Page 34 of Scoring Grey

He pulls up outside the Gate, and I say, “A favor? You just got here. How do you know anyone well enough to request favors?”

“Yet another detail I see no need for you to worry about. Now get out of my car and go inside.”

“Fine,” I harrumph as I grab my bag and open the door.

Before I can turn and close the door, he floors it just enough to close it himself. I look at him like he’s fucking crazy. He could have run over my foot, but he flashes me a shit-eating grin and rolls down the window. “Just making sure you didn’t try to get back in. See ya back at the house,” he says as he pulls away.

“You’re lucky you have a pretty face, Dash Westin,” I mumble as he drives off. That playful smile he flashed me stopped me from jumping on the hood just to prove a point. I won’t be told what to do, but he’s right. It’s why I stepped out of the car rather than demanding he drive me home. I turn toward the Kings’ stadium and blow out a breath of resolve. “Time to rattle some old bones.”

After retying my boots and going through the Gate, I spent a good amount of time deciding how to enter the arena. My first thought was to make my way to the fourth level. Watching from up there seemed like the best option. Up there, my chances of being a distraction and an unwelcome guest in a closed practice were lower. I’d likely be able to watch the remainder of the practice unnoticed, but another thought occurred as I walked toward the steps. I’m not that girl. The one who runs from her fears and hides. The choices that brought me here weren’t out of fear, though not everyone would see it that way. I’m here because I’ve overanalyzed every possible outcome for the past six years, and I didn’t see one where choosing myself and my wants didn’t hurt someone I love. But the flip side is that I’ve been making those decisions alone. By coming to Toronto and agreeing to work on us, I agreed to lean on him. Walking upstairs instead of entering on the first floor, I’d be alone, and I’m tired of being alone.

“Shit,” I curse as I enter the arena and catch the guys warming up on the ice. Of all the times I could have shown up unannounced, why did it have to be warm-ups? I slow my pace as I walk down the tunnel. I can already see him from here, number thirteen. He’s down on all fours, doing adductor rocks. His forearms are resting on the ice; his head is dropped down, a dark blond strand of hair dusting his forehead as he slowly dips back, only to thrust forward. His legs spread, he dips, and he thrusts, and repeat, spread—dip—thrust. Fuck. My insides instantly start to warm.

Groin injuries are one of the most common non-contact injuries in the sport. This muscle can quickly get overworked during the season, and if it’s tight or weak, an injury is imminent. While I don’t want him to pull a muscle, and I know these stretches are essential, the last thing my dwindling defenses need to witness is him thrusting his hips. I don’t think I ever watched him perform this move without blushing, remembering how he looked naked doing it on top of me.

“Stop it, Lou,” I scold myself as I squeeze my eyes closed and run into a trash can, announcing my presence.

Fuck my life, a few heads turn, including Cal’s, and I know his smile isn’t just because he’s happy to see me. He knows precisely what put the flush in my cheeks. Not wanting to look like a creeper hanging back in the tunnel, I try hard to act normal and find a seat, my embarrassment easily extinguishing the fire that was beginning to heat my insides seconds ago.

I hadn’t planned on watching the entire practice, but Dash driving off and leaving me stranded with no other option but to come inside was exactly what I needed. Watching him play in person has brought back so many memories. Not that I had forgotten; after all, our memories are journals we carry around with us, but sometimes we skip a page. I skipped a lot of pages, and now there’s no going back. I want to remember every little thing.

The sound of sticks slapping against the ice breaks me out of my trance. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed as I sat here with my memories. I forgot how much I used to enjoy watching Cal play. I know most women hate watching their man play such a rough sport, and I’ll admit there were a few times my heart skipped a beat as my concern for his well-being gripped me, but Callum Balfour is a force to be reckoned with on the ice. Sure, he’s big, but he’s also fast as hell, and watching him maneuver a stick is equivalent to watching a painter’s hand bring art to life. I’m in awe every time I watch him in his element. I’m not oblivious. I know what the talking heads have been saying about this season. He’s not on his game, but even when he’s not at his best, he’s better than most.

