Page 90 of Puck Yes

“Yes, because I don’t have time for something more than sex,” he says, seeming desperate. “I don’t have the space for this. I can’t get involved.”

I had an unhappy suspicion that was where this was going. “But you’re feeling like that’s happening? You’re getting involved with her?”

I wish this felt like good news. It doesn’t.

He closes his eyes, clearly pained. When he opens them, he says, “I just can’t, Stefan. That’s the issue. I arrived in San Francisco with one goal in mind—land a contract to stay. You don’t get it. You’ve been with the same team your entire career. I’m just bouncing around.”

A new pressure builds inside me. A need to impress on him that he can handle this. It drives me on. “But you’ve had a great start to the season.”

“We’ve only played six games, man. It doesn’t amount to shit.”

I’m not going to blow smoke up his skirt when he makes a fair point. “It’s better than starting with a run of bad games. You’re playing like a rock star. Don’t forget that,” I say, hoping I’m getting through to him.

“Thanks, but romance is a distraction I don’t need.” Slumping back in the booth, he drags both hands through his hair. “How am I supposed to handle her, and this, and hockey, and my dad and Cora and a contract and…everything?”

He sounds at the end of his rope already. But maybe if he can see an alternative to disaster, it will help him hang on. Help him climb up, even. Because I can see it so damn clearly. “So what are you going to do? Just walk away at the end of this arrangement?”

Hayes shoots his focus to me. “What areyougoing to do?”

I say nothing. Because what felt like the answer to my empty nights has quietly become more. I suppose that was inevitable. Some people have hurdles. Some have blockades. Me? I just had a few small complications that I relished untangling. The trouble is, once you clear the complications, you open yourself up to new hurts. To fresh wounds.

I didn’t see this one coming—wanting so much so soon.

Hayes jumps at my silence. “You’re falling for her. I know you are,” he says.

It’s not an accusation. It’s just the truth, the observation of a friend.

I shrug in admission. “Obviously.”

He seems to consider that grimly for a beat, then says, “I’m not going to hold you back when this arrangement ends.” His tone is heavy. “I know you don’t need my permission, but I’d support anything you two choose to do. If you want to go after her, you should. You know that, right?”

Is that what I want? Ivy to myself? The thought weighs me down even more than I’d expected. I guess that’s the problem with two men falling for the same woman when only one of you is willing to let himself fall.

I leave Chicago the next day with a loss on the ice, and a problem I can’t solve.

35

HEAR ME ROAR

Ivy

Breaking news—the fog was a dud.

But I haven’t even been able to talk to the guys about the online poll results. I haven’t seen either my husband or my secret boyfriend since they flew back to town.

It’s weird, especially after the last several days of regular communication. Of nightly plans.

Okay, fine, their flight landed in the middle of the night. I didn’t expect or want a visitor at three a.m., but we didn’t make plans for today either. I wrote to them this morning in our group chat and asked if they wanted to get together today or tonight after the game.

The only response? A note from Hayes saying he was taking part in the optional practice, and then a note from Stefan asking how things were going at the store.

I’m heading to the arena now to debut the next mascot option, feeling off, like my clothes are too tight. Possibly I’m reading something into nothing, but their almost silence feels strange.

Maybe this is just the normal ups and downs of an unconventional arrangement? The thing is—I don’t know the rules. As I near the arena, I mull over the last few days. I’ve been busy too. I had a practice yesterday with the Ice Crew. I spent the day today with Beatrix, Karl, and Roxy, shooting videos and photos for the store’s social feed. I suppose I wouldn’t have been able to see the guys anyway.

But we don’t have plans for tonight, and I’m trying not to let that bother me.Tryingbeing the operative word. I check my phone constantly as I walk, hoping for a text, a picture, a plan. Something like we’ve had since we returned from Vegas nearly two weeks ago.

It stays silent, and my gut twists with worry.

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