Page 23 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
“That sucks.”
“I’m lucky to do what I love,” she says. “So, I’m not complaining.” Her lips curve up into a self-deprecating smile. “Or not much, anyway.”
“I get it,” I tell her and fuck if my hand doesn’t shift of its own volition again, this time tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, the silky strand almost tempting me into stroking. “My job is great, but sometimes people judge it from the outside, turn it into something it isn’t.”
“I could see that.”
I nod, give in to the urge to stroke, gently running my fingers through her hair.
“Do you like it?” she asks quietly. “Does hockey feed your soul?”
“It does,” I murmur. “So much so I can’t imagine doing anything else. I know everyone says it’s just a game, but the truth is, it’s the only place I’ve ever belonged. Losing it would mean losing the only family I have left.”
“Your parents?”
“Alive,” I say softly. “Just not at all interested in their son.”
Her eyes go sad. “I’m sorry.” But before I can say it’s okay, she says, “But I’m happy you get to do something you love.”
“Me too.”
Her lips twitch, curling up the slightest bit at the edges, cutting through my guilt for being here, for invading, for allowing myself closer when I should be pulling back. “Did you know I’ve written a hockey romance series?”
My brows fly up. “That’s a thing?”
She grins and fuck it’s pretty. “Oh yeah, it’s a thing. A big thing.”
The pull toward her intensifies, searing into me, and it’s so intense that it’s hard to breathe, to think.
All I can do is feel.
And right on the heels of that, is the need to yank myself back into reality.
“When’s your family coming by to take care of you?”
It’s an abrupt question, almost harsh.
Her expression clears, going completely blank, any of the teasing in her smile, her eyes disappearing like a puff of smoke.
And I know I’ve fucked up.
I just don’t know how big.
Eight
Faye
When’s your family coming by to take care of you?
One second, I’m thinking about my two favorite things: books and my favorite fictional characters.
And don’t tell anyone, but even though I don’t like watching it—like really don’t like watching it—my hockey boys are my favorites.
They’re sweet and strong with wicked minds and very skilled…parts.
And then they’re whooshed right out of my head…
By my past.
