Page 136 of Twisted Needs

Relief floods through me because hearing him say it out loud somehow makes it less terrifying. “I know that probably sounds insane…we haven’t even really⁠—”

“No, I’ll come with you.”

My breath catches. “You will?” I mutter, blinking. “You’d follow me?”

He smiles softly. Tenderly. “If you want me to come with you, then I’ll come with you,” he tells me. “Because I love you and I don’t want to be apart.”

He says all of this like it’s the most simple thing in the world…

Maybe that’s the goal here. A love so strong it’s simple and uncomplicated.

“Parker,” I breathe, my chest aching. “What did you say?”

His expression hardens a little, but there’s still no difficulty in voicing it. “I love you, Anderson.”

“You love me,” I echo to myself, flicking my eyes up to him. “You’re in love with me?”

He brushes my hair out of my face and caresses my cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m so fucking in love with you.”

The room goes completely still. I just stare at him, blinking. It’s not just the declaration that hits me, though. It’s the fact that he said it first on his own complete volition. And for some reason—maybe the best reason—there isn’t an ounce of doubt in me. He loves me. I believe it. Love isn’t an obligation. That’s what he told me all those years ago…

“It feels right.”

I let out a deep, shaky breath, my mouth slowly pulling into a grin. “It does.”

His fingertips skim over my arm. “Don’t say it back until you’re ready, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, tucking my head against his shoulder. I slide my hand up his chest.

The scariest part of all of this isn’t that I know I love him. I’ve always loved Parker. He’s always been mine. It’s the fact that everything is so much more complicated. This isn’t as simple as whether Parker wants to be with me. That’s in the rearview.

Now we have to figure out what happens next.

CHAPTER 36

YOU GOT LAID

PARKER

“Practice is canceled, everyone,” Rogers announces through a megaphone he absolutely should not have access to. “Coach said we can all go home and pursue our dreams.”

He gets whacked in the ass with a hockey stick almost immediately. “Ow—Jesus Christ,” he yelps, whipping around.

Matty lowers her stick slowly, fully unbothered. “Get your ass on the ice before I make you bag skate until you throw up.”

“You’re a mother now,” Rogers says dramatically, rubbing his backside. “How would you feel if somebody hit your babies with a hockey stick?”

“I’d probably ask what they did first.”

A few guys laugh as Rogers skates away muttering under his breath.

The rink smells like cold air, sweat, and sharpened steel. Sunday morning practice after a six-game losing streak has everybody dragging ass, and the mood around the team has been tense enough lately that even the music blasting through the speakers can’t really lighten it.

Matty stands beside the bench with one of her twins strapped to her chest in one of those baby carriers that looks deeply unsafe for a hockey environment. “Take the baby,” she tells me.

“Are you even supposed to be here?” I ask, nudging her shoulder lightly when she hands the newborn over.

“Support the head, Morozov,” she snaps automatically. “Look at Bish. That’s how you hold a baby.”