All the Way (Hot Jocks #2)(11)

I don’t want to give in to him, I want to be mad about that girl he had in his lap, but that makes zero sense. This is Owen, the manwhore, and if he has one talent, it’s sticking his dick into things on the regular. Well, maybe he has two talents, because he’s also a damn good goaltender.

He’s always been this way—a ladies’ man—and it’s never bothered me before. I guess it’s only bothering me now because I thought he’d be willing to put that aside for a couple of freaking nights and help me.

His eyes plead with mine, and I soften just the tiniest bit.

“I’m ready to get out of here,” I say. “You can give me a ride home, and we’ll talk on the way.”

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.”

I grab my purse and say good-bye to Elise and then Sara.

Ever perceptive, the lawyer of the group, Sara gives me a big hug. “Are you okay? You seem down tonight.” Some of dark hair her has escaped her low bun and her worried blue eyes are locked onto mine.

I nod. “Fine. Just tired, and Owen’s giving me a ride home.”

She nods and doesn’t push further.

Owen stands silently behind me while I say my good-byes, almost like he’s guarding over me. It’s a little disorienting to have a wall of muscle behind me, but I don’t put up a fuss. If he wants to talk—we’ll talk. I just can’t be held responsible for some of the things that might come out of my mouth, because I’m not feeling particularly ladylike tonight.

The ride to my apartment is a quiet one. The dark interior of his SUV smells like his cologne, and the woodsy scent relaxes me. I met Owen through Elise, and he’s always been good to me. He’s also always treated me like a sister, so I can’t help but wonder if this is going to be totally weird.

“Are we going to talk?” I ask.

His hand relaxes on the steering wheel and his thumb taps out a rhythm. “We’ll talk at your place. Cool?”

I find myself nodding.

We arrive at my apartment, and I’m so anxious I can hardly be still. Somehow, I manage to sit down on the couch next to Owen without fidgeting too much.

He takes a deep breath and meets my eyes. I have no idea how he manages to look so calm and relaxed while my heart is hammering against my ribs at an out-of-control pace. His large hands rest on his knees, and he seems totally chill.

“I’ve thought about your proposition. About helping you.”

I nod, waiting for him to continue.

“First, I think we need to talk about what happened to you again,” he says, and when I flinch, he holds up one hand. “Not every detail, not the entire ordeal. I just . . . I need something to go on here.”

“I get it. You kind of need to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not it. I need to know how to help you.”

Oh. Right. “Makes sense,” I say, my voice soft.

It’s not easy to tell him that I was sexually assaulted in college, that it happened when I was walking back to my dorm from the library. I’d lost track of time while studying for my communications final, and it was well after ten by the time I started the fifteen-minute walk across campus.

Owen listens intently, his gray eyes stormy as I recount the details of that night that are lodged so deeply in my brain, I fear I’ll never get them out. The way my attacker shoved me onto the cement behind the building. The way he forced my leggings down and pressed a hand over my mouth. The sick, helpless feelings that come roaring back to life anytime I think about getting naked with a man. The stranger who came to my rescue before things went further.

Other than the way my voice catches over the words at certain points, I’m calm as I tell him this story. I say the words dispassionately, like this was merely a thing that happened to me and not a part of me now. I wish it weren’t. But Owen isn’t looking at me with pity, but instead with wonder, like I’m the most amazing creature he’s ever encountered.

I don’t tell him about the awful year following that event where I insisted on staying on campus, despite my parents’ tearful warnings, or how I acted brave but was afraid of my own shadow, of how I cried myself to sleep every night. I don’t go into the arrest or the trial because Owen already knows that the guy got a slap on the wrist and spent less than forty-eight hours in jail.

When I’m done, I draw in a deep, shaky breath, and Owen pulls me into his arms.

“Fuck, Becca, you’re so damn brave. Thank you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?”

“For trusting me.”

I nod. “I thought I’d moved on. God knows, I’ve had enough therapy. But the truth is, I really haven’t. I never date, and the idea of it is kinda terrifying.”

I’m almost surprised that I even said those words out loud.

I tell myself, my parents, my friends—everyone—that I’m past it, but the truth it, I don’t think it’s something you ever get past. It’s part of me now, part of my history and as much as I wish it wasn’t, it always will be. But I’m coming to terms with the fact that no matter what ugly, nasty thing happened—I still deserve good things—I still deserve love and respect and to be close to someone without panicked feelings overtaking every other emotion.