Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
“It’s not what I want either,” I say softly.
“Okay.” He blows out a breath. “Good. That’s good.” His eyes dart around before landing on me again. He strokes my cheek, and his voice is soft and slightly pained when he whispers. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose this.”
“I feel the same way.” My heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest as I prepare to be completely honest.
“I need to tell you something,” we say at the same time.
He grins, and so do I. “You can go first.” I squeeze his hand.
“I was about to say, ladies first.” He gives me a chagrined smile, then nods like he’s psyching himself up. “I know things are kind of up in the air as to where I’m going to be after contract talks, and that you have plans of your own, but the way I feel about you . . .” He stops, shakes his head, and clears his throat. “This is—this doesn’t feel temporary. Not for me, anyway.”
I take a step closer, until our toes touch. “It doesn’t feel temporary to me either.”
“No?” Hope and fear swim behind his eyes.
I shake my head. “Not temporary at all.”
“You feel permanent. Like you’re inside my heart and my soul, and I want to keep that. This is the most grounded I’ve ever felt in my life.” He raises a hand, as if he’s expecting me to interrupt. “I know that’s twenty-five-ish percent shorter than yours, but that doesn’t negate this feeling. I’m in love with you. And I know the odds don’t seem stacked in our favor, but I still want this. You. Us. I don’t want to put an end date on you and me.”
“I don’t want that either.” I smile softly up at him. “And as much as I tried to fight against it, my heart took the reins. I love you too.”
His eyes flare, as if my response is unexpected. “Yeah?”
I nod.
“So once the semester is over, no more hiding?”
“No more hiding.”
“I can take you on dates whenever and wherever? Call you my girlfriend in public? Hold your hand?” He gives me a lopsided, dimpled grin.
I mirror his smile. “We can do all of those things.”
“I can embarrass you with public displays of affection?” He bites my knuckle and tugs me forward, wrapping his arm around my waist.
“I don’t know about these embarrassing PDAs.”
“What about innocent kisses?” His lips skim the column of my throat. He nips at the edge of my jaw.
“What’s happening behind the fly of your pants doesn’t feel very innocent, Maverick.”
“We have privacy, though, and parts below the waist are highly aware of that. Plus, this feels like a defining moment in our relationship, and all of me is appropriately excited about you being my girlfriend outside this bubble.” He smooths his thumb across my bottom lip, backing up so I can see his face. “I know it’s still going to be complicated, but I’ll do everything I can to be worth that for you.”
I smile. “You already are.”
Thirty-Three
The Fears We Can’t Control
Clover
A few days later, I wake up at three in the morning to the sound of Maverick’s deep groan. There’s nothing sensual about it, though. It’s followed by a panicked cry and thrashing.
I flick on the bedside lamp. His hair is damp with sweat, and there’s a furrow in his brow.
I give him a solid shake. “Maverick, wake up. Hey, hey. Wake up for me.”
He sucks in a breath, and his eyes pop open. Then he bolts upright in bed, his breaths coming fast and shallow.
I put a hand on his damp cheek. “Hey, look at me. It was a dream. Everybody’s safe.”
His gaze flits around the room. “Fuck. I’m sorry.” His voice is gritty and low. He covers my hand with his and drags the other one down his face. The sheets are twisted around his legs, and two of the pillows are on the floor. “This is getting ridiculous.”
“Was it the dream about the shed or about hockey?” I rub slow circles on his back, hoping to soothe him and bring him back from whatever edge he’s been on in his mind.
He shakes his head a couple of times and blinks rapidly, as if he’s trying to get rid of whatever threads of the dream are still clinging to him. “This time it was the closet. It’s like all my childhood memories are merging and fusing with the present. I keep making mistakes on the ice, missing stupid shots, or I’m frozen, or when I get a penalty, it’s not the box anymore. It’s the fucking shed, or a closet, and when I open the door, it’s you in there, and there’s all this blood.” He rubs his eyes. “But when I try to get you out, you disappear. And they lock me inside, and there’s all this screaming, but I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. So I keep calling for help and pounding on the door until my hands fucking shatter.”