Page 70 of Stick Handled

I can’t stop smiling.

It’s stupid, really. I woke up in Damien’s bed this morning with the kind of happiness I didn’t know was possible. He wasn’t there, so I woke up to a text from him saying that he was at a meeting with the Panthers’ manager.

The sheets smelled like him, and the memory of his arms wrapped around me was enough to make me feel warm all over. We’d showered and then went to bed like he said we would. I was half-asleep by the time he started looking for a T-shirt to give me, my legs barely holding me upright.

The things he said last night keep playing in my head on a loop—the praise, the compliments, how he’s in love with me.

Damien Colton is in love with me.

The thought alone sets fireworks off each time I remember it. I’ve never been in love before, never had anyone tell me they’re in love with me, and definitely never expected it to feel like this. Like I’m walking on air. Like I’m finally enough, just as I am.

But now, I’m sitting across the dinner table from Rowan, trying not to let the giddiness show too much. He’s been quiet tonight, pushing food around on his plate more than actually eating it. His shoulders look tight, his jaw clenched.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, setting my fork down.

“Yeah,” he mutters, not looking up.

I frown. “You sure? You seem… I don’t know. Stressed.”

He exhales sharply, finally meeting my eyes. “It’s been a long day, alright? The game, the press, all the questions… it’s exhausting.”

That makes sense. Rowan hates media days. He always says it’s the worst part of his job.

“You’ve been playing amazing, though,” I offer, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Thanks,” he says, but there’s no warmth in his tone.

I hesitate, studying him. Something feels off. Normally, Rowan is quick to shake off a bad mood, but tonight, there’s an edge to him that I can’t get rid of.

“What about you?” he asks suddenly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at me. “How are you feeling?”

The question catches me off-guard.

“I’m good,” I say carefully, watching his expression. “Why?”

“Can’t I just ask?” he says, but his gaze lingers on me for a beat too long before he looks back at his plate.

There’s something about the way he’s acting that puts me on edge. It’s like he knows something he’s not saying.

I take a sip of water, trying to figure out how to bring it up. I’d been planning to tell Rowan about Damien eventually. I even rehearsed it in my head, imagining every possible way he might react. But now, sitting across from him, I know tonight isn’t the right time.

He’s already wound up, and I don’t want to push him over the edge.

“I don’t think you’ve ever come home this quiet before,” I tease lightly, trying to cut through the tension.

“Yeah, it’s been a hell of a day.” Rowan smirks faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. My eyes fall on his hand, pushing the fork around. His knuckles are red, and I don’t know how I’m just noticing it.

“Oh my god, Rowan,” I breathe out. “What happened to your hand?”

He looks at me and then down at his hand before shaking his head.

“Boxing. I forgot my gloves today.” He shrugs and pops a cherry tomato into his mouth.

“Seriously, though. Is it just the press stuff? Or is there something else?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.

“Because you’re being weird,” I say bluntly.

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