Page 73 of On the Power Play

Jack took his damn time, and if other women liked that, then she was other women. Her heart couldn’t decide whether to start or stop as he pressed against her and held, then pulled back just enough to let her catch a breath before he was coming back for more.

She didn’t realize she’d gripped onto his belt loop and twisted his shirt through her fingers until his lips slowed. Until his breath against her lips sent those fires under her skin blazing. Until he pulled back.

The fabric of his shirt stretched, and Delia slammed back into herself so hard her teeth rattled. Her eyes flew open. Her lips were swollen. Her tongue tasted like his peppermint toothpaste.

“How was that?” Jack rasped.

Delia dropped her hands. Where was she? What the hell day was it? She nodded and stepped back, bumping into the chair she’d forgotten was sitting behind her.

Jack cleared his throat. “Okay. Hopefully that looked believable. We could ask Mary for a third-party opinion.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and Delia couldn’t look up from the rug. “I’ll see you in a couple of days then? For the Snowballs game?”

“Right. Yes.” She stumbled back, abandoning her glass of water on the table. “Have a good night.”

Jack scanned the room and found his coat draped over the half wall near the entrance. “You, too. Goodnight.” He walked out the front door, and Delia followed on unsteady legs, locking the deadbolt.

She turned and pressed her back up against the door, then grabbed onto her pointer finger and squeezed for much longer than three seconds.

Chapter Seventeen

On Tuesday, Jack stepped out of his truck and locked the doors, then strode into the farm-to-table place where his teammates always went for lunch. From the time he signed his contract, he knew how this was supposed to go. If you joined a team, you were committing to making that group your new personality. You couldn't show up and expect to have a good outcome if you weren't close with the guys you were going to battle with.

The only problem was, he was being torn in too many directions. He thought back to his time at World Juniors, how it had been immersive, all consuming. How all the guys had slept, eaten, and breathed alongside each other 24-7. When his team stepped on the ice, they didn't feel like individual players. They became a Megazord or whatever the hell that was called when all the Power Rangers connected into one giant beast. They sensed each other's motivations—understood each other's strengths and weaknesses.

That's what he was supposed to create here with the Blizzard, or at least be a willing participant in. At twenty-nine, he was one of the oldest guys there, and that niggled at him. He should be joining in with the other veterans and finding ways to support the new guys. Instead, he was juggling meetings and workflows, and now adding media appearances and time out with Delia.

He pulled open the door of the restaurant and looked for the guys. They were at a table in the back. Even though the place was packed, it wasn't hard to spot them. A pang of envy sliced through him at their smiling, laughing faces. Their full-time jobs were becoming a team and honing their hockey skills. His full-time job was Big Rick, and he didn't know how to put that on the back burner and jump all-in to this pipe dream.

Why would he give up a solid career for something that might not evolve past that season? On the other hand, if he didn't jump in, he was pounding the nails into his own coffin. Hammering nails made him think of Delia and her off-the-wall metaphors. His pulse quickened.

It wasn’t just that his attention was split between work and, well, work. A much larger piece of the pie was being occupied by one person. Delia. Their faux relationship had been presented as something he could put on autopilot. Set a few meetings, show up, and call it good. The only problem was, she had become a puzzle his mind was obsessed with. Especially after that kiss.

“Jack!” Monahan motioned for the rookie to move over so Jack could take a seat at the end of the crowded table. Monahan wore a Mickey Mouse T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, looking almost comical against his hardened features and missing tooth. “I didn't know you were coming out.”

Jack smiled and sat down. “You know I wish I could be here every day.”

Nathan reached for a fry. “I know. I can't imagine running the schedule you are, bud.”

Jack wondered how many of the other players knew what that schedule was or whether they cared. It was comforting to think that someone at least understood why he wasn't acting like a full member of the team.

“Here you go.” Monahan passed him a menu.

Jack thanked him, then stared at the loopy title font and lines of text. He’d thought about that kiss with Delia all morning. Had he suggested the kiss because it was a good strategy? Or had he simply wanted it? Or, third option, had he been curious about whether he’d feel the way he always did when he kissed a woman post-Angie?

If he was being honest, it was all of the above. Strategy was the only justification he’d spoken out loud, but since he’d sat on her bed, the blood flow to his brain had been limited. Part of him wished she wasn’t so attractive. If she could be less interesting—less funny. Stop squinching her nose when she laughed or pulling her sleeves over her wrists.

His body was full to bursting when he’d walked out her front door. He’d wanted more. For the first time since Angie’s death, he hadn’t felt instantly sick after touching a woman, and sheer relief had poured through him at that realization. Maybe he could have that again. Touch. Connection. Sex. But then came the grief. The soul-crushing wave of regret and hopelessness. Relief. Regret.

One side of his head screamed that he couldn’t keep clinging to Angie’s memory. To feel beholden to a woman who was a metre under. But the other side shouted with equal ferocity that he owed her. That he’d lived and she’d died, and who knew whether she was up there in the ether watching him? What would she think if she saw him touching Delia? Even wanting to touch another woman? That thought made his stomach twist until it was snarled like an old extension cord.

He had things. He’d told Delia that the first time they’d met. It didn’t have to be that deep. He could do his job. Play hockey. Sell tickets. Everything else would fade in a few weeks anyway.

“You ordered a salad?” Lindholm stared at Johannsen. “Bud, are you on a cut? Got someone to impress?”

Johannsen gesticulated. “It looked good! Maricona almonds and mulberries!”

Jack looked up from the menu. The rookie sat two seats to the right across from him and already had a beer in front of him. His eyes seemed less bloodshot today, but he still had that look about him. The one Jack had seen in so many players over the years who burned themselves out embracing the high life they thought they were entitled to since they'd “made it.”

That spike of guilt wedged itself further into his gut. He should be helping him. He should be a leader. He’d always wanted that opportunity, and now he was stretching himself too thin. What had he said to Delia the night before? That he never half-assed things?

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