14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
Celeste
I haven’t worn this skirt since senior year of high school.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s too tight. Too short. Too much.
Which is exactly why I put it on.
The black fabric hugs my hips like it remembers me differently, like I’m still seventeen and reckless and dreaming about college hockey instead of learning how to be a mother.
The top is worse. Low cut. Soft cream fabric that dips just enough to make me hyperaware of my own skin. But my boobs do look fabulous.
I stand in front of the mirror in my tiny bathroom, hands hovering over my waist.
My hair is down for once. Natural curls falling over my shoulders, but I pulled the top half back with a small clip so it doesn’t swallow my face. The look is softer than I expected. Prettier.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Suzie: He’s 122. Steady arrow. Stop checking every two minutes and go have fun.
I exhale.
I already checked twice since she texted that last update. I can access Ro’s numbers on my phone, but how he’s acting and what he looks like tell me more than his numbers ever can.
Being a mom is like having a second heartbeat that lives outside your body. It never stops. Even when you try to. I type back a quick message to her, knowing she's going to tell me to stop and trust her, but she's also a mom and she gets it.
You’re sure he ate all of his snack?
Three dots.
Suzie: Yes, Celeste. I raised three children. Go let that hot hockey man of yours treat you to a fun night.
My throat tightens.
Because I know who she means.
A knock sounds at my door.
My pulse jumps.
I take a steady breath before I open the door.
And when Tate finally lays eyes on me, he does the one thing I didn’t know he was capable of…
Silence.
He’s in dark jeans, a fitted sweater stretched across his chest and arms, hair styled but still slightly messy like he ran a hand through it too many times. His blue eyes drag down my body slowly.
Very slowly.
And the look on his face…
It isn’t hunger.
It’s awe.
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
Heat floods my cheeks. “That bad?”
“Celeste,” he steps forward like gravity is pulling him, voice lower now, rougher, “if you think that’s bad, I’m about to have a serious problem tonight.”
The way he says it makes something in my stomach flip.
His hand hovers near my waist like he wants to touch, but isn’t sure if he should.
“You look…” he exhales, shaking his head. “You look like every fantasy I didn’t know I had.”
My knees actually go weak.
“Don’t start,” I murmur, trying to hide how much that affects me.
“I haven’t even started,” he says softly with a grin to his lips that would make a Nun blush.
And God.
If he gets any closer, I might forget how to breathe.
My phone buzzes again.
I check it immediately.
122 → 118. Slight down arrow.
Tate doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t sigh.
Instead, he leans slightly, glancing at my screen. “Still good?”
“Yeah. Just… trending down.”
“If it drops too fast, we leave,” he says immediately. “No questions.”
The ease in his voice makes my chest ache.
“You don’t mind?” I ask quietly.
“Celeste,” he brushes his knuckles gently along my bare forearm, “your kids’ numbers will always matter more than a party.
He will always matter more than anything else.
I know that’s crazy to say, and I’ve only known him for a short time…
but he’s important to me. You’re important to me.
I don’t even know how to explain it.” He runs his fingers through his hair, like he’s trying to rub some sense into his brain.
But despite none of this making sense, him, me, how we got here. I want to kiss him.
Instead, I lock the door and let him guide me down the stairs.
The music hits before we even open the door to The Hockey House.
Bass shaking through the walls, laughter spilling out into the cold night air, bodies everywhere. The hockey house glows from inside, lights flashing, windows fogged from heat.
This is the place.
Athletes. Cheerleaders. Soccer players. Football. Track. Random frat guys trying to attach themselves to someone important.
Tate laces his fingers with mine before we even step in.
And that small gesture grounds me.
The second we walk inside, heads turn.
Not at me.
At him.
But then…
They look at me.
Whispers ripple.
“That’s Tate.”
“Who’s she?”
“Damn.”
I feel exposed. But not in a bad way.
Tate leans down, lips brushing near my ear. “Stay close.”
“Why?” I tease.
“Because I don’t want anyone thinking you’re available.”
The possessiveness in his tone sends heat straight down my spine.
We move through the crowd until I see Parker and Preston near the kitchen.
Preston’s arms are crossed, expression permanently grumpy, except for his eyes.
They’re not on us.
They’re on a girl in pink.
Long black hair cascading down her back. Pink sweater, pink skirt, pink heels. Laughing brightly at something someone said. She’s beautiful in a soft, glowing way.
And Preston is staring like he forgot how to breathe.