Before I know it, my feet have carried me out of my seat and to the glass. I watch him get a breakaway, glide down the ice with possession, and shoot his shot. The second it hits the net, his eyes flash up and connect with mine right before one of his teammates checks him hard into the glass. The way Cal glares after him, I know that must be the guy he was talking about the other night at dinner with Moon and Roe. We ran into some guys at Blarney’s when we went out for drinks with Dash. That must be how Dash called in a favor. He met the guys, too. Cal forms the letter O with his hand and holds it up for me, and butterflies stir as a mountain of emotions pile on my heart. He remembered our signal. I’m so taken aback that I almost forget to do my part. Raising my hand, I sign back with the letter K. We started doing this after I attended a game that made me sick with worry when he didn’t get up fast enough after taking a hit. He could tell I was shaken up, so he came up with that discreet communication. Whenever he took a brutal hit, he’d hold up the letter O, and when his eyes could connect with mine, I’d finish the word ok by holding up the K. That simple word feels like a mantra now. He’s okay, I’m okay. We’re going to be okay.

As the team shuffles off the ice and toward the locker room, I don’t miss the look Cal shares with his coach as he hangs back on the ice. I know they’re close, but that look spoke of more than just closeness. It looked a lot like love. Once he disappears toward the locker room with the rest of the team, I make my way to the bench as Cal slowly skates his way over.

When I reach the wall, I lean onto my palms, unable to contain the goofy smile that tugs at my lips the second he lifts his eyes to mine, and I see him biting his lip.

“You came to my practice,” he says, removing his helmet and setting it on the wall.

“I did,” I answer as I purse my lips and try to rein in the schoolgirl butterflies attacking my stomach from being here and seeing him in his uniform, just like in the old days.

“Does that mean you’re finally ready to come to a game?” He reaches the wall and sets his stick behind my side as his hands settle outside mine.

“It’s a possibility,” I tease.

“Why does this feel so surreal right now?” His eyes sparkle in disbelief.

“Maybe because it’s been six years since a moment like this has played out.”

“That might have something to do with it. I don’t think you realize how fucking happy you just made me, blondie.”

His arms find my waist, and I pull in a stuttered breath. “Why don’t you tell me?” I say, trying to keep the moment light when it feels anything but. The tension between us is thick, and his words only stoke the fire that started burning the second I entered the rink.

“I’d rather show you,” he says smoothly as he lays his forehead against mine, his intent clear as his eyes zero in on my mouth. “I want to kiss my girl.”

I let his words linger before eliminating another barrier that’s only serving to protect my already fractured heart. The truth is without him, it can only ever beat in pieces. Throwing caution to the wind, I say, “Then what’s stopping you?”

There’s a pregnant pause as though he’s unsure if my words gave him the green light, but when I don’t pull away, he pounces, his mouth crashing to mine. His smooth, plump lips glide against mine for a millisecond, unable to go a moment longer without getting a taste. This isn’t our first kiss. It’s not slow and clumsy; it’s not two lovers trying to figure out how they fit together. We’re not searching for a connection, testing the waters to see if there’s an ounce of chemistry. No, we’re the epitome of star-crossed lovers finally having their moment in the sun, one where their miserable fates no longer dictate their future. We’ve always had an intense, all-consuming passion, but as his tongue explores my mouth, it feels like the years spent apart have only deepened it. As he pulls me tighter, our shared hunger demanding to eliminate any space that remains between us, I realize he’s lifted me off the ground and is pulling me over the wall.

My hand finds his chest, and I break our kiss, concern marring my face as worry etches across his. “I still don’t know how to skate.”

It sounds utterly pathetic. Ice skating feels like something that should have happened at some point in my life, but it hasn’t. When we were dating, he talked about teaching me, but ice skating easily fell to the bottom of the list of things we wanted to do whenever we had time alone.

His frown lines fade, quickly replaced with a smile as he pulls me all the way. “You’re safe with me. I’ll never drop you. These arms will always protect you.”

I hold his golden gaze and wrap my legs around his waist as an invisible haze settles over us, cloaking us from the outside world, or at least that’s what it feels like because right now, as I feel him skate backward into the middle of the rink with me in his arms, the world has fallen away.

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