Page 63 of On the Power Play

Jack turned to Delia. "This is Curtis. He's been married for fifteen years and has four kids. He's always trying to shove us to the altar."

Curtis scoffed. "It's not my fault you all have an aversion to healthy relationships."

"Leave me out of that!" Tyler called from behind the stairs. He pulled a box from the storage closet, then grabbed a space heater from the back and shoved the box back in.

A player with wavy blond hair and a tattoo peeking out from the underside of his shirt sleeve strode toward them. More stories. Delia glanced at Jack’s arm, but it was covered.

Jack pointed. "This is Brett."

"Hi, Brett." Delia put out a hand, and he shook it. "What do you do?"

"Construction."

"He's a general contractor and project manager for a bunch of corporate and residential stuff around the city," Jack clarified.

Delia grinned. "Impressive."

Brett shook his head. "Not as impressive as this guy. He's living the dream."

Jack's eyes darkened, and Delia slingshotted back to their conversation that night over tacos. The guilt over his success. The loneliness he’d gotten so practised at hiding.

Every teammate there was proud of him—clearly, they were invested in his life outside of hockey. But Delia knew from personal experience that it didn't matter how much people wanted to be involved in your life if you were intent on shutting them out.

"He definitely is. We both are." Delia smiled at Jack, hoping he caught what she was throwing. They might only be connected by digital signatures, but he didn't have to be alone in this. They could be friends, couldn't they? Maybe they already were. The idea made her insides fizz. "Why don't you introduce me to the rest of the team, and then I'll go unpack."

Jack gave a silent smile of thanks, and the understanding in his eyes gave her more pleasure than it should have. He led her around the room and introduced her to the other men coming down the stairs. Ryan, with the man bun and a daughter who was definitely going to kill him when she got home from school and found out he'd met Delia Melise without her—Delia assured him she'd be happy to take a picture another time. Mike, with the long braid down his back. André, who waved with a cigarette in his hand from the front porch. Country, who she might've grinned a bit too widely at when she was introduced, and Jack might've noticed. She met Sean, their captain, Steve, Suraj, and Darcy. Not Rob because he was a social studies teacher and had a student competition he couldn’t get out of, and not Fly because he'd aged out of the team last year, and Jack had taken his place.

She loved that they mentioned their teammates who were missing. Like they were still a part of the team. Delia, on the other hand, forgot almost all of their names within ten minutes of walking up the stairs and then decided she was a terrible person. She’d need to study up online in her downtime so she didn’t seem like Katie Mackey the next time she was with the team.

Delia slumped onto her bed and stared at her suitcases neatly stacked against the wall. The room was beautiful. A long window stretched across the far wall, bathing what looked to be original, restored hardwood in golden afternoon light. The smell of aged wood and the subtle scent of lavender from a bag of potpourri on the dresser was dreamy, just like the four-poster bed crafted from dark, polished walnut. The quilt was soft under her fingertips.

Delia stood and perused the rest of her new living space. There was a cozy reading nook featuring a vintage armchair upholstered in soft, emerald velvet. A simple glass table held a stack of books and a brass lamp. She already knew her guitar would sit there. That thought gave her a momentary panic attack before she remembered that she'd seen the case downstairs next to her backpack. She'd go down and drag it upstairs later.

The frames on the walls held pressed flowers and mountain watercolours. Delia trailed her fingers along the thick door trim as she walked into her private bath and gasped. There was an actual clawfoot tub. The fixtures were brass, and there was a full oval curtain rod to turn the tub into a shower, though Delia doubted she'd use that. Her mother had the only tub in their house, and while she knew she was welcome to use it, she'd never actually soaked there.

This was incredible. She hadn't been thrilled about moving away from Toronto for a month, even though it did mean a much-anticipated collaboration and plenty of media coverage. She liked her life at home, and she hadn't ever spent more than ten days away from her mother, which, at twenty-five, sounded a bit pathetic.

It wasn't, though. They'd only had each other since she was seven years old, and it wasn't stupid to love someone, especially when she had so few someones in her life to love.

But this. She stared again at the tub. This would be an actual vacation. Something that wouldn't feel like much of a sacrifice, especially if she could convince her mom to come out for a bit. A fat royalty check would do half the convincing.

Delia couldn't keep the smile off her face as she waltzed back into the bedroom and tipped her largest suitcase onto the floorboards. She flipped open the top and piled her clothes onto the bed. Underwear. Bras. And not just the practical ones. She'd debated when she'd been packing at home but had ultimately decided to bring most of what she owned in that regard. Sports bras. Lace numbers.

Her mind landed back at Jack without permission. How she’d stayed in his hotel room instead of going with Mary. How she was still a little turned on after seeing him standing in front of the house . . .

Delia's head snapped up when a floorboard creaked. A black lace bra was looped over her fingers. And Jack was leaning against the doorframe.

Chapter Fifteen

Jack couldn't keep his eyes from dropping to the bit of fabric strung between Delia's hands. Black. Lace. Delia dropped it onto the bed where Jack saw there were more of them. He forced his face to stay neutral, pretending it was completely normal to see women's lingerie, and opened his mouth to say something like, "Do you need help unpacking?" Instead, he said, "That's nice."

Delia's lips parted, and her skin grew splotchy, which he knew she hated. He, on the other hand, quite enjoyed seeing her reactions in real-time. A little too much.

Heat flushed to his middle when he realized the main floor was quiet. The guys had gone home, and he shouldn't have stayed. He shouldn't have invited her to his hotel in Toronto, and he definitely should've taken Tyler up on the offer to drive him over instead of driving separately.

Staring at Delia again after the week of separation, he knew exactly why he'd done both things. An ache grew low in his belly. He’d missed her. He liked spending time with her. He liked looking at Delia, and he liked talking with Delia.

He didn't like that he liked any of it, but he couldn't get himself to stop.

---