Tate bumps him. “You good, babysitter?”
Preston scowls instantly. “Shut up.”
The girl turns.
Her eyes land on me first.
Then Tate.
Then she grins.
“You must be Celeste,” she says brightly, stepping forward. “I’m Gemma.”
Her voice is warm. Genuine.
“Tate talks about you like you hung the moon,” she adds.
My heart stutters.
“He does not,” I say quickly.
“Oh, he absolutely does,” Parker cuts in with a smirk.
Tate groans. “I hate all of you.”
Gemma laughs, and I notice Preston’s eyes soften again when she does.
Interesting.
“Welcome to the chaos,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Ignore the testosterone.”
I already like her.
At first, I hover near Tate. This is my first ever college party, and the amount of people in here is suffocating.
He introduces me to everyone who comes and says hi to him without hesitation.
“This is Celeste.”
Not “a friend.”
Not “this girl.”
Just my name. But it makes me think, what are we? Am I his girlfriend? Do I want to be his girlfriend? The question lingers in my head longer than it should.
What are we?
Every time someone walks up to him, Tate’s hand finds me again like it’s instinct. My waist. My lower back. Fingers brushing mine. Small touches that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow mean everything.
And every single time, he introduces me the same way.
“This is Celeste.”
Like that alone explains why I’m standing beside him.
Like I matter enough not to need clarification.
The party around us grows louder as more people pile into the house. Music pulses through the walls hard enough to vibrate beneath my heels, and somewhere in the kitchen someone starts yelling about shots.
I should probably feel out of place here.
I’m older than most of the girls squeezed into tiny tops and glossy makeup. My nights usually revolve around bath time and insulin numbers, not hockey house parties and warm vodka hidden in water bottles.
But every time I start to drift too far into my own head, Tate pulls me back without even trying.
He hands me a drink when mine gets low. Checks on me with quiet glances from across conversations. Keeps me tucked close to his side like there’s nowhere else he’d rather I be.
And slowly… the tight knot in my chest begins to ease.
The nerves soften around the edges.
The overthinking quiets.
But as the music shifts and the drinks loosen everyone up, something inside me loosens too.
For once, I’m not just Mom.
I’m not just responsible.
I’m just a girl in a tight skirt at a college party.
Tate pulls me toward the living room, where bodies are already moving to the music.
“You dance?” he asks.
“Center, remember? Footwork’s kind of my thing.”
His grin is sinful.
“Oh, I remember.” He winks, and if he keeps looking at me like that, I might actually cave tonight and let him take complete control.
His hands settle on my hips, warm and steady, pulling me closer until there’s barely any space left between us. The subtle scent of his cologne wraps around me clean with a hint of something deeper, and I inhale without meaning to.
With a gentle shift, he turns me so my back is pressed to his chest. The warmth of him seeps through me, grounding and electrifying all at once. His fingers flex lightly against my waist as we move together with the rhythm of the music.
The room is loud, the bass pulsing through the floor, but all I can hear is my own breathing shallow and unsteady.
I glance back over my shoulder.
Big mistake.
His gaze is darker now, focused and unapologetically intense, like he’s memorizing every reaction. The corner of his mouth lifts in a slow, knowing smile, and the look alone sends a shiver down my spine.
“You’re killing me,” he murmurs against my ear.
My body reacts before my brain can.
I press back into him.
His grip tightens, fingers flexing against my hips as if he’s trying to ground himself. The friction between us is slow at first, teasing, exploratory, but when I move my hips intentionally this time, the shift is unmistakable.
A sharp inhale brushes against the sensitive skin of my neck, warm and unsteady.
“Celeste,” he warns softly.
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. It’s not just a warning, it’s a plea, a question, a thread of restraint hanging by the thinnest margin.
I tilt my head slightly, giving him more access, my pulse fluttering wildly beneath his gaze.
“What?” I breathe, the word barely audible over the music.
His hands tighten for a brief moment before one of them slides upward, resting just beneath my ribs, as if he’s steadying both of us. I can feel the tension in him, the careful control he’s trying to maintain.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice low and rough.
Despite the warning, I don’t pull away.
If anything, I lean back into him just a little more.
His mouth lowers, not quite touching my skin but close enough that I feel it everywhere. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
The bass pounds through us.
His hands slide slightly lower, fingers digging into the curve of my hips as we move together.
It’s not innocent anymore.
It’s deliberate.
Grinding becomes slow, heated friction.
My skirt rides higher.
His hand splays against my stomach, pulling me flush against him.
The tension between us coils tighter and tighter until I’m dizzy with it.
And for the first time in years, I feel wanted.
Not needed.
Not being depended on.
Wanted.
I pull away to breathe. “I need to get a drink,” I say loud enough over the music. A pinch between his brow forms. “I’ll be right back,” I tell him.
His hand lingers at my waist. “Don’t disappear.”
I smile. “I won’t.”
But in reality, if I stay a moment longer, I don’t think I could stop myself from dragging him somewhere to do something reckless.
The kitchen is crowded. I grab a water, trying to cool down.
And that’s when I feel it.
That stare.
Cold.
Burning.
I don’t have to look to know.
But I do.
Brett.
Leaning against the counter, jaw tight, eyes blazing.
Anger radiates off him like heat.
“Really?” he says lowly.
I stiffen. “Not tonight, Brett.”
He steps closer.
“You’re grinding on him in front of everyone, acting like a careless whore?”
“You don’t get to have an opinion.” I want to fight back, but I know what pushing Brett too far does. Brett knows my one and only weakness and uses it against me every chance he gets– Rowen.
His laugh is bitter. “You move on fast.”
Something inside me snaps.
“You left,” I say quietly. “You left me alone, 5 years ago, with our newborn son. So I don’t think this is too fast at all. And again, I don’t need your approval or opinions.”
His jaw ticks.
“You think he knows what you are?” he presses.
“And what is that?” I challenge.
“A single mom with baggage.”
The words hit.
But they don’t break me.
“He knows,” I say steadily. “And he stayed.”
He looks angrier for it.
“Why him?” Brett demands. “Why Tate?”
Because he chooses me.
Because he looks at Rowen like he matters.
Because he doesn’t flinch at responsibility.
Brett’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking as he steps closer, crowding me against the counter. The sharp scent of his cologne mixes with the lingering smell of coffee and grease from the diner, making the air feel suffocating.
For a split second, fear flickers in my chest.
But then a familiar warmth cuts through the tension, steady and grounding.
Tate.
His hand slides calmly around my waist, anchoring me to him. The simple touch sends a wave of reassurance through my body. He doesn’t rush in or raise his voice; instead, he positions himself slightly in front of me, a quiet barrier.
“Y’know,” Tate says, his tone low and controlled, “I’m getting pretty fed up with having to deal with you, Silas.”
Brett lets out a humorless laugh, his eyes narrowing. “Maybe mind your own fucking business, Jackson.”
The way they say each other’s names is like daggers being thrown.
Tate’s grip on my waist tightens just enough for me to notice. “Celeste is my business,” he replies evenly. “And the way you keep showing up, trying to intimidate her. That stops now.” His voice leave no room for question, and gosh my lady bits fly, making me lean into his side even more.
Brett’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Tate, his expression hardening. “You think you know anything about her? About what’s best for Rowen?”
At the mention of my son’s name, my stomach drops.
Tate doesn’t flinch. “I know enough to see that you only show up when it suits you,” he says. “Rowen deserves consistency, not someone who treats him like an afterthought.”
Brett steps closer, the tension between them crackling like a live wire. “Careful, Jackson. You’re stepping into territory that doesn’t belong to you.”
Tate’s posture remains relaxed, but there’s steel in his eyes. “The only territory I care about is making sure Celeste and Rowen are safe. If you’ve got something to say, say it to a lawyer not by cornering her at her job or here at my fucking house.”
For a moment, it feels like the entire party has gone silent, the air thick with anticipation.
Brett exhales sharply, running a hand over his jaw before offering a tight, mocking smile. “This isn’t over,” he mutters, his gaze lingering on me. “Not by a long shot.”
Tate doesn’t respond, simply holding his ground as Brett brushes past him and heads for the front door.
Only then does Tate turn to me, his hand still resting gently at my waist. The hardness in his expression softens instantly.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice now warm and concerned.
I nod, releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I am now.”
Tate turns me gently in his arms. “What did he say?”
“Nothing important.”
His thumb brushes my jaw. “You don’t have to handle him alone anymore.”
That makes my chest ache more, because I know he’s right.
When he pulls me back into him, it’s different now.
My hands slide up his chest slowly.
His breath hitches when I play with the strands of hair at the base of his neck.
“Carefree, remember?” I whisper.
His grin returns. “Oh, I remember.”