Page 24 of The One Timer

It takes a long time to settle down, for my muscles to unwind, my breathing to normalize, and hers, too. When it does, I lift myself off her and slide from inside her to take care of the messy condom. Shit. There’s no graceful way to do it, not that I would normally care.

“I’ll be right back.” The minute I leave the warmth of her closeness, her connection, the jolt of cold hits me, more than a drop in temperature, but a loss of…something.

After I wash up, I return quickly, and she uses the bathroom. I briefly consider suggesting we shower together, but the night is young, and we should wait until the morning for our shower—because I plan to take advantage of every minute with her and spend it naked together and connected, skin-to-skin, soul-to-soul.

Wait—what?

She comes back to the bed and stands before me in all her naked glory, but she doesn’t jump into bed. My gut sinks, and I lift the covers for her, gesturing with a nod of my head, an invitation for her to rejoin me. She stands still, considering me for a beat, our eyes staring, and fear that she wants to leave delivers a punch to my gut.

My heart starts thudding hard again, but then she lowers herself onto the bed and tucks into my side under the covers.

“What was that about?” I dare to ask.

“Disbelief,” she says matter-of-factly. “I can’t believe I’m here with you tonight. It’s like I really am Cinderella—which means we need to watch out for the clock, Prince Charming.”

I pull her into me, holding my arms around her while she’s on her back and I’m on my side.

“Don’t worry about the clock.” I should tell her I’m changing my mind about that clock and the one-night-only rule, but not now. “Tell me something about yourself, about your family.”

She turns to me, her eyes sad and open, drinking me in, and that intimate connection between us travels so deep that I feel her pain. She doesn’t ask me why I want to know, and I’m glad since I don’t know what I’d tell her or what the truth is.

“I lost my mother when I was fifteen. I’m on my own.” A beat of deeply felt silence passes while I absorb what it means to her, the familiar pain of loss and sorrow for her obliterating my own deep-seated loss.

Gathering her in my arms tighter than before, I kiss her face lightly, all over, until I reach her lips, meaning to heal her too by imparting my empathy without words because I don’t have any.

“What about your father?” I whisper.

“I never knew him. I was a baby when we lost him. My mom loved him and always told me what a brave man he was. He was a special operations soldier and died on assignment.”

“That’s tough. It must’ve been tough growing up without a dad. I was practically glued to my dad’s side. It seems like we spent our life at the rink together.” Until we didn’t, but I’m reluctant to talk about the loss of my parents after she’s revealed her loss, as if I’d be stealing her sorrow and replacing it with mine.

“Are you still close?” Her eyes shine with compassion as if she knows it’s a tough question. But the subject is no tougher for me than it is for her, so I suck it up.

I shake my head. “You and I have that in common. I lost my dad when I was thirteen. Both my parents at once in a car crash.” I hold the automatic blow to my soul at bay, the invasion of memories like relentless movies from my past, the sound of the ambulance’s sirens, the flashing lights.

All of it bangs against the walls of the vault where I keep those memories, like a vicious beast trying to escape, trying to eat me alive. When my heart starts drumming, and sweat pops out on my forehead, I’m ready to leap out of bed—but she touches me.

Her hand brushes my forehead, and she whispers in my ear, her voice soft and soothing—and sexy as hell. Fuck. Am I going to be saved from a panic attack by my out-of-control lust for her?

“I’m sorry, Chase. You’ve had so much loss. No one deserves what you went through. Let’s not talk about it.” She pauses, caressing, and then she kisses me softly on my lips, like a promise.

Shifting back, she says, “Let’s talk about hockey. You’re so driven. How did you get so interested in hockey?”

“That started with my dad and grandpa taking me to Brawlers games since I could walk. Our family has owned the season tickets to those seats for four generations.”

“Wow. That’s true dedication. You must be disappointed that you’re not playing for the Brawlers.”

“There’s not a single disappointing thing about playing in the NHL—aside from my parents and grandpa not seeing me.”

“Oh, they’re watching you, Chase. They’ll always be with you through everything. That was the promise my mom made to me before she passed, and I just know your parents and grandpa are doing the same.”

I nod, too choked up to speak. This is crazy. It has been years since I’ve shed a tear over my parents. But then, when my grandpa died last year, all the grief that had been locked down surfaced with a vengeance.

Her gaze softens. “I’m sorry. We seem to keep coming around to the subject of our losses even when I try to change the subject.” She strokes my cheek, then moves her hand down my chest and ribs. I’m too distracted to tell her it’s okay because somehow it is. I know she knows how I feel. We share that deep sense of loss, and it makes sense how drawn I am to her.

“I know—let’s talk about hockey,” she smiles as if it’s a novel idea, and I laugh. “Better yet, let’s talk about what else you do besides hockey.”

“Bait and switch? Really?”