Chapter Four #2
I saw curves, and soft skin, and peaks of flesh tipped with the same soft pink that matches the color of her lips. I saw a full mouth formed in a shape that I’ve imagined around my cock one too many times, and wide eyes I’ve spent years picturing staring up at me as I slammed into her.
I saw a woman who I’ve always thought was the prettiest damn person I’d ever seen because of her golden heart and spitfire personality. But yesterday, I’d gotten to witness her in a way I’d never thought I ever would.
Belle is not just a body.
She never will be.
I look away from her before she sees the tic in my jaw. The smartest thing to do is forget about it. To move on. To pretend like yesterday, and this morning, never happened at all. It’s better for the both of us if we continue to coexist in the same space and have family meals.
Because isn’t that what we are? Family.
Before I can process what I’m doing, I push up from my seat and walk over to her. “Fine. We can forget about it.”
She peers up at me with those big doe eyes lined with thick lashes as if she can hear the ‘but’ in my voice.
I lean in and brush my mouth against the edge of her cheek, almost touching the shell of her ear as I whisper, “But you should know that I’ve never seen another body as beautiful as yours, baby girl.”
The sharp inhale of breath I hear from her makes it hard to hide the wavering upturn to my lips.
I reach around her and open the fridge, grabbing a water and stepping back to give her some space.
That pink hue that was in her cheeks spreads down her face, reddening her ears and neck as a glassy glaze takes over her eyes. Does the color spread to other places?
Just as I’m about to turn away to head upstairs, I notice the slightest hard peaks through her shirt that tells me she’s as impacted by me as I am her.
Her lips part, as if she wants to say something. She doesn’t—whether because she can’t or doesn’t trust herself to let the words out, I’m not sure. I’d love to know what’s going through her mind, but it’s better left unsaid.
I know I’m not being fair, but I had to let her know that she should never downplay herself like that. Never when I’m around to correct it.
“I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” I tell her, choosing to do exactly what we agreed on.
Forget about it.
But mentally, I snort.
Because we both know it’s not that easy.
Especially not when I know what she sounds like when she’s coming.
*
The next day flies by as we arrive to the stadium in our best suits getting photographed by the team’s social media manager and answering the random question of the day that gets posted to their online accounts like every game day.
It’s tradition at this point, and nobody can fault the PR reps for not wanting to break it and risking our winning streak.
I barely register the camera being pointed in my direction as Taylor, the new intern, asks, “Hi, Clarkson!”
I flash her a smile, knowing there’s a question going to follow.
It started as a trend that they saw other professional teams post—asking the athletes different things to get to know us better.
The camaraderie that some of the questions bring seems to have built our following, especially when they incorporate fan’s questions.
Apparently, today is one of those days. “I have a viewer question. @MariaVanBuren89 wants to know what the players favorite candy is.”
That explains why I heard Moskins and Head arguing about whether Reese’s or Snickers are better before disappearing inside.
I’m not a sweets person, but I answer the first thing that comes to mind thanks to the girl who keeps a sugar stash in every corner of the house as if I don’t know about it. “Hershey kisses.”
Belle will randomly appear in the living room, office, or the home gym holding the little foiled chocolates. Even when I’m lifting weights or running on the treadmill, she’ll extend the offering out to me with a big smile on her face. And I take them. Every single time.
“Dude,” someone says behind me, clasping my shoulder. I turn to see Jackie Dawson, one of our defensemen, standing there. “A Hershey kiss is so boring. You should have said a Sour Patch Kid or something interesting.”
“Then I’d be lying,” I point out, as if I’m not already giving a half-truth. I suppose if Belle came to me with those nasty ass gummies, I’d probably eat them too. I’m convinced I’d drink poison if she was the one serving it.
Taylor grins at us. “Are Sour Patch Kids your favorite, Dawson?”
The interest flashing in Dawson’s eyes tells me candy isn’t what he wants to be talking to Taylor about. His mischievous grin makes me feel like I’m intruding on something I want zero part of.
“What is your favorite candy, Tay?” he asks, one of his dimples popping out as his smile spreads.
I’ve heard a few fans screaming about that dimple the same way they do about my scar.
I could have gone a lifetime without knowing that there are fan pages dedicated to each, but Belle always likes to read me some of the posts when I’m decompressing in the living room with her. “Maybe I can buy you some.”
I hook an arm around Dawson’s neck and tug him toward the entrance. “Let’s go, Casanova. We’ve got a game.”
“Later, Tay,” he calls out, laughing when my grip on him tightens. I don’t let him go until we’re through the doors. “A little flirting never hurt anyone, Cap. You should try it sometime.”
I shoot him a look. “Taylor is young and new. Her position here isn’t permanent, but it could be. Better not to threaten that.”
He frowns. “How would I do that? We’re two consenting adults. If something happens, it’s not the end of the world.”
I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole. “I take it you and Head are up to date on the one-three-one forechecking tactic. Hoffman said he showed you some of Pittsburgh’s game tapes from last season. They like to play the neutral zone. If they think we know that pattern, they’ll switch up.”
He nods, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. “Coach already mentioned that he wants to use me to pressure them to pass, and Head knows he needs to keep an eye out on the passing lane to block. We’ve got it, Cap. We’ve done it in practice plenty of times.”
It’s one thing to go against your own during drills. But I know some of the players on my old team well. They’re fast and they’re ruthless. It’d be a blow to break our winning streak against Pittsburgh tonight, even if part of me would find them a worthy opponent to lose to.
He pats my back and starts walking away. “Quit stressing. Eat a Hershey kiss or something.”
The amusement in his tone has half my lips curling up, and I can’t help but shake my head as I follow him to the locker room to get ready.
The rituals of game day never change. We’re all plenty superstitious about our routine so we don’t throw anything out of balance.
We get interviewed, take some pictures, and then come back to the locker room to change.
Coach will say a few words, maybe make a speech to amp us up, and then we head out to face the other team when our walk out song starts.
There isn’t one day when I don’t get an adrenaline rush when I hear the crowd get louder and louder as we skate onto the ice and our faces are blown up on the jumbotron.
But it’s nothing in comparison to when the friends and family suite is shown and the people we care about are on display, waving and cheering and smiling as we get into formation.
My eyes lock on Belle’s as she and her mother point at each other’s Clarkson jerseys before the camera pans over to my dad. He lifts his beer, making the men in the crowd get louder and mimic him with their own drinks.