what I’ll actually do with it…
That remains to be determined.
SAWYER: I’ll leave you to it. Don’t stay up too late, Pages.
I know if I don’t reply, he’ll leave it at that.
But I just can’t let him go—not quite yet.
LAINEY: I liked your other goal too.
A pause. Then—
SAWYER: You did?
LAINEY: I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone do that with their skates.
SAWYER: Gray showed me how.
LAINEY: I noticed that Gray didn’t actually do that in the shootout.
He puts a laughing reaction on my text.
SAWYER: He made the safe play. I was the one pushing the limits. *a shrug emoji* I got lucky.
LAINEY: I don’t know about that.
SAWYER: I do.
I smooth my thumb over the screen as I read over his words, as they ping around in my brain, as I struggle with what to say next.
I need to go to sleep.
He needs to do all those after the game things hockey players do.
But…
Just a little more time.
LAINEY: Well, lucky or not, it sure was pretty.
SAWYER: That I’ll take. Especially from a pretty lady.
I giggle.
SAWYER: Sorry. That was too cheesy. Even from me.
I giggle again, shake my head.
LAINEY: I like cheesy.
And I like you, I almost type.
Okay, so I do type it.
But instead of sending the message, I just stare at the words for a long moment.
Then I delete them.
SAWYER: I need to hit the showers so I don’t make the bus late. Talk with you soon?
LAINEY: Yeah, honey. Talk with you soon.
Heart full in a way it hasn’t been for years, I sit back and stare off into space, enjoying the feeling, the excitement…the possibilities.
Then I pick up my notebook and go back to The Book That Shall Not Be Written.