Page 60 of Head Over Skates

“Owen?” I say softly, timidly.

His gaze cuts to mine, his lips pressed together. And he holds my stare—almost to an uncomfortable point. I’m holding my breath, because I won’t look away. I dare not even blink, but that’s pretty much impossible. Then he lets out a long, hard breath, shaking his head ever so slowly.

Narrowing his eyes, he says, “Oh screw it.”

Then he’s all over me. His hands. His lips. His hot breath. Strong, calloused hands grip my waist, crushing my body against his, hot and demanding. I open myself to him, wanting more, needing to taste him. He kisses me ravenously, like a man starved, one hand trailing up to cup my jaw while the other splays across my lower back. I feel his fingers pressing into my skin, pulling me impossibly closer to the hard planes of his chest. My hands clutch at his muscular shoulders, feeling the strength coiled within him even as he handles me so gently. His beard scrapes my cheek, a delicious contrast to his soft lips working over mine.

I'm dizzy with desire, my body coming alive under his scorching touch, wound tight with need. Confident fingers drag up the column of my throat, tangling into my hair and giving it a little tug that makes me gasp. He claims my mouth again and again, branding me, staking his claim. I am jello and wildfire and butterflies and I kiss him back with unchecked passion.

When we finally pull apart, Owen rests his forehead against mine. My lips feel raw and tender, and I want more. More. More.

"Wow," he murmurs, caressing my face. He clears his throat.

“Wow,” I echo.

“Terms,” he says, not letting me go.

“I’m listening.”

He kisses me again, softly. On the lips. On the nose. On the apple of each cheek. “We’re doing this. Every. Day.”

19

OWEN

Cyrus’ face is priceless as he walks next to me into the Blizzard Dome. I’m suited up as usual, and he’s wearing the #8 Jablonski jersey I bought him, taking in the sights with pure wonder. I ruffle his crazy mop of hair as some female girls hoot at him in a wholesome way. He loves the attention more than I thought he would.

Shannon finally relented when Cyrus begged her to let him come to a game, laying the guilt on thick, since he missed my actual birthday.

I take him down the hallways and into the dressing room to show him my stall. The framed photo of me above it still has some sticker residue from Emily’s prank. That seems so long ago, like we were different people then. I know at least on my part, I’m a whole new man. It’s all because of Emily, even though she’s keeping me at arm’s length. It’s okay. I’ll wait for her.

The guys all take Cyrus under their wings. Hendrix shows him the stick room, Griffin gives him a few goaltender pointers. Even Coach gives him a puck for a souvenir.

The shiner Emily gave him is gone now, by the way. He gave me a long lecture when we returned to practice a few days later. It’s all good. We’re copasetic.

Once I've geared up, and we’re in pre-game mode, it’s time for Cyrus to go to the VIP box I reserved for him and some of the players’ wives. Paul Nagel and Kevin Tate’s wives are both stunning ladies, and each has two kids that go to Bayview heights–-that bougie school I’m trying to get Cyrus into. Leigh Tate said she’d meet me down here to take Cyrus upstairs, but first I want him to properly meet Emily. Last time, he had a bathroom emergency and probably doesn’t remember any of it.

I find Emily in the Zamboni garage, making sure the machine is ready for the game. Cyrus just about loses it. His eyes go wide and his mouth drops to the floor.

“Wow! You get to drive this thing?”

“Yep,” Emily says. “Almost every night.”

Cyrus looks up at me with such a pure expression of awe. “I want to do this when I grow up.”

I smile down at him. “Drive a Zamboni?”

He nods with unflagging jubilation.

“You can be anything you want, little man.”

Emily smirks with a triumphant smile on her face and says with mock surprise, “Don’t you want to be a star hockey player?”

“Nope.”

“I see you’ve got the jersey already.”

He points to his back, which makes him spin around like a dog trying to catch its tail. “It’s got my name on it.”

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