Page 62 of Mistlefoe
“Doing okay?” I ask.
“Better than I expected.”
“We’ll have you shooting pucks in no time.” I run my thumbs over her gloved knuckles but stop when she says my name.
“Conor…” Sierra bites her lip and I’m afraid I might’ve shattered the moment, but then she asks, “Do you miss it?”
“Huh?”
“Hockey.” Her eyes tear away from mine, fixing on a messy pile of pucks I didn’t finish picking up earlier. “You looked like a completely different person when you were skating. Like that was who you really are…”
Shit.
My chest twists in a painful way. Somehow, she managed to see right through me in minutes.
I stop us near a faceoff circle, noting how she’s able tobalance herself well enough, and I cling to the pride I feel to have helped her get to that point. Just like I do every time I teach the kids how to play the sport that has been a part of my life from the beginning.
“Yes and no,” I respond in all honesty. Sierra tilts her head in confusion. “Not being able to play feels like… like having lost a family member. But it’s kind of weird, because the grief fills that empty spot so they’re still kind of with you all the time, right?”
Her eyes soften and she surprises me by squeezing my hands. “You’ve lost a lot, Conor. Your parents, hockey…”
I swallow down the lump in my throat and avert my eyes. The last thing I want to do is start weeping like a freaking baby in front of the woman I want. “It’s not all bad. I, um, I’ve gained stuff too.”
“Yeah?”
“I have a new dream now—teaching the next generation of professional hockey players. And other silver linings, like…” I turn back to her and pull her slightly closer. I inhale deep, the subtle scent of the ice mingling with hers, and I bury them in my mind forever. Two of my favorite things.
“I’d still be trapped in a toxic relationship. I wouldn’t have started working atSPORTY…” My heart races, trying to tear out of my chest as I say, “I wouldn’t have met you.”
Sierra’s lips part in a soft gasp, shocked as what I’m implying sinks in. I stay still, waiting for a sign that she’s okay with this, that I can kiss her again and whisper how I can’t stop thinking about her, about her body pressed against mine, about how her clever quips make my soul sing, and how her dark eyes have the power to make my entire existence thrum with music.
Or not. Or a sign that she doesn’t feel this way at all. Or that she doesn’t welcome anything more than a friendlier work relationship than we had before.
Sierra runs her tongue through her lips and says, “Conor, I?—”
“What are you two kids doing there?”
We both jump away from each other. Sierra flails her arms, yelping as her weight shifts. I rush forward and wrap my arms around her before she tilts too far.
“Gramps.” I breathe hard. “How long have you been there?”
Did he hear what I just said? Because if so, I have to prepare myself to find the nearest cliff and jump from it.
As usual he ignores my question, though. “Are you planning to suffocate the young lady?”
“What?” I glance down. I have Sierra pressed tight against me and when I tear away, she takes a big gulp of air and her face is beet red. “Sorry, I?—”
“It’s okay. Maybe, erm, we should start doing some actual work,” she mumbles.
The way she evades my eyes doesn’t bode well. And even though there’s a serrated knife slicing off a chunk of my heart because of what that means, I don’t let go of her hands as I help her to the bench to remove her skates.
CHAPTER 22
SIERRA
Imust be running a fever and this is all a hallucination. That would explain everything from the chills running through my body, to the heat all over my skin that makes my clothes feel too scratchy, to what just happened.
Did Conor Mahoney just allude to feeling something for me?
