Page 12 of Unravel Me

I need to quit this and quit it hard.

The dating, not the wine. The wine stays, the girl goes.

I don’t know why I keep thinking this one might be different, that the more time I spend out here in the dating pool, the quicker I’ll find the one. Jaxon says I’m delusional, to just enjoy the dates, take them home, and have some fun. I don’t think he and I have the same idea of fun.

Look, would I like to have sex? Obviously. It’s been over a year. I’m developing premature arthritis in my wrist, and I’ve only recently turned twenty-six. But by the time every date ends, I’d rather be subjected to a lifetime of wearing a wrist brace and giving up my career as a top-paid goalie in the NHL than spend any more time with these women.

Plus, they’re not even in it for the sex. That’s the problem a lot of guys on my team have: women who just want to say they’ve had sex with a famous hockey player.

My problem is they want more. I want more, too, but the more I want is genuine. The more they want is dollar signs.

“Oh! Hey, you!” Alessia waves down our waiter as he passes by with a tray of food. She points at the nearly empty bottle of wine. “Could we get another bottle?”

Scott lifts a brow in my direction, and when I nod, his mouth tips in a small smirk. I come here about twice a month, because Scott respects my privacy and reads my cues. He tends to my dates like royalty, and when things are looking especially grim, he tells me the chef would like to meet me. Then he shoves me out the kitchen door for a five-minute breather while he tries to speed up the rest of the dinner service.

Alessia looks around the restaurant, pouting. “We should ask him to switch our table. We’re tucked all the way in the back.”

“It’s nice back here,” I counter softly, sipping my ice water. “It’s quiet.”

Jesus, can her pout possibly get any bigger? How far out does that bottom lip go? “Barely anyone can see us back here.”

“I like my privacy,” is my simple reply. I don’t feel like getting into all the reasons why she’d rather be front and center with me.

Alessia popped into my inbox on Tinder a week ago. Her profile showed pictures of her with horses and dogs, her with her arms wrapped around her grandma in her nursing home bed, and hiking through the Appalachian Trail. She was sweet and didn’t say a whole lot, just that Bear was cute in my profile picture and that she loved hiking too. Three days ago, I asked her if she’d like to have dinner, and it’s been downhill since. The kissing emojis, the never-ending messages throughout the day asking for constant updates on what I’m doing, who I’m with. The second I saw her out front of the restaurant tonight, she threw her arms around my neck and planted her lipstick on my cheek.

I like physical contact. I like intimacy. But I want it to feel natural. Like it did earlier today when that little honey-and-rose-colored-hair cutie tripped over her own feet and tumbled into me when I told her to shove her handshake.

My mind drifts to Rosie for the hundredth time today, the easy blaze of her cheeks, the flecks of gold that danced in those light green eyes, the way she snorted when she laughed and looked so damned relieved when she thought I didn’t notice.

Everything about her was natural. Her smiles, her giggles, the timid way she kicked off her shoes and waded through the creek with me while watching the beauty around us.

“So you just re-signed your contract with the Vipers,” Alessia says, breaking my thoughts. Her eyes glitter with excitement as she leans closer. “Ten-point-five million a year for the next eight years?”

“I thought you didn’t keep up with hockey.” Specifically, she told me she had to look me up when I told her I played professionally.

She waves my words away. “So, what are you gonna do with all that money? Buy a new house? Where do you live now? How many bedrooms? Can you see the mountains?” Her eyes widen, and she grips my hand in both of hers. “Oh my God, have you ever been to Paris? It’s so beautiful, especially in the fall. We should totally go.”

“I have hockey,” I remind her, trying to pull my hand back. Alessia laces our fingers together, and I swallow a groan when a flash from a phone goes off from across the restaurant.

“Can you book a week off?”

“That’s not how it—” I sigh. “That’s not really how hockey works, not with a contract.”

“Oh.” She frowns, then grins. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful at Christmas too.”

“You told me you spend the day with your grandma at the nursing home.”

“Grams will probably be dead by then. If she’s not, I’ll just skip. It’s not like she’ll know.” She fishes her phone out of her purse and promptly shows me a series of pictures of her posing next to her sleeping grandma, giving the peace sign while she grins or purses her lips.

What in the sweet fuck have I gotten myself into?

“Um…” I pour the remainder of bottle number one into my glass, then toss it back, hoping it’ll burn the memory of this conversation. “So you hiked the Appalachian Trail.”

She rolls her eyes and folds over the table, clapping her hands to it. “Oh-em-gee, it was the absoluteworst. I hate nature. I hate bugs. I hate walking. I treated myself to a five-day spa vacation after that nightmare.”

Whatever was left of my heart sinks to my gut, churning.

“Your bottle,” Scott murmurs, appearing at our table. He uncorks the wine, pours a sample into each glass, and smiles. “Mr. Lockwood, if you’d be so kind, our head chef would love to meet you. He’s a big fan of yours.”

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