Chapter 27 Sean
Chapter twenty-seven
Sean
Mel curled against my chest, warm and soft, her flowery scent wrapped around me.
My stomach growled. She chuckled, and the sound vibrated through me.
I eased off the couch and headed into the kitchen, suddenly aware I hadn’t eaten since lunch.
My appetite and peace had both been knocked sideways by a press conference with too many side effects.
I warmed up leftover grilled chicken and roasted potatoes; the smell of rosemary and garlic filled the kitchen. But that didn’t erase the question at the press conference that had been a punch to the gut. My dad, in rehab, went public. He’d signed an NDA. No one from the facility could have spoken.
I called him after leaving the arena, pacing in the parking lot.
“Yeah, I said something,” he’d admitted it easily. “Your team made it to the Cup, and I’m damn proud.”
“Dad, did you think about what that might do to me?” I’d said through gritted teeth.
“What consequences? I’m proud my offspring turned out better than me. The only consequence is that people know I did one thing right.”
I’d nearly lost it.
There was no reasoning with him. Not about this, and not about most things.
That’s why we didn’t have a relationship—he was self-absorbed.
He’d take something good, twist it until it cut, and call it love.
That blind to the damage. I was a closed-up boundary-built guy, and now his mess was out there, bleeding into the middle of the Cup run I was gunning for.
The microwave beeped. I plated the food, grabbed two lemon tarts from the fridge, and set them on the island.
“Dinner’s ready,” I called softly.
Mel came in, empty glass in hand. “Can I get another?”
I smiled. “Sweet, fruity, with a dash of orange liqueur. Slides down nice, doesn’t it?”
I made her another sangria, and we sat side by side at the kitchen island, eating in companionable silence. The only sounds were the low hum of the fridge and the soft clink of silverware against the plates. We were both lost in thought, but the quiet between us felt shared.
When we finished, I loaded the dishwasher and shut off the kitchen lights. Mel grabbed her overnight bag from near the door where she’d dropped it earlier. Without a word, we headed down the hall.
At my bedroom door, she stopped, eyes fixed on my chest. “Can you hold me tonight?”
My heart slammed into my ribs. I’d never held a woman all night without sex being a possible part of the connection. Especially not one this damn hot who clearly didn’t want a pillow fortress between us.
I took a deep breath. She was vulnerable tonight, so I guess exceptions were allowed. I scanned her face, she kept her eyes on my shirt.
Coach mode activated, I reached for her hand and led her in. My bed could fit three grown men. Tonight, it would hold the two of us, plus all the weight we were carrying.
Mel disappeared into the walk-in closet and came out like a fever dream.
Her matching tank top and cotton shorts—tan with the faintest blush of pink hearts and bows—hugged her curves and showed off those damn legs.
Legs I’d been trying not to think about.
I almost forgot how to breathe, but managed to rein in, willing the sudden tightness to back the hell off.
I forced myself to look away before I said something that would derail the night. She slipped into bed, calm and casual, as if it was another bedtime routine. Only my pulse knew better.
I changed next, slower than usual, trying to reset.
Because holding your emotionally vulnerable, sexy-as-hell girlfriend in your bed all night wasn’t a calm and collected activity.
She’d asked for comfort. I agreed. Then she walked out looking like that, and I was a starving man staring at a buffet I wasn’t allowed to touch.
This was going to be a long night.
I slipped into bed behind her, and she turned, eyes soft.
Her mouth brushed mine, and I kissed her back, heat simmering, restrained but sharp under the surface.
Her fingers found my jaw, her thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, then her palm flattened over my chest. My heartbeat thrummed beneath her hand.
Pressing kisses to her cheek, her temple, the curve by her ear, I hugged her tight and she sighed into me, her breath warm against my neck. Her body relaxed, the slow rhythm of her breathing synced with my pulse, and that was how she fell asleep.
Only then did I finally relax.
Playing human teddy bear was harder than I imagined, having her this close kept me wide awake.
I untangled our legs and pulled back as much as I could.
Then my eyes rested on her face, so vulnerable, so beautiful…
Her mother’s twisted fantasies echoed through my mind (obsession disguised as protection, criticism as care).
“It’s my mom. She sees my life—independent, in love, self-respected, and it burns her.” Her voice had trembled as she said it.
In love!
The words hit with a jolt, threading heat through my chest. She loved me. A truth I’d been waiting to hear, and I missed it in the swirl of her heartbreak.
Mel freaking loved me, and I was toast. Forty years old, divorced, and still getting undone by a woman in cotton shorts. Some things never change.
I pulled her close, burying my face in her hair.
I’d been waiting a long time for this. Maybe since the day she trusted me to guide her across the ice.
Or when she stood her ground with Logan, witty and unshaken.
Or the night she face-planted into my shirt in tears—that night had changed everything.
What mattered now was that we were on the same page.
Mel chose me, on her own terms.
Hell, I’d marry her tomorrow. Giving her my keys had been a hint, and she finally saw the truth behind her mom’s jealousy. It was never about her.
Tonight, she chose to stay. To be here. In my bed.
That wrecked me in the best way.
I was happy to be the place she landed, the guy who was all in, not someone who’d leave her hanging.
Three years alone since Evie’s fling had been too long.
Now, Mel had kicked open a locked door, and I wanted this again and again, every damn night.
I grinned like a fool and drifted off, high on something I hadn’t felt in years.
I stirred awake, morning light filtering through the window. Before my eyes even opened, strands of silky hair brushed my skin, and a blossom scent filled my lungs. Mel.
Peeking through my lashes, I found her hair spilled across my chest, her body tangled around me in warmth and intimacy. My fingers instinctively tucked loose strands behind her ear, memorizing how she slept in my arms.
She shifted slightly, exhaling a soft breath against my neck.
Every morning should be like this. This was my new alarm clock, and I’d gladly fire my old one.
I wasn’t new to love. I’d said vows before, lived through years of commitment, and I knew how it could stretch, bend, and break. But with Mel, it didn’t feel recycled—it felt brand new. Fresh and dizzying, like spring air after a storm, like the flowery scent tangled in my sheets.
One thing was sure: I held a victory in my arms before the Cup.
Problem was that life didn’t pause for that kind of win. One week to the Cup. I was heading to the arena for drills, video sessions, and player meetings, then closing the night with the Eastern Conference decider—Panthers or Hurricanes, whoever we’d face for it all.
I eased out of bed without waking Mel and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. Even with her curled in my sheets, the press question from yesterday still echoed. I searched my name, and of course, there it was.
Stanley Cup Pressure the smart-ass was probably grinning too. The picture of his grin faded fast, because I knew what was really gnawing at me.