My heart thumps loudly in the space between us, the space that he closes with one step.
“My dad died when I was three,” he says gruffly. “It was a car accident. I have almost no memory of him. I do remember waking up hearing my mom cry at night, though. I remember seeing her face when she couldn’t get me a new pair of skates or a new video game. I remember how she got angry with me when I was roughhousing in the living room once and I put a lamp through the television. She reamed me out good for that.” His expression is rueful rather than angry. “She worked two jobs to make sure I could play hockey, and when I graduate this spring I’m going to take her away from all that hard work. But I also know I want someone to share my life with. My mom’s lonely. I don’t want that for me. And I don’t want that for you either.”
When he kisses me, it’s not anything like our previous encounters. Those were rough, hot, and sexually charged. This kiss is petal-soft and sweet as the syrup he ladles onto his words. It feels like he’s pouring tenderness over my head by the gallon. With each press of his lips against mine, he’s repeating his promise to give me nothing more than what I ask for.
And it’s this kiss. This sweet, tender, thoughtful kiss that scares me more than anything I’ve ever felt.
11
Tucker
A couple days after my talk with Sabrina in the quad, I heave myself off Fitzy’s couch and get ready for a brutally early morning practice. I didn’t plan on crashing at his place last night, but our video game session lasted until two a.m. and there was no point in driving home when we had to wake up at five-thirty for a six o’clock practice.
Fitzy lives alone in a shoebox-sized apartment in Hastings. His “bedroom” is separated from the living room by a curtain he hung from the ceiling. Getting to the tiny bathroom pretty much requires me to climb over his bed.
The big tattooed hockey player is sprawled on his stomach, sleeping like the dead, so I not so nicely smack his ass as I head for the bathroom.
“Wake up, dude. Practice,” I grunt.
He mumbles something unintelligible and rolls over.
I find a spare toothbrush in a drawer next to the sink and tear it open. As I brush my teeth, I scroll through my phone to see if Sabrina texted when my phone was on silent last night.
She didn’t. Damn. I was hoping my speech—and that amazing fucking kiss—might’ve changed her mind about going out with me, but I guess it didn’t.
I do, however, find the most mind-boggling conversation in the group chat I have with my roommates. All the messages are from last night, and they’re bizarre as fuck.
Garrett: The hells, D?!
Dean: It’s not what you think!!
Logan: It’s hard to mistake ur romantic bath with that giant pink thing! In ur ass!
Dean: It wasn’t in my ass!
Garrett: I’m not even going to ask where it was
Dean: I had a girl over!
Garrett: Suuuuuuuuure
Logan: Suuuuuuuuure
Dean: I hate you guys
Garrett: <3
Logan: <3
I rinse my mouth out, spit, and drop the toothbrush into the little cup on the sink. Then I quickly type out a text.
Me: Wait… what did I miss?
Since we have practice in twenty minutes, the guys are already awake and clearly on their phones. Two photos pop up simultaneously. Garrett and Logan have both sent me pics of pink dildos. I’m even more confused now.
Dean messages immediately with, Why do you guys have dildo pics handy?
Logan: ALINIMB
Dean: ??
Me: ??
Garrett: At Least It’s Not In My Butt.
I snort to myself, because I’m starting to piece it together.
Logan: Nice, G! U got that on the first try!
Garrett: We spend too much time 2gether.
Me: PLEASE tell me u caught D playing w/ dildos.
Logan: Sure did.
Dean is quick to object again.
I HAD A GIRL OVER!
The guys and I rag on him for a couple more minutes, but I have to stop when Fitzy stumbles into the bathroom and shoves me aside. He’s got crazy bedhead and he’s buck-naked.
“Gotta piss,” he mumbles.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” I say cheerfully. “Want me to make you some coffee?”
“God. Yes. Please.”
Chuckling, I duck out of the bathroom and walk the four or so steps into his kitchenette. When he finally emerges, I shove a cup of coffee in his hand, sip my own, and say, “Dean shoved a dildo up his ass last night.”
Fitzy nods. “Makes sense.”
I snicker mid-sip. Coffee spills over the rim of my cup. “It really does, huh?”
He gives another nod and chugs the rest of his coffee. I’m already dressed and ready to go, so I leisurely finish my drink while Fitzy dashes around the apartment in search of some clothes.