Page 52 of Fair Play
Then Dad died and it’s been…hard.
Hard to visit the house I grew up in.
Hard to go home knowing I’ll never hear his laugh again or get one of his looks—the ones that told me he was either proud, disappointed, or pissed. I was a little closer to my dad than to my mom and sisters, but even with him, we kept each other at arms’ distance.
And I wish I knew why I allowed it to happen, regardless of the circumstances.
I told myself I was busy. Distracted. Needed to focus on hockey. On my wife. On a million other things—but never my family. Now Dad is gone and I’m back in Los Angeles. It feels like fate is telling me it’s time to reevaluate, and thinking about Billie makes me believe I may have already started.
Old habits die hard, though.
In my defense, my mom can be a busy body, always wanting to know what I’m doing and who I’m doing it with. She attempted to micromanage the trajectory of my hockey career when I was a teenager and never stopped trying, even when I got to the pros. And the harder she pushed, the further away I stayed. She’s been better since I moved back to L.A. but I also haven’t given her much opportunity.
She didn’t like either of my wives, which didn’t help anything, and there were a lot of I-told-you-so’s after each divorce. As a result, I’ve kept both a geographical and emotional distance and at this point, I don’t know how to fix it or if I even want to.
“Mr. Castellano.” A tall man with white hair and glasses comes in. “Looking at your scans, I think this is a moderate strain. Obviously, you’ll see your own orthopedist when you’re back home, but you’re going to need to take it easy.” He goes through a litany of what I’m not supposed to do, coupled with ice, rest, and a bunch of other bullshit that all amounts to the same thing—I won’t be able to play for weeks. Possibly months.
Fuck. Me.
I already suspected but having it confirmed sucks.
The flight homeis long and uncomfortable. My leg is throbbing, despite the painkillers the doctor gave me, and I’m almost grateful Bodi drove us to the airport so I have to get an Uber home.
I arrive late in the afternoon and the townhouse is empty. Billie’s at work, Bodi’s still on the road trip, and this might be the first time I’ve been alone in the house since Billie moved in. Thesilence is peaceful but also jarring—I’m so used to seeing her on the couch, puttering in the kitchen, or listening to music.
After a quick shower, I strip down to my boxers and get into bed. The painkillers make me sleepy, and since I don’t have anywhere to be until I see the orthopedic surgeon tomorrow, I allow myself to drift off.
The next thing I know, there’s a warm hand on my shoulder, soft hair tickling my chest. I force my eyes open and manage a smile as I peer up at Billie’s sweet face.
“Hey, baby.” My voice is hoarse from sleep.
“Hi. How are you?” She sits beside me, running her hand across my chest.
“Sleepy,” I admit. “From the drugs.”
“I can leave you to—” She starts to get up but I reach for her hand.
“Don’t go.”
“Okay.” She sinks back down and twists to look at my leg. “Oh, Rome, look at your thigh…” She gets up again, but it’s so she can lean over and rest a gentle hand against the wicked bruise that’s formed. “Does it hurt to the touch?”
“Not when you touch it like that, but in general, yeah, it’s sore as fuck.”
“What can I do?” She moves her hand across the bruise, her touch feather-light.
Jesus, that feels good and my eyes close involuntarily.
If she keeps that up—dammit.
I’m already getting aroused and since I’m not wearing anything but fitted boxer briefs, there’s no way to hide it.
“Honey, I?—”
She doesn’t stop the gentle circles on my inner thigh, up and down from my knee to the crease of my leg, the warmth of her hand leaving a trail of pleasure in its wake.
“What? You think I’ve never seen an erection before?” She peeks over at me through her lashes. “I promise I’m not a virgin. But I can stop if you don’t like it.”
“No…I like it. A lot.”
