Page 86 of Mr. Charming

I exit the bathroom a few minutes later, and he’s got his boxer briefs on and his phone in his hand. “So, what do you think? Chinese or pizza?”

It’s always zero to sixty in no time with us.

Thirty-Nine

Tedi

My phone alarm blares, and I reach to grab it from the nightstand, but the phone falls to the floor.

“Grr.” I sling my arm over the edge of the mattress and reach for it, but I can’t feel it.

“Cold.” Tweetie tugs the covers back over him. “Turn it off.”

“I’m trying.” I finally feel the tip of the phone, and I slowly bring it closer until I’m able to grab it. I pick it up and right myself on the bed, turning off the alarm.

Sliding up, I rest my back against the headboard and put the phone back down on my nightstand.

Tweetie rolls over, wrapping his arm around my waist and dropping his head in my lap. My hands mindlessly run through his hair, and he practically purrs like a cat under my touch.

Last night was like we took a time machine back to so many years ago. Before the injury, before the trade and our inevitable breakup. We ordered Chinese food, binged a television series, but stopped when the lingering touches became too much and we couldn’t control our libidos. He fulfilled his promise and fucked me against the wall, then I rode him right before we went to finally fall asleep.

I gaze down at him, grazing my knuckles along his strong shoulder blades. I run my finger over the spot where he got the tattoo removed, barely raised and noticeable now. He stiffens under my touch for a moment before I continue my lazy exploration. He tightens his grip on me, nuzzling his head further in my lap.

Being with him again feels so good. I’m not sure I realized how incomplete I felt all these years. As though I had a missing twin out there somewhere. But with the sunrise, my mind fills with doubts. Am I really ready for this? What happens with my job? Not much has changed, because in a few months when the season is over, I head back to New York. With Tweetie’s contract up, he could end up as far away as Los Angeles, playing alongside Cory, for all we know.

“I can feel you thinking. Stop,” Tweetie mumbles.

“That’s an impossible ask.”

He rolls over, keeping his head in my lap, staring up at me. “Do you regret it?”

I should’ve known. The man reads me better than my own father. “I don’t regret it.”

“But?” He runs his finger up and down along the back of my neck. It’s sensual and loving and makes what I’m about to say that much harder.

“There’s a lot to consider here.”

“Nothing we can’t handle.”

I raise my eyebrows. He knows it, and I know it. “What about after this season when I go to New York and you go wherever you get signed or stay here? Long distance isn’t really our thing.”

He huffs out a breath. Not in anger but annoyance. “I think it could be different.”

“How?”

The last person I ever want to be again is that crazed, insecure woman who convinced herself he was making a fool of her. The obsessed woman who thought she was one comment away from finding out he was a cheater. The hockey blogs are still alive and kicking and causing turmoil in good relationships.

“I’m not in the same headspace as when I was dealing with an injury and trying to find my place on a new team.” He doesn’t stop running his fingers through the strands of hair at the back of his head.

“Not now, but if Bud doesn’t sign you, then?—”

He sits up and rests his back along the headboard beside me, taking my hand. “Then I go to another team, and it’s a little longer or it’s an even shorter distance. Maybe New York wants me? There are a lot of what-ifs in those scenarios.”

“I think that’s what I don’t like.” I turn to face him. “Last night was great.”

“Uh-oh, I feel the ‘it’s not you, but me’ talk coming on.”

I stare down at our joined hands. “Not at all. I just need to ground myself. If this is really going to work, I think we need to pump the brakes a little. Ease into this slowly. We’ve always played hot and loose with our emotions and actions.”

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