Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(20)

I take a deep, uneven breath. Tonight has been all fun and games, but now it’s time to remember myself. Remember my life. Remember the mess I still have to clean up, even if I wasn’t the one to make it.

I walk the short distance down the hall to the guest room and close the door behind me, resting my forehead against the cool wooden surface. In the kitchen, the water is running, a loud and steady stream that Grant is no doubt using to wash our dinner dishes. I have the time and privacy to call Jason and finally end things.

But when I pick up my phone to place the call, my hands are shaking. The idea of hearing Jason’s voice and the inevitable screaming match that will follow is something I don’t want to live through ever again. Maybe it’s immature, or even cowardly, but I’m going to text him. I need control in this situation, and I don’t trust myself to keep my cool with Jason’s voice in my ear.

Jason, I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s important that I do this. I can’t be with you anymore. Our relationship has caused me more damage than good, and I need to find the good in my life again. I only wish you well.

I read the message twenty times, editing and tweaking until I’m about to lose my damn mind.

Frustrated, I flop down on the bed, sinking deep into the plush duvet. Squeezing my eyes closed, I try to imagine Jason’s face when he opens this message after twenty-four hours of being ignored, and a suspension from his one true love, hockey, looming in the near future. The hurt and betrayal etched deep into his eyes . . . the tight line of his lips, holding back a curse. The hot, salty tears I’ve spent years wiping away.

No, Ana. He’s not your responsibility any longer.

I open my eyes, lift my phone, and press SEND.

I wait for the revelatory moment, the sensation of blissful freedom, but it doesn’t come. I’m officially a single woman now, but I feel exactly the same. The corners of my eyes prick with tears, even as I smile. And when my phone vibrates with a call from Jason, I turn it off, setting it onto the nightstand without so much as a second thought.

Curling into a ball, I take yet another deep breath. I hear faint footsteps in the hall as Grant moves from the kitchen to his own bedroom. The soft padding of his socks against the hardwood floor fills me with a comfort I’m only recently beginning to recognize.

I’m safe here.

Tears slide freely down my cheeks as I laugh quietly, recounting our strange evening of conversation. Grant is stubborn and a little grumpy. He’s also wealthy, handsome, and single, which is obviously none of my business. But I can tell, underneath all that gruffness, Grant really is a good guy.

And I could use some goodness in my life.





6




* * *





Second Chances





Grant



Waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, I lean one hip against the counter and scrub a hand over my face.

Last night with Ana took an unexpected turn. We had dinner and some wine, which was fine . . . until she prodded me into opening up. It’s something I rarely do, even with people I’ve been friends with for years. I told Ana things that even my own teammates don’t know about me. I told her about my parents, my childhood, asked her about her relationship . . .

That was stupid on my part. There was no point bonding with her over some stupid game of twenty questions. She isn’t going to be here long. Most likely, she’ll eventually go back to Kress. And even then, I couldn’t bring myself to regret the conversation. Yeah, I revealed more than I wanted to, but just the chance to keep her big brown eyes directed at me had felt pretty damn good.

If that makes me a pussy, so be it. I haven’t enjoyed the conversation of a woman in a long time. And even back then, none of them could hold a candle to Ana. Sweet. Generous. Kind. Beautiful, though she doesn’t know it, which is really the best kind of beauty.

I enjoyed a handful of years in my youth where I sampled what was offered. Puck bunnies, or whatever you want to call them—the women eager to share the bed of a professional hockey player just to say they’ve done it. But after a while, it started to get stale, because it wasn’t really me they were interested in. It was fleeting, carnal pleasure they were after, the chance to say they’d fucked a hockey player. They didn’t ask about my childhood or my goals, or what I want out of life after hockey. But Ana did.

And, God, that lasagna . . .

After pouring myself a large mug of coffee, I carry it into the living room, grabbing my phone on the way, and then settle onto the couch. Just as I’m following up on an appointment I made yesterday, the front door opens to reveal Ana—dressed in a bright pink fleece sweater and black yoga pants. Hobbes barrels in between her legs and runs straight for me.

“Hi.” She smiles when she sees me.

“Morning. There’s coffee.” I nod toward the kitchen.

“Perfect. It’s chilly outside.”

Rising briefly, I turn on the gas fireplace, which flickers to life with a soft whoosh. I rarely use the thing, but figure if she’s cold, why not?

Ana’s smile grows as she carries in her coffee to join me on the couch. “Oh, this is so cozy.”

Hobbes flops to the floor with a huff in front of the fireplace.

“So I leave later today for a game on the East Coast,” I say, swallowing a sip of coffee and looking at her over the top of my mug.