Page 96 of Bombshells
SYLVIE
I wake up slowly. And—as always—I’m alone in my bed, wishing Anton were here. I want to roll over and find him in the bed with me.
He’s never there, though. The way our schedules work, we tend to spend time together in the middle of the day. He travels a lot. And when he’s here in Brooklyn, our games are on alternating nights by design. That means one of us is usually up later than the other one.
If we were a real couple, though, one of us could climb into bed after the other on those late nights. We could wake up together in the morning and make sleepy love.
I want that. I want to be the first one to see Anton’s smile at the start of his day. And I wonder why he doesn’t want that, too. Because it’s nice here in bed, thinking sleepy thoughts. My body is heavy and serene. My thoughts drift inevitably to memories of our time together. The heat of his skin, and the weight of him over me. In the mornings, he’s all I can think about.
So imagine my surprise this morning when I stumble out of my bedroom a little later to make coffee, only to find Bryce asleep on my sofa.
Whoops! I’d forgotten all about bringing him home last night when he was drunk and sad and unable to locate his keys.
As I tiptoe past him toward the coffeemaker, he lets out a groan.
“Morning, sunshine,” I say, in a chipper voice.
“Bonjour,” he greets me blearily. “Oh, my head.”
A year ago, I always woke up wishing Bryce were nearby. Now here he is, and he’s not the person I’m looking for. Funny how that works.
“We need egg sandwiches,” he says, pulling himself upright. “Let me order some breakfast for us.”
“That sounds nice,” I admit. I’d rather eat breakfast in bed with his teammate, but I’m not going to look askance at a bacon, egg, and cheese with my old friend.
I sit down on the edge of the sofa next to Bryce’s feet. Fiona left town after last night’s game for a quick holiday visit with friends in Philadelphia. So it’s just the two of us, which makes this the very scene that I used to picture—Bryce and me at home together in the morning.
It feels one hundred percent wrong now. Go figure.
“Your face looks better,” I point out, examining the fading bruises near his eye.
He shrugs. “I was never going to enter any beauty contest. And it’s not my face that keeps me from playing.”
“I know you want to get back out there,” I say gently. “And you will. But Bryce—don’t take this the wrong way—I think you could really use some downtime.”
He flinches.
“I didn’t hear whatever made you so upset last night, and I don’t know what you’re going through. But you seem really strung out. If you’re not allowed back at the rink for a few days, can you find a way to spend the time on some self-care?”
His dark blue eyes take on an expression of horrified disbelief. “Like…you want me to get a massage and a manicure?”
“Easy, now. It doesn’t have to be a day at the spa. You have to learn to walk before you can run. But what about a day at the movies? Or a museum? Just change your scenery. Think about something besides hockey for a change.”
His expression is still dubious. “I do not know how to do that.”
“I know. That’s kind of the point. Do you want me to order breakfast for us?”
“I got it,” he says, reaching for his phone on the coffee table. “Ah, lucky! Petra found my keys.”
“That is lucky,” I agree. “I’ll start the coffee, and then I’m going to shower before the food comes.”
“Yes, go,” he says, waving me toward the kitchen. “I will order breakfast. I already have ideas about—what did you call it? Care for yourself?”
“Self-care,” I say, biting back my smile as I stand up. “Learn that word, Bryce. You need it.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, we’re seated side by side on the sofa enjoying coffee and breakfast together. Bryce has pulled himself together, gotten dressed, and folded all the blankets before returning them to the closet. Say what you will about the man, but he cleans up his messes.
