Page 70 of Play the Game

My eyes water, and I turn away. I’m mortified and completely drenched with sweat. I weakly pull on my arms again, but Emory doesn’t let up. Instead, he drags me over to the shower and holds onto me with one hand while reaching inside and turning the water on.

It doesn’t take long for the water to grow warm. Emory and I are surrounded by steam, and I can hardly stand. My chest is full of anxiety, and my breaths are shallow, but he doesn’t comment on it. His tired gaze drags down my arms when he moves his fingers to the zipper of my jacket. He unzips it, and the warm air coats the chills on my skin, revealing a tiny, cropped tank that only comes to my belly button. When the jacket falls to the floor, he glances at the rest of me briefly before turning his attention away. I stare at his sharp jaw, suddenly forgetting why we’re even in the bathroom to begin with.

“I’m going to step out while you take a shower and calm down.”

I can’t even manage a nod.

The entire time I shower, I push away the small snippets of the dream I knew would come for me after seeing my mother the other night and focus on the warm water pelting against my skin.

When I’m finished showering, I smell more like a man than I ever have before. I slip into the nearest towel and eye my sweaty clothes on the floor. There’s a shirt hanging off the doorknob, and I have no idea if it’s clean, but it’s either I walk out into Emory’s room in nothing but a towel, or I walk out in his shirt that has a zero chance of slipping from my shaky grip.

After pulling his shirt over my head, I realize it’s more of a dress on me, which is perfect because even my underwear is damp with sweat, and I’d have to be really desperate to pull those back on.

I run my fingers through my wet hair and finally get the courage to open the door.

I have a hopeful thought that maybe he had fallen back asleep, but as soon as I see the glow from his bedside table, I freeze.

Emory snaps to attention, catching me off guard. His strong brow furrows, and I have no idea what’s going on in his head. His chiseled stomach is on display, and each one of his abs flickers when he tenses. When I tug my gaze back to its rightful spot—his face—he’s staring at something different: my legs.

I’ve never felt more self-conscious in my life. I’m infuriated with myself. I neverlet people see my vulnerabilities. Just because Emory is my husband doesn’t mean he’s privy to my deepest, darkest fears. My weaknesses are better left buried, just like my worries.

Emory eventually drags his attention to meet my face, and instead of giving him the time to ask the questions I know he wants the answers to, I head right for the bedroom door.

Before I make it there, his tall frame comes into view, and he slides right in front of me. “Get in the bed, Scottie.”

For a second, and I mean averyquick second, I feel a tug in between my legs. It stuns me so much that when Emory’s hands fall to my hips and he starts to push me backward, I let him.

The backs of my thighs hit the mattress, and he forces me to sit. He’s so close that all I’d have to do is spread my legs slightly and he’d be able to step right in. Then he’d realize that I have zero panties on and—God, why do I want to tempt him?

I shyly peer up at him because he’s still standing in the same spot, a mere foot from me. My mouth parts for a soft breath to escape, and the only thing I can think of is the way he kissed me the other night.

My body craves a distraction that my subconscious is shaking her head at, knowing my coping skills are completely unhealthy.

“You’re sleeping in here.” His callused hand falls to my chin, and he tips my face even more. My breathing is erratic at best, and I couldn’t argue with him if I tried.

I nod once, and he has a wicked look in his eye.

I look at his mouth and trace the outline of his lips, remembering how soul-stopping it was to feel them claim me the other night. It was the ultimate first kiss of first kisses, and to think that it was fake…

Imagine if it were real…

Imagine if he actually felt something for me other than distrust or sympathy…

I wonder what it would feel like to be wanted by someone as unwavering as Emory Olson. He’s so sure of himself—even more so on the ice. When he uses a tone that borders on possessiveness with me, I find myself loving every single inflection in his voice.

After I nod, I expect Emory to walk to his side of the bed and leave me to lie on my own, but when he squats down to get on my level, my heart falls to the bottom of my stomach. His warm hands graze my calves to swing my legs over the bed, but hestops at the last second. His fingers dig into my skin, and when I see the look of shock on his face, I know he knows.

His eyes snap to mine, and I almost choke. Too afraid of rejection from the man I have to spend another 358 days with—not that I’m counting—I blurt out an apology.

“I’m sorry!” I try to squeeze my legs together, but he doesn’t let me, so I continue to ramble. “I’m sorry I fell asleep in your bed. I didn’t mean to. I finished watching the game, and the next thing I know, I’m having one of my nightmares, and running into your chest, and?—”

Suddenly, I’m pulled forward to the point that my butt is barely on the side of the bed. “Stop it.” Emory is quiet, but his tone is still demanding. “You’re my wife. You’re supposed to be in my bed.”

“I’m your fake wife,” I remind him. “Which means it’s not your responsibility to deal with me and my trauma.”

“Just like it’s not my responsibility to deal with you wearing my shirt with nothing underneath it?”

The room is on fire.

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