Epilogue Juliette
July - Toronto
The hotel room has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
We’re back in Toronto. Not for a game this time, not for anything except us.
Summer before my grad program starts. Before he has to report back for training camp. A week of just being together with no pressure, no schedule, no responsibilities except each other.
Romeo’s in the shower. I’m standing at the window watching the city lights, wearing nothing but his t-shirt.
Playoffs are over. I’m not thinking about how they ended. Not thinking about what comes next for the team. Right now it’s just us.
The bathroom door opens. He emerges in just a towel with wet hair and stops when he sees me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi yourself.” He crosses to me and runs his hands up my sides. “You planning on wearing actual clothes to dinner?”
“Maybe. Haven’t decided yet.”
“We have reservations in an hour.”
“That’s plenty of time.”
“Is it?” His hands slide under the shirt. “Because I’m thinking we might be late.”
I open my mouth to reply but he kisses me, cutting off whatever protest I was about to make.
“We’re definitely going to be late,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“I’m okay with that.”
He walks me backward toward the bed. I pull his towel off and he pulls his shirt over my head and he works his way down my body, taking his time, making me squirm.
“We’re going to miss our reservation.”
“Don’t care.” He’s pressing kisses up my body. Shoulder, neck, jaw. “You’ll be my dinner.”
He’s rolling me over, pulling my hips up, kneeling behind me, but then he stops.
“JuJu.” His voice is strangled. “What the fuck is that?”
“What does it look like?” I say into the pillow, face burning but trying to sound casual.
“It looks like—” His thumb presses slightly and I gasp. “Jesus Christ. You’re wearing a—”
“I thought we might... you know. Since you mentioned it in Calgary.” My voice is muffled by the pillow. “Seemed like good preparation.”
“You’ve been wearing this all day?” He sounds destroyed.
“I’ve been practicing.”
“Please tell me you didn’t get this idea from one of those horrible books the WAGs read.”
“I did, actually. It’s called Icing on the Stick.”
“Oh my God.”
“Or maybe it was Banging the Backup Goalie. I can’t remember.”
“You’ve been walking around Toronto wearing this for me?”
“For us,” I correct. “If you want.”
“If I want?” His laugh is disbelieving. “Juliette, I’m about to lose my fucking mind.”
“So what do you want to do about it?”
“Obviously come immediately from finding out my girlfriend is secretly the filthiest person alive.” His hands run over my ass, down my thighs, back up. “Just open and gorgeous and prepared and mine.”
Heat floods through me at his words.
I wiggle my hips slightly, teasing.
His grip tightens. “Don’t tempt me, JuJu.”
“You want it.” I wiggle again, feeling bold.
“Damn right I do.”
“So take it then.”
There’s silence behind me, his hands go still on my hips.
“Wait, what?”
I look over my shoulder at him. At the expression on his face. Shock, want, disbelief all mixed together.
“You heard me. You want it. Take it.”
“Juliette—” His voice is strained. “Are you sure? Are you actually—”
“Yeah.” I hold his gaze. “I’m ready.”
“Jesus.” He’s breathing hard. “You can’t just—we need to—I need to get—”
“So go get whatever you need.” I’m smiling now, feeling powerful. “I packed stuff in my bag.”
“You—” He stares at me. “You packed—”
“I’ll wait.”
He practically runs to the bathroom. I hear my toiletry bag unzipping, water running, him muttering something I can’t make out.
When he comes back, his hands are shaking slightly.
“You’re sure?” One more time, giving me the out.
“I’m sure.”
“Fuck, I love you.”
“I love you too. Now are you going to keep talking or—”
He positions himself behind me again. His hand runs down my back, his touch is so gentle.
“You tell me if it’s too much. If you want me to stop. Anything. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious, JuJu. I need you to promise.”
“I promise.”
I hear him suck in a deep breath. “Do you trust me, Juliette?”
The question hangs in the air between us.
I’ve trusted him since he held out his hand and insisted his first job as a fake boyfriend was to feed me.
Since the first note he stuck into my makeup bag in Toronto.
Since he flew across the country on a moment’s notice simply because I needed him to.
Since he showed me what it meant to be chosen, to be cherished.
Since he proved that not all men are Garrett.
“With everything,” I whisper.
His breath catches. “Okay, baby. Just breathe for me.”
I close my eyes.
And I do.