Page 33 of Summer with a Player

"Neither did I," I reply, though he can't hear me over the distance and noise. But it doesn't matter; he sees it in my eyes, reads it in the tremble of my lips.

And then, something shifts. A smile cracks Asher's solemn expression—a small, hesitant upturn of his lips that speaksvolumes. It's a smile that says he's beginning to grasp the depth of what I feel for him, that maybe, just maybe, he feels it too.

"Elle..." Asher breathes out, and it's like a benediction, a sign that the door to his heart is still open, that the game isn't over yet. It's not the resounding yes I hoped for, but it's enough of an invitation to keep hope alive.

"Fight for it, Jet," I silently urge him, my entire being vibrating with the intensity of the moment.

"Fight for us."

The roar of the crowd dulls to a distant hum as Asher skates toward me, his strides pushing past the barriers that have kept us apart. I'm standing at the edge of the rink, my heart hammering against my ribs, every breath I take is shaky.

"Elle," he says again, his voice steady but his eyes betraying the hurricane of emotions within him. The ice beneath his skates crunches, a sharp contrast to the softness in his gaze.

I step closer, close enough to see the flicker of resolve in those piercing green eyes. "Asher," I reply, my voice a mere whisper, but it's enough. It's always been enough for him to hear.

We're both silent, the space between us thick with unspoken apologies. But it's different now. We've grown, shed our fears like heavy coats that no longer fit, and what's left is raw and real. There's no turning back, and I don't want to—not without him.

"Elle, I've been such an idiot," he begins, but I place a finger on his lips, silencing him.

"Shh, we both were," I admit, my thumb brushing over his lower lip, remembering each curve, each line. "But we're here now, and that's all that matters."

He nods, the tension in his shoulders easing as he takes my hand, his touch sending sparks through my veins. His thumb rubs circles on the back of my hand, a gesture that whispers of forgiveness.

"Can you ever forgive me?" he asks, vulnerability etched into the furrow of his brow.

"Only if you can forgive me, too," I say, locking my gaze with his. "We're a team, Asher. On and off the ice."

A laugh escapes him, rough and warm like the sand of Love Beach under the summer sun. "Deal," Asher grins, pulling me into his arms.

His hug is a safe harbor, the kind I've dreamed of returning to since the day I pushed him away. My arms wrap around his muscular frame, feeling the power of his body, the heartbeat that synchronizes with mine.

"Elle," he whispers against my hair, "You're my home. Always have been."

"Take me home, then," I murmur, tilting my head up to meet his lips with mine. The kiss is a promise, a seal over our renewed vows, gentle yet charged with the electricity that bolts to my core. It tastes of redemption, of second chances.

We pull away, breathless and smiling, our foreheads resting against each other as we share this quiet moment amid the chaos. Around us, life goes on—the shouts, the cheers, the crackling energy of the game—but within the circle of Asher's arms, there's peace.

"Let's not waste another minute," Asher says, his eyes reflecting the bright lights of the arena, yet focused solely on me.

"Agreed," I answer, feeling the weight of loneliness lift from my chest, replaced by the lightness of hope.

Chapter 21

Asher

I'm pacing the length of my room in Pawleys Island, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath my feet, wanting to do something in return to Elle for being so amazing.

I want to do something to commemorate her and I getting back together, but my mind is a jumble of happiness and hope. I can't think. I need to do something that screams us. That's it—a private dinner on Love Beach, right at sunset. But not just any dinner. A picnic on a yacht under a sky painted with the twinkling lights of the stars.

My heart hammers with newfound purpose, and I rush to arrange a yacht rental with a captain for the night and jot downeverything else we'll need. A soft blanket, a basket filled with gourmet sandwiches from her favorite deli, those little fruit tarts she loves, and a bottle of chilled white wine. Perfect.

Now, time to get myself ready. I head into the bathroom, flicking on the light. The mirror greets me with my reflection: golden-brown skin still flushed from today's practice, the muscles I’ve earned on the ice standing out against the fabric of my tank top. Tonight, I want to look like a guy who is worthy of the woman of his dreams.

I strip off the tank and step into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over my body, washing away the sweat and tension. The steam envelopes me, as I scrub at my skin, imagining it’s Elle's gentle hands instead. Shaking my head to dispel the thought, I focus on the task at hand.

Out of the shower, I dry off and stand before my closet. What to wear? I pull out a casual button-up shirt—nothing too fancy, but it brings out the green in my eyes. Pair it with some khaki shorts, and I'm set. Dress for the date you want, right?

I button the shirt up, leaving the top few undone for that effortless look. A glance in the mirror confirms I'm toeing the line between relaxed and trying too hard. A deep breath, and I reach for the cologne on the counter—the one Elle once said reminded her of starry nights and daring dreams. Two spritzes, one on the neck, another on the chest part of the shirt.

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