Page 29 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

“Because I’m not taking pity from you or anyone else…”

“It’s not pity. I don’t ‘pity-date’ women.”

“I don’t ‘pity-date’ men who forget we have plans, put me second, or treat me like I’m a side note,” she hissed angrily and swatted at his hand as he reached for her zipper. “Just leave it, and I’m going to tear the seam to get out of it.”

“Don’t tear it. It’s pretty on you. Let me try the zipper.”

“Just go away.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I would rather be alone again,” she bit out harshly, her voice raw as she spoke the words that filled his soul with dread. Both of them stiffened, froze, as it was tossed out there between them almost like a grenade, and the fear taking hold was multiplying tenfold within him.

“I can’t,” he breathed, reaching forher– not the zipper. His arms slipped around her waist, and he felt her tense. His arms tightened around her, holding her to him, as he bent his head just over her shoulder, breathing in the sweet scent of her delicate perfume that was just her—orange flower and soap – a heady yet simple combination that shot straight to his heart.

He hugged her, desperate to keep her close, needing to feel some sort of bond with the woman that seemed so confusing and elusive to him – and he spoke as he heard the first sniffle escape her, standing ramrod stiff in his embrace.

“I’m an idiot,” he whispered shamefully, “I’m scared, the biggest dope on the planet, and I don’t know what to do to fix this, and I’m terrified that you’re gonna leave.”

And she started to soften as he tightened his grip slightly, the two halves melting together – only to feel his heart shatter as he heard her low, tearful voice.

“I have no place to go, or I’d be tempted…”

He closed his eyes against the hurt, feeling so many questions on the tip of his tongue and unsure how to ask them. Instead, he just held her. Her hand was on his forearm, and by some miracle, he felt her other reach up and sink into his hair, holding his head against hers, almost like she was hugging him back.

“Are you coming to the game tomorrow?” he whispered and winced at how selfish it sounded even to him, quickly rushing to add to that sentence so she didn’t think the worst of him. “I hung your jersey in the closet and hoped you would come and cheer me on. I’d love to see you there.”

“I saw it,” she whispered. “Do youwantme there?”

“I do,” he admitted, his voice rough with honesty.

Without thinking, he leaned in, pressing the lightest kiss to the curve of her neck. The moment his lips met her skin, she stiffened—just barely, but he felt it. Regret surged through him.

He shouldn’t have done that.

He had no right.

“Sorry,” he murmured, already pulling back.

“No, it’s okay,” she whispered, and he could hear something uncertain in her tone, something fragile.

He swallowed hard, exhaling slowly. “I just felt like it.”

“It was nice… this hug is nice.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “We should do it more often,” he whispered, the confession slipping free before he could second-guess it. “I like the way you feel in my arms.”

Her breath hitched, and he wondered if she felt it too—the slow, quiet ache that hummed between them, the longing neither wanted to name. Then, so softly he almost missed it, she admitted, “I think I needed this hug.”

His throat tightened, an invisible weight pressing against his ribs. “You know what we need?”

She let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, thick with emotion. “Our heads examined?”

“Maybe.” He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against her skin. He couldn’t resist—he pressed another lingering kiss against the side of her throat, the scent of her shampoo filling his lungs. Gosh, he could get lost in this. Inher.But instead, he exhaled and whispered against her skin, “Come with me…”

She hesitated. “My zipper…”

“No one is going to see,” he assured her, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “And it’s my little secret to know.”

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