by Elle Kennedy
Garrett on one cheek, Graham on the other.
I can’t.
I just fucking can’t.
Without a word, I turn on my heel and stalk out of the room. Pulling my shirt on as I get into the elevator still carrying the bottle of water. Swear to Christ the next person who messes with me is getting clobbered.
Downstairs, my mood gets darker and more turbulent as I get into it with the manager at the front desk, who seems to have mistaken me for someone with patience to spare. Like, dude, we could talk about your woefully inadequate security that let a naked chick in my room with my name on her ass like she’s looking to put my skin on a stuffed animal on her bed, or you could just give me a new room so I can go to fucking sleep.
While I’m waiting for them to finally get their act together and move my stuff, I text Logan.
ME: Hockey gods decided to spare you tonight. Just found a groupie in my bed. Bows on her tits and my name in Sharpie on her ass.
HIM: Bahahahaha. You go girl.
HIM: Permanent marker, eh? Wish my stalkers had that kind of dedication.
ME: Getting a new room now, so don’t shout random shit at my door. Won’t be there.
HIM: Why didn’t you just come crash with me?
ME: Cuz I’m a grown man who doesn’t need his hand held every time I’m assaulted by a pair of strange tits?
HIM: Your loss. We coulda cuddled.
Snorting, I exit the chat thread and find Hannah’s name. With all the press crawling around this hotel, I’d expect the rumors to hit the web within the hour.
ME: Don’t look at any of the sports blogs. Maybe stay off social media altogether.
HER: You shank a ball and kill an endangered egret or something?
ME: Nah. Found a crazy naked lady in my bed. Hotel is trying to argue that’s a feature, not a bug.
HER: Lmao at least I wasn’t in the bed this time.
Guilt settles like a rock in the pit of my stomach.
ME: I’m sorry. I wish the pro athlete life wasn’t so goddamn intrusive. Just didn’t want you to get blindsided.
HER: No worries. I trust you not to cheat on me with some random puck bunny.
Not that I expected anything else, but Hannah being chill about this feels like the one win I’ve had today. She’s the single thing in my life I don’t have to stress about. We’re just good, always, no matter what. When everything else is out of control, this woman grounds me.
ME: I mean, if you want to be a little jealous, that’s cool too…
HER: Oh, I’ll cut a bitch. They don’t want to try me.
I catch myself smiling for what feels like the first time in days.
ME: Miss you. Can’t wait to get home.
HER: Hurry back. Love you.
It’s times like this I remember why I fell so hopelessly hard for this girl.
37
Hannah
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” my mother says, over the canned thunder of the supermarket produce aisle when the sprayers kick on. That used to fascinate me as a kid. “Are you breaking up?”
“No, Mom. Everything’s fine.” I’m lying on the living room couch with a packet of crackers that I can’t seem to eat. Every time I take a bite, I feel nauseous.
“Tommy at the meat counter just said something about an affair.”
Tommy at the meat counter should stay in his lane.
“Just some dumb gossip. Don’t pay attention to it. I don’t.”
The rumor mill spins up fast; the moment I opened my eyes this morning, my phone was blowing up with texts and DMs. My group chat with the girls was full of hilarious links from blogs running breathless articles about the naked woman caught in Garrett’s bed in California. Churning out all sorts of feverish speculation.
The writers over at Hockey Hotties—and I use the term “writers” loosely—finally retracted their previous speculation that Garrett and Logan are secret lovers. Now they’re convinced Garrett is cheating on me with a Palm Springs escort. And Logan is cheating too because apparently he wanted a turn with the call girl. It’s the kind of ridiculous, misogynistic garbage I’ve come to expect from the tabloids, these rags obsessed with the love lives of pro athletes. But the fact that the gossip reached my mother in Indiana is more headache than I bargained for.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” Mom is saying. “What terrible things to write.”
“It comes with the territory.” I knew that when Garrett went pro. Though it doesn’t make it any easier when you become the main character in the sporting news for the day.
My mom is very good at reading my mind, saying, “Still, these things can take their toll on a relationship.”
“It’s not my favorite thing,” I admit. “You know I prefer to stay out of the limelight these days.”
Being a songwriter and producer is something a select few have turned into a highly visible gig, but I prefer being in the background. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem getting up on stage and performing in front of an audience; I did it all the time at Briar. And I don’t lack confidence. But ever since my boyfriend became a national hockey sensation, I’ve come to realize I really don’t enjoy the constant attention. I could’ve tried my hand at a singing career after college, but it holds no appeal for me anymore. The paparazzi, the mean tweets, the public’s obsession. Who the hell needs that.
“I hope he knows how lucky he is to have you.”
“He does,” I assure her.
And while I’d expect my mom to worry about me, the truth is, I put up with all this nonsense because at the end of the day, being with Garrett is worth it.
Once I’ve allayed Mom’s fears, I heave myself off the couch, abandoning my uneaten crackers to go check the mail on the front stoop. The mailbox is stuffed with bills, flyers, more bills, more flyers—and a royalty check from Elise.
I step inside, leaving all but one envelope on the hall credenza. A knot forms in my stomach as I open the flap. Or maybe it’s the nausea ramping up again. But Elise did say obscene. She’d said obscene, right?
I close my eyes and take a deep breath before staring down at the numbers on the check.
I see zeroes. And more zeroes. They keep going until my legs get a little unsteady and I reach for a chair.
Three hundred thousand dollars.
I’ve never seen so much money in my life.
This is a life-changing amount. Enough to carve a big dent in my parents’ debt. Maybe even get them out of that house. Oh my God.
The possibilities flood my mind. I’ll have to discuss it with Garrett