8. Chapter Eight #2
My best friend. The guy who pays me two hundred dollars a day to watch his dog. The guy who sits on my rescue's board and saves my budget’s ass at least twice a quarter by making “surprise donations” that just happen to exactly cover somewhere that we’re short on funds.
The guy I've been half in love with for months and too happily-ever-after-isn’t-meant-for-me to do anything about it.
Until last night when bourbon and exhaustion and a year-and-a-half of friendship and more than a year of talking myself out of everything I wouldn’t let myself want made me stupid.
The lobby doors open and the Austin morning hits me with full force. I didn’t finish my coffee. My hair's a disaster. I'm wearing yesterday's jeans and Kevin's sweatshirt and no bra.
The rideshare driver definitely knows what I did last night. I can see it in his rearview mirror glance.
"Rough night?" he asks.
"You could say that."
I make it to Paige's office looking like exactly what I am: a girl doing the walk of shame in someone else's expensive athletic wear.
Paige takes one look at me and her eyebrows rise. First one, then the other.
"Is that Kevin's shirt?"
She works here. She knows they don’t sell this in the team store. She knows this sweatshirt is only for players…and apparently their dog sitters who they sleep with.
"I was cold."
"Uh-huh." Paige is grinning now. Full wattage. "Come on. Lindy's already here with the proofs for the calendar."
I follow her down the hall. Even though we’re just in the office area, the arena is different when it's empty. No game-day energy.
But even without all the noise and routines, this is Kevin's world. This building. This team. This life.
I run a dog rescue and live above a bar. And steal sweatshirts.
Different worlds.
Lindy has everything set up in the conference room, laptop open, pulling up files. She glances up and does a double take.
"Sarah. Hey. You look—"
"Like she didn't go home last night?" Quinn appears in the doorway with a coffee.
"You know, Kevin almost wasn't cleared to play in Vancouver.
His shoulder's pretty fucked. Bruised ribs too.
So that man played through a grade one AC sprain and came home at two a.m. and was still able to... score another goal or two? Damn."
I'm going to die. Right here. Death by girl gang interrogation.
"As a member of the Austin Stampede medical staff, I'm not happy with the extracurriculars." Quinn continues, shaking her head. But she's grinning. "As his friend though? I've gotta say, I'm pretty impressed. Sunshine's down bad. Real bad."
My face is on fire. Actual fire. Someone call the guys with ladders and hoses because I'm about to spontaneously combust in this Paige’s office.
"I went home," I lie. "I just...didn't sleep much."
"Because you were busy?" Paige's smile is knowing.
"Busy working on how I’m going to get a few more dogs off the last chance list before the end of the week."
"In Kevin's clothes?"
I'm saved by Lindy pulling up the first photo. "Okay, before we discuss Sarah's evening activities any further — which we absolutely are discussing later — can we please look at these calendar shots? Because they're incredible."
She's not wrong.
The photos are stunning. Professional. Heartwarming in that "adopt all the dogs immediately" kind of way. There's Tyler with Hercules, both of them mid-frolic. Josh with Daisy, the senior golden, both looking peaceful. Graham teaching his mutt to fist-bump.
And then there's Kevin.
Kevin with Peanut, the shy beagle. He's crouched down to her level, completely focused on the nervous dog. The look on his face is pure gentleness. Pure patience. The same expression he had last night when he pulled me closer and called me his girl.
I feel carbonation running through my veins.
"That one's my favorite," Paige says quietly. "The way he is with her. You can see why he's such a great dog dad."
I can't look away from the photo. Can't stop thinking about how those hands felt on my skin last night. How that voice sounded saying my name.
"Sarah?" Quinn's watching me. "You okay?"
"Yeah. These are just... They're perfect. Paige, this is going to be huge for the rescue."
"That's what I thought." Paige pulls up more photos. "But wait until you see the Ranger shots. I really want you to pick the ones we use. You’re his mom, basically."
The Ranger photos are legitimately magazine-worthy. Him in his jersey on the ice, Kevin skating beside him. The lights catching them perfectly. The arena as their backdrop. Kevin looking down at Ranger with so much affection it makes me struggle to take in a full breath.
"These are going viral," Lindy says. "I'm calling it now. That dog's going to be more famous than half the team."
"Speaking of..." Paige leans back in her chair. "You're coming to Wing Wednesday tonight, right?"
My stomach drops. "Tonight?"
"Yeah. It's Wednesday. The guys got back last night, and it's an off day, so everyone should be there."
Kevin will be there. Looking at me. Knowing what my skin tastes like. Knowing how I move when—
"Sarah?" Paige is staring at me.
"Yeah. Of course. I'll be there."
What else can I say? I live above Overtime. If I don't show up, everyone will know something's wrong. Everyone will know I slept with Kevin St. Clair and now I'm hiding in my apartment like some kind of coward who can't face her friend with benefits.
Except he's not just my friend with benefits. He's Kevin. And that's so much more than anything I can process right now.
Paige and Lindy and Quinn exchange looks. They torture me by not using a single word to convey that they absolutely know something happened and they're just waiting for me to crack.
"Great," Paige says. "Should be fun." She pauses. Grins. "Can't wait to see Sunshine."
She absolutely knows. They all know.
Viva Wing Fucking Wednesday.
I spend the rest of the day at the rescue, chasing dogs and absolutely not thinking about Kevin St. Clair's hands. Or his mouth. Or the way he said "that's my girl" like he meant it.
By five o'clock, I'm back in my apartment, collapsed on my bed, staring at my ceiling.
The water stain shaped like New Jersey is still there. Maybe if I focus on that, I can avoid focusing on anything else.
Okay, just the facts. I can deal with the facts. I can take emotion out of it.
Facts: I got drunk and banged Kevin St. Clair.
More facts: It was fucking amazing.
Which is exactly the problem.
And the fact is, I cannot do it again. Can't risk losing my friends, my income, my rescue's board member and most reliable sponsor just because I discovered that Kevin St. Clair is just as good in bed as he is on the ice.
My phone buzzes.
??Sunshine
Hope you got home okay.
So polite. So normal. Like we didn't—
Yeah, thanks. Photos look amazing btw.
??Sunshine
Can't wait to see them. You should be proud.
We should be proud.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
??Sunshine
Sarah, we should probably talk about last night.
There it is. The conversation I'm not ready to have because talking about it makes it real and real means I have to admit I want it to happen again.
And I’m absolutely not having this discussion over text, analyzing every pulse of the three dots on the screen while I wait for his next response to come through.
Nope.
Not doing that.
And I’m not doing Kevin again, either.
Yeah definitely. At Wing Wednesday maybe? We can step outside after?
I can practically hear him not believing me through the phone. That sounds so fucking stupid. Like we're going to have this conversation on the sidewalk in front of Overtime where anyone could walk by. Where Danny could see us. Where the entire team could watch through the windows.
I'm buying time and we both know it.
??Sunshine
Okay. See you tonight.
I set my phone down. Close my eyes.
I can still smell him on this sweatshirt that I’ve worn all damn day. Still feel the ghost of his hands everywhere on my skin. Still hear every word, every breath, and remember everything about when he came.
This is bad.
This is really, really bad.
Because no matter what I tell myself, I want it to happen again.
Great.
I’ll just go ahead and add that to the list of facts I'm choosing to ignore until they bite me in the ass. Which hopefully won’t be tonight.
But you never know.