Page 15 of Snowed In With the PUCK

And with Jessica, it did mean something. But our situation is impossible.

Still, I can’t stop thinking about the way she felt under my touch, the way her breath caught when I kissed her, how everything between us just… ignited. It was intense, even more than I thought it would be.

I lean against one of the larger boxes and rub my hands over my face. The cold garage is bracing and thoughts of her get me so worked up that I feel warm and horny again.

Crap. Am I catching feelings? I shouldn’t have let it happen. I shouldn’t have crossed that line, no matter how badly I wanted to. Hell, Istillwant to.

But that’s exactly why I’m keeping my distance now. It’s not because I don’t want her—because I do, more than I’m willing to admit—but because I’m no good for her. I know I’m not. And the last thing Jessica needs is to get involved with someone whose reputation is in the gutter, especially when she’s supposed to be representing me professionally.

“You made a giant mess of things, idiot,” I mutter to myself.

I can’t afford to mess this up. Not here in Denver, not with this second chance I’ve been given. I’ve already got enough baggage from Nashville weighing me down. If I drag Jessica into that mess, it’ll tarnish her, too. I can’t let that happen.

I glance down at the old photo album I’d tried to discreetly carry out here with me. It’s one of those old school albums—the kind my grandparents loved, with faded plastic sleeves that are cracking at the edges. I hadn’t meant to open it again, but something about it has been nagging at me ever since I found that note on the back of Mom’s photo.

Mom.That word still hurts. I wish she’d been there for me growing up. I wish both of my parents had survived the tragedy that took their lives.

I flip open the album and there it is, the photograph that stopped me cold in the living room with Jessica. My hands feel heavy as I pull it out of the sleeve once more. It’s an old picture of my mom, standing in front of a rundown house with a garden hose in her hand. Her smile is wide, her dark hair wild around her face. It’s the kind of picture you’d dismiss as a random family memory, except for what’s written on the back.

Here’s why I know this picture is significant—the original writing of Mom’s name and the date is in Grandma’s swirly scrawl. But there are other words on the photo too, written in a hand I don’t recognize.

A phone number. Two dates indicating a starting and an ending time from maybe twenty years ago. There’s an address. And my mother’s full name.

The dates scrawled there are from when I was about five years old. But my parents died when I was younger than that. That’s what I’ve always been told. They died, and my grandparents took me in. So why the hell is there a phone number and an address along with dates that hint she might have been alive after that?

I clench the photo tightly in my hand, my heart racing as my brain goes a thousand miles an hour.

“Am I crazy… or could it be possible? Could my mother still be alive?” It sounds ridiculous and I push it away. Just because I would want that more than anything does not make it true. I’m an orphan, and no amount of wishful thinking will change that.

I shake my head, feeling a weight in my chest. I can’t deal with this right now.

I deal with it by pretending I don’t care. Because if I remember how much it hurts to have lost everyone, well, I might just go mad. Better to keep busy and forget about the pain of loss.

Besides, I don’t even know what to do with this information. It’s a tiny piece of information, but it’s still too much, too fast, and I’m not ready to go down that road toward the past.

Not yet. I shove the photo back into the album and close it with a frustrated snap.

Now isn’t a good time to get distracted. There’s too much on the line. I can’t let myself get sucked into a rabbit trail by something like this. I need to focus on what’s in front of me—getting settled in Denver, fixing my reputation, getting back on track with my career.

And Jessica. I need to figure out how to handle things with her without screwing everything up even more than I already have. She’s a good person. She deserves a squeaky clean good guy.

With a deep breath, I grab the clothes and shoes I unpacked and head back into the house, trying to leave the weight of everythingthat’s been piling up in my head behind me. It’s snowing lightly outside, the flakes swirling in the wind out the front windows, but I barely notice. My thoughts are too jumbled.

I walk into the kitchen and see Jessica sitting at the counter with her laptop open. She looks up at me as I enter, her eyes soft and curious, like she’s trying to figure me out. I can’t blame her. I should start a conversation about the sex we had. IknowI should, and I’m sure she’s wondering what the hell is going on in my head.

But I can’t talk about any of that. Instead, I get the idea that we should get out of this house, not just me, but both of us.

“Get it all squared away?” She nods to the stack of clothes I put on the counter.

“For now.” I smile at her, and it feels real. “Hey, I was thinking,” I say casually, leaning against the counter. “There’s a charity game tomorrow afternoon. The team’s holiday charity match against the local B-level hockey squad. You want to come?”

Jessica raises an eyebrow. “You’re inviting me to a charity hockey game?”

I laugh. “Yeah. Figured you might want to see the team in action and scope out the rising talent from the b-team. Besides, it’s for a good cause. Proceeds go to charity.”

She hesitates, biting her bottom lip as she thinks it over. I can see the question in her eyes, probably trying to figure out ifthis is a good idea, if it’s “professional” enough. I know she’s concerned about keeping things above board for her job, but I’m not asking her out on a date. It’s just a hockey game.

Eventually, she gives in. “Alright. I guess it’s technically part of my job.”

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