Page 64 of Love You Too

And now it feels like something more. Adding in a baby and a second chance at love overwhelms my senses.

His light exhale against my most intimate parts curls my toes. I fist the towel I’m sitting on and shudder against the sensation ofRen’s tongue circling, delving deeper,wreckingme right back. And taking a decisive swipe at my heart.

I grab at his shoulders, rolling my hands over the muscled contours and settling around his rounded biceps. His strength, coupled with the intimate, soft movements of his mouth against me, is an intoxicating combination. “Ren,God…”

My self-control is shaking, then crumbling into dust as he slides a finger inside me. Just as erotic as that day on the tractor, only less playful, more intense. He’s working me with intentional pressure, taking me to the crest until I can’t hold anything back, and I scream out. “Ren…”

“Come for me, hon,” he breathes against my clit, circling once more. Twice…and then I’m gone. My vision goes spotty, taken over by pulses of light and so much pure sensation that all I can do is moan my agreement with everything he’s doing.

As though he hasn’t just decimated me, Ren resumes the task of dabbing shaving cream on my other leg. “Need to be thorough,” he explains.

“Oh my God, yes.”

I close my eyes again because I’m starting to see Ren differently when I look at him. Instead of the standup guy, I see a man driven by love. And I see us as a couple…with a future. Dangerous thoughts, but I can’t stop them any more than I can stop my baby bump from becoming a baby mountain right before my eyes.

CHAPTER 27

Ren

It’s a home game.But I know Trix isn’t watching from center ice. She’s at work, where there’s a special holiday menu at Butter and Rosemary during the month of December, and she’s also decorating the place for Christmas. On top of that, she’s been working around the clock to get the inn finished in time for the wedding next month. A full house of guests that will stay at Buttercup Hill for the weekend. It’s only three weeks away, and the days are flying by.

So is her pregnancy, over four months along. She’s still taking long daily walks around the vineyard and going to yoga, but I think she barely notices anything except the ticking clock on the renovation. The floors and walls are finished, and now she’s taking huge furniture deliveries every day and pointing to where everything should go.

I find myself racing back to the locker room at the end of training to check my phone for her texts. Each little update andheart emoji brings a secret smile to my face, a stark contrast to the grimace I wear on the ice as our coach works us to the bone.

Our team schedule has been herky-jerky, with an away game followed by an extra travel day and a long day of training. It’s been more efficient to stay in Berkeley—not to mention that I need the sleep—so I’ve barely seen her in almost two weeks. It’s been good for my game, good for the team. Good for Truman because he gets more time at Buttercup Hill with Trix and her niece. Less good for my heart, even if my focus has been sharper.

Feels eerily familiar, even though it was ten years ago that my coach and my mother warned me against getting distracted. As soon as I broke things off with Beatrix back then, my focus became laser-sharp, and my career took off. The thrill of success helped bury my own heartbreak, but I refuse to let her go this time.

I don’t want that one-dimensional life anymore, yet I also owe my team more than I’ve been giving. And maybe, at the end of the day, I’m not capable of being in love with hockeyanda woman. The idea makes my heart sink to a depth I haven’t felt since I reconnected with Trix.

I try to banish the thoughts and fears, but they’re a drumbeat in the back of my mind, as insistent as the feeling of pure joy I have when the image of her crosses my mind.

I keep my phone turned off during the day, so I miss a lot of her texts. At night, I try to call, but our away game schedule throws things off, so I’ve missed her a few nights in a row. I hate it, but we’re in the thick of the season.

The good news is I’ve had time for some one-on-one dinners with Sam Skinner and Johnny Grimm, both star players who haven’t been finding their groove on the ice. It feels good to feel useful, but I miss seeing Trix.

I push thoughts of her from my head as I charge toward the crease. No room for any thoughts right now except the puck, the goal, and the other guys on the ice.

We’ve had the lead for the first two periods. We’re playing well, even though we still look like a bunch of talented guys doing their own thing out here. Now, halfway through the third, I’m feeling good. Optimistic that we could end with a win.

Then, the cracks start to show. A penalty. A powerplay. And Dallas scores with two minutes left. We’re tied.

Nothing wrong with a tie, but Skinner shouldn’t have a high-sticking call when we’re up with two minutes to go.

Our enforcer is thirty seconds from getting out of the box when the Dallas forward takes a crazy shot from just over the line. And…scores.

I can feel the air drain from the arena. We all can. What should be cheers for a win—or even a fucking tie—turn into boos and an overall feeling of gloom about our prospects. Skating off the ice, I can already hear the interview questions headed my way. “What are you going to do to get out of this slump?” “How’d the team choke with two minutes left?” I don’t have answers for any of them, but I’ll do my best.

“That was a fuckup,” Grimm snipes at Skinner as we head down the tunnel.

“It’s a team sport, dude,” Skinner retorts, but I can see in the hard set of his jaw that he feels some responsibility for the loss. He missed two key saves, which put unnecessary pressure on our goalie. I’ve been watching Skinner during practice, and his accuracy is spot-on. For him to miss two defensive opportunities plus the high-sticking is not like him.

“I did my part, in case you’re inferring I didn’t.” Grimm isn’t going to let this go. He’s like a Doberman with a squeaky toy when it comes to anyone suggesting he’s a dumb jock.

“Implying,” Skinner corrects quietly. I roll my eyes because the guy just doesn’t know when to keep his trap shut.

“Excuse me?” Grimm gets in his face, breathing into his eyes because he has a good six inches on our starting guard, who has to walk faster to keep up.

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