Chapter 18 #2
The words sit between us, heavy and real.
He's not asking for forgiveness, merely laying out the broken pieces of himself.
It's clear he expects nothing of me and doesn't expect the kiss to turn into anything else, but he's extending an olive branch in the hope it might mend things between us… and maybe heal me?
"You want to know something?" I hear myself say. "You weren't the only one working from a bad script."
His head snaps up.
"Junior year of high school. My best friend, Caitlin. We were inseparable, co-captains, planning our whole future together," I say. "She systematically destroyed my reputation to steal my captaincy, using every secret I'd told her as ammunition."
His eyes widen. "Jesus, Morgan."
"She was jealous of the attention I was getting from college recruiters, so she eliminated the threat." I force myself to meet his eyes. "I should have had the golden ticket to any college I wanted, but instead I spent senior year as a pariah, and I had to work my way up from Division 3."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "You learned that trust was a luxury you couldn't afford."
I nod. "Then I met you at that summer camp. For two weeks, you made me feel normal. Like maybe Caitlin was the exception, not the rule." My voice catches. "And then you turned it all into a punchline, and proved that letting people in was the stupidest thing I could do."
He looks physically ill. "I had no idea."
"How could you? I was eighteen and trying so hard to seem OK." I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "Turns out we were both dragging matching wounds around, and that we're a perfectly damaged pair who happen to be good at hockey."
"So what now?" Rook asks, and for once, he looks completely lost.
"Our teams need us working together."
"I know." His voice is rougher now.
"And Galloway's gunning for you now." I shrug. "Welcome to the club."
He pauses. "Worth it though."
The simple statement sends heat pooling low in my belly. I shift in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of him across this tiny table. His eyes track the movement, and I catch myself wondering what those hands would feel like sliding up my thighs, spreading them wide.
What that smart mouth could do if he put it to better use than jokes. The ache between my legs intensifies, and I press my knees together hard, but my underwear is already damp. Christ, I need to get out of here before I do something monumentally stupid like climb into his lap.
"The scheduling," I blurt out, returning to safer ground even though it feels like quicksand. "We split ice time and manage the locker room more efficiently."
He smirks. "You mean time it so we're not running into each other when we're half dressed?"
"Exactly." I pull out my phone like it's armor. "I'll ask Mills to coordinate with Schmidt."
"That works." He's quiet for a moment. "What about… us… outside of hockey team stuff?"
"There is no us outside of hockey team stuff…"
"That's not true, and you know it."
I look up. His eyes are warm and full of something dangerous that looks like hope. It's the same look I recognize from that hockey camp in our senior year, when I'd given him everything and hoped he'd be worth it, and now it has me tempted to be tempted again.
"It has to be true," I say, finally, drawing from the last reserves of willpower I have left. "We both have too much at stake."
He nods, but I can see the effort it costs him. "If you're sure…"
The way he says it makes me want to reach across this wobbly table and grab his hand, but I don't. Because I'm a coward too, who hides away in her emotional fortress, every bit as emotionally stunted as him.
Because the last time I reached for something beautiful, it burned me, and I'm not sure if I'd survive that again.
"I should go," I say, standing abruptly. "Team meeting."
"On a Saturday?"
"Yeah…"
He knows I'm lying, but doesn't call me on it. "Morgan," he says. "The camp… with you… it meant everything, even if I was too scared to show it. I'm sorry."
I freeze, my hand on my bag. Three years of anger cracks open, revealing something softer underneath—something terrifying—and so I turn to leave, needing to escape before I do something stupid, like forgive him or admit I already have.
But as I glance back at him and see the look on his face, I realize he doesn't deserve the hurt of me walking away without acknowledging what he'd said. So I turn back and reach out for his hand, taking it for just long enough to say two little words.
"I know," I say quietly.
The contact is nothing—just his hand against mine—but it's electric. The memory floods back: his mouth on mine, his body caging me against the wall, full of desire, and how close we'd been to tearing each other's clothes off right there.
And as my nipples tighten and that space between my thighs throbs, I can see he's remembering too. His breathing has changed, and as his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, for a horrifying second I think he might kiss me right here in front of half the students on campus.
For an even more horrifying second, I want him to.
But then I yank my hand away. "Team meeting," I say, breathless.
"Sure," he agrees, sounding equally wrecked.
I flee, weaving through tables too fast, nearly taking out guitar-guy's amp. The bell chimes my retreat, and I practically sprint to my car. Once inside, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, even though my hand still tingles and my whole body feels one breath away from combustion.
This might be forgiveness, but it sure as hell isn't resolution.
So, for now?
Separate schedules. Professional distance. A careful détente.
It's the smart play. The safe play. The only play that doesn't end in pieces.
So why does it feel like I'm already breaking?