Page 46 of Playing it Safe

And I look, and I want, and the wanting is so big it crowds out everything else in my skull. I want to slide that skirt up her thighs. I want to feel her muscles tense under my hands. I want to hear the sound she makes when she tips over the edge, and I want to be the reason, not a timer on a phone, not a voice through a speaker, but my hands and my mouth and the full weight of my body on hers.

The flight attendant passes, and I cross my legs.

My family’s texts sit unread below Briar's photos. My mother wants to know when I'm coming to Boston for the summer. Patrick sent a picture of his parking ticket, for some reason, as though I could fix it from thirty thousand feet. Ian needs money. Nicky sent seventeen emojis that I think mean I miss you.

I love them. I love them so much it sits in my gut like ballast. And this is the part that terrifies me — I felt this before. This pull toward a woman, this sense of a life assembling itself around me. My family went all in, and when it fell apart, they lost her, too. I can't break them again. I can't hand them Briar and then have to explain that she's gone because I'm too much, too intense, too savage for anyone to stay.

Except Briar isn't Lisa Marie. Briar checks women into the boards for a living. Briar knelt beside me on a bed, matching me breath for breath. Briar sent me a photo of her thighs and expected me to survive.

The plane shakes — turbulence, or maybe the landing gear. I pull my phone from the seat pocket and look at the last photo again. Her face. That expression. The defiant certainty of a woman who has just learned what she's worth.

I type:

Landing soon. Leave the light on for me.

Three dots. Then:

Puck and I will be waiting up.

The fuck does that mean? Is she my roommate checking on my safety or is she waiting impatiently for me to tear her apart? I pocket the phone and lean my head against the window and accept that I'm in very serious trouble.

The hallway light is on when I let myself in. I set my bags down quietly and hear the TV — game film, the low murmur of commentary — playing in the living room.

Briar is asleep on the couch. She's wearing leggings and a T-shirt — mine, a faded Celtics one — and her hair fans across the cushion. Puck is on her chest, curled into a perfect circle, with one paw draped across her collarbone.

The cat opens one eye, unimpressed. I swear to god he smiles.

The TV flickers over both of them, and I stand in the dark, looking at a life I didn't know I wanted.

I crouch beside the couch. "Briar." I keep my voice low. "Hey. You fell asleep."

She makes a sound — half groan, half mumble — but doesn't open her eyes. I know she must be sore from practice, and I know it’ll be worse for her if she sleeps the whole night on this couch. I can’t have her showing up sore for the most important game of her career. Puck lifts his head in protest as I slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. He skitters away with a hiss.

Her eyes snap open as I lift her. "Cameron — what are you — I’m ...”

"I'm taking you to bed."

"I'm too heavy." She says it fast, automatically, like it's some sort of fact. A reflex built from years of being bigger than expected.

I look down at her. She's solid in my arms — muscle and bone, the dense, powerful body of a woman who throws checks for a living. I feel the weight of her thighs across my forearm, the breadth of her shoulders against my chest. She is not light, but I’m no weakling.

"You weigh exactly what you should," I tell her. "I could carry you up these stairs ten times without setting you down. So stop arguing and let me take you to bed."

She searches my face. Her lips part. Her body relaxes, like I’m safe. She lets her head rest against my shoulder, her arm wraps around my neck, and she lets me carry her.

Puck trots ahead up the stairs like he's leading a parade.

I carry her into her bedroom, set her down on the mattress, and pull the blanket over her. I'm about to straighten up when her hand catches my wrist.

"Stay."

The word is quiet. She's looking up at me in the dark, hair spread across the pillow, eyes alert. She's not half asleep anymore. She knows what she's asking.

"Briar."

"Just ... stay. Don't go to the guest room."

I sit on the edge of the bed. Her hand stays on my wrist, her thumb pressed against my pulse point. She can probably feel how fast my heart is beating.