Page 5 of Love You Too

“Yeah.” She smooths her hair, even though it’s already perfectly tidy. I take in the totality of what I seebefore me—the pouty lips, the full breasts outlined beneath her shirt, her curves in all the places I loved to touch.

But now there’s more—the spark in her eyes is fierce, unforgiving. The curve of her cheekbones is still soft, but the set of her jaw looks resolute, like she doesn’t suffer fools. I want to hate that she’s looking at me like I’m the prized fool of all time, but instead, it’s a turn-on.

Ten years.

I had ten years to convince myself that the woman I fell for in college was not as pretty as I remembered. And she’s not. She’s better. More stunning, more effortlessly graceful—even when she was scrambling beneath my dog—and so fucking gorgeous that I’m having a hard time forming words.

A light breeze tugs at her long, dark hair that she’s tried to tame into a ponytail. Tendrils spill out, framing her face and igniting the flame in her eyes even more. Her mouth, which I can’t stop staring at, is twisted into something between a scowl and resignation.

Beatrix looks like she’s about to hit me, which would be a first. Not that we didn’t get into it regularly when we were together, but it was always the feisty kind of foreplay that led to the hottest sex I’ve ever had. Sex I haven’t been able to get out of my head, despite a string of fleeting, lackluster relationships with puck bunnies who were more than happy to oblige when the loneliness got to be a little too much for me.

If the salacious tabloid posts about me and various women had anything to say about it, I succeeded. But none of the women I’ve been with could hold a candle to Beatrix Corbett, and not because she was my first love.

Because she was my only real love.

Ten years of wondering what Beatrix Corbett was up to. Ten years of googling her name to find out. Ten years of wishing I hadn’t been the biggest asshole on the planet because then I just might have a snowball’s chance of asking for her forgiveness.

But I was, so I don’t.

Gave up that hope when I walked out the door at twenty-two to a million-dollar contract that seemed like manna from heaven to a kid with no other skills. I was young and dumb, but that doesn’t excuse my lack of explanation. My lack of communication. If I didn’t know it already, I see it on Trix’s face—pure disdain with a side of disappointment.

That look takes me right back to the days after we broke up, when she refused to take my phone calls and sent barbed replies to my texts. I convinced myself that she was the one being unreasonable, and I actually started to dislike her a little bit. Way easier than loving her from afar and feeling guilty about hurting her. But what they say about love and hate is true—two sides of the same coin. I chose the one that allowed me to sleep at night.

When a guy is lucky enough to find the purest kind of love with a woman like Beatrix Corbett, and then he blows it like I did…well, that guy pretty much deserves whatever miserable fate befalls him after that. It’s why I never tried to contact her, never tried to cross paths with her.

Yet when given the choice between a hundred vacation destinations, you bought one in the one town where she lives.

Well, that’s different. The deal was too good to pass up, better than any of the other vacation homes my broker showed me. When she told me the property has a working winery in addition to old vines in a sought-after appellation, she piqued my interest. I’d never considered being a winemaker, so I almost gave the place a hard pass.

Then I came to visit. Under a setting sun, the vineyards extended out toward the horizon amid a sea of birdcalls and a peaceful lack of bustle that reminded me of where I grew up in the Vermont Berkshires. I wanted to regain that sense of peace without flying across the country. The commute here takes just over an hour from my house in Berkeley, even in traffic. The main residence was a pigsty and a half, sending me into a feverdream of carpentry projects I haven’t had time for, but maybe once I retire from professional hockey.

Right now, that feels like a long way off. The Oakland Otters are a hot mess. Last season, they made every mistake possible on the ice, lost a lot of games, and pissed off fans and investors. The team earned the name Otter Pops because they popped, sputtered, crashed, and burned.

As the new team captain, I’m supposed to have a heavy hand in righting the ship. I’ve been here a month, and there’s no obvious fix. I was the first player brought in during the free agency signing period, and now we have the best roster of players in the league—all the top picks because management decided to throw tons of money at impact players.

And we look like shit. Everyone’s playing his own game, and all the star power in the world can’t win a game if we don’t connect the dots. Fan and investor expectations are sky high, and we’re positioned to be unstoppable if I can create some team unity and get us as good as we look on paper. It’ll take some strong words and leadership, and I haven’t felt this much pressure since I was a rookie player right out of college with everything to prove. I thought those days were in the rearview. Apparently fucking not.

No surprise I’ve been in a surly mood, with only a couple months before our first game. And now, this.Her. The one bright spot in my week. A gorgeous woman who, by her own admission, could adjust both of our attitudes with an afternoon quickie.

But I don’t dare touch that one, not when she’s scowling at me.

“Just like I figured. Truman’s human is a dumbass.” Her answer comes with an eye roll and a raspberry, which only serves to draw my attention to her lips. Plump, pink. Frowny.

Great. I’m the proud owner of a multimillion-dollar piece of property I’ll never see, not if it means a repeat of the way she’s looking at me right now. I get enough pummeling on the ice. Thelast thing I need is to get my ego stomped on my days off. I need to apologize for my dog and walk away.

“Glad you’re smart enough to blame the dumbass, not his dog,” I say.

This is you apologizing and walking away?

“Helps that I already knew you were a dumbass, even before your dog stole my breakfast.”

“I don’t think it counts as stealing when a person throws her breakfast across the pavement.”

Her eyes narrow, fire blazing within the pale blue. “It was that or let him attack me.”

Truman comes loping over with the remains of the pastry bag and nuzzles Beatrix, tipping his face against her leg and looking up at her with his big, dopey, brown eyes. I defy her to be angry with him, even if he is licking the last of her breakfast from his mouth.

“Labradoodles aren’t known to be attack dogs.”

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