All the Way (Hot Jocks #2)(45)

After a few more aggravated slams of the space bar, a low hum comes out of the back of my monitor. Is humming good or bad? And where in the world is our IT guy?

“How’s it coming, Becca?” My boss, the owner of the Hawks, peers into my office. “Do you think you can still have all those speech edits done by the end of the day?”

As if on cue, my computer lets out a loud whirring sound and the screen lights up with the message that it’s rebooting. Thank you, technology gods.

“Sure thing,” I tell him in the cheeriest voice I can muster through my frustration.

My edits to his commencement speech would have taken me only an hour if not for this roadblock. Now I’m probably going to have to start all over, because who the hell knows if it saved my work?

While I wait for this cursed machine to get up and running again, I reach for my phone and shoot a text to Owen, recapping the shitty day I’ve been having, he and I haven’t talked in a couple of days, and it’s better to vent to him than to my boss.

In typical Owen fashion, he responds right away, trying to fix the situation.

What can I do to help?

I chew on my lower lip, considering a response.

Go find whoever invented computers and kick their ass.

Owen responds with a dozen laughing emojis and his own version of a solution.

How about I buy you pizza and you can sit on my face instead?

I crack up laughing. What an Owen response.

But hey, it’s enough motivation to power me through the rest of my day. Once my computer is functioning again, I zoom through editing my boss’s speech at record speed and email it to him way before the end of the day.

Turns out, pizza and oral sex are the ultimate motivational tools. Who knew?

? ? ?

When I walk into my favorite pizza place and see Owen waiting with a large pepperoni and mushroom pie, all the frustration of the day falls away. One smile from him has the power to totally turn my day around. He’s like magic that way.

Owen stands up as I approach the table, pulling me into a hug and a quick, gentle kiss. “One large pepperoni-mushroom pizza, extra cheese. Just the way you like it.”

I don’t know what’s better—the fact that he knows my pizza order, or that he just kissed me in public. It honestly might be a tie.

We waste no time dishing up slices and digging in, chatting about how much computers can suck and pizza heals all wounds.

I smile at him, peeling a circle of pepperoni from the slice on my plate and stuff it in my mouth. I dare a glance up at him, and notice, not for the first time, how handsome he is. Tanned skin, square jaw, the most brilliant blue eyes framed in dark lashes. When he catches me staring, I look down again, focusing on my plate.

It feels like any other normal pizza night we’ve shared over the years. Except for the nagging feeling in my stomach that there’s something between us that needs to be addressed.

“So, I wanted to talk about something,” I say, wiping the grease from my fingers with a napkin. “About your, um . . . sexual interests?”

Owen laughs. “Maybe not so loud, Becs. But of course, we can discuss that. What do you want to know?”

My shoulders loosen. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable talking about it. Maybe this won’t be so weird after all.

“I’m wondering how you got this way. No judgment at all. I’m just curious if this was something you picked up along the way, or if it’s always been what you’re into.”

Owen nods as he swallows a bite of pizza, washing it down with a swig of water. “There’s a story, if you want to hear it. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone.”

I scoot to the front of my chair, leaning in to offer us a bit of privacy in this crowded restaurant, and Owen does the same. “Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

“Well, I was seventeen, which I realize now is too young for this kind of thing. But I was playing as the starting goalie on this new team, and it was a ton of pressure. I was good at it, but fuck, being the one thing standing in the way of the other team scoring? It’s a lot of weight on your shoulders. I had only been playing that position consistently for a few years by that point, and most people who are put in the spot are doing it from the time they’re this tall.”

He holds up his hand, indicating a kid size of around three feet high, and I nod.

“Anyway, I was at hockey camp that summer, and after a grueling day where I let way too many shots in, I was pissed at myself. I was so fired up that I stormed off the ice after the game and punched a locker.”

My eyes widen. “Were you okay?”

“I was fine.” He shrugs. “But that shit hurt, so I yelled, and one of the skating coaches came in. A girl. She was twenty-one. She came in and found me all fired up like that and . . . well, let’s just say she helped me work off some of that angst.”

I knit my brows together as I fill in the gaps he’s intentionally excluding. “You got it on with a counselor in the locker room? At seventeen? With a twenty-one-year-old?”

He nods and grabs another slice of pizza, taking a big bite.

“Owen,” I whisper, “you know that’s basically sexual abuse, right?”

He nearly chokes on his food. “It wasn’t,” he says between coughs, looking around to make sure he’s not attracting any unwanted attention. “Trust me. It was totally consensual.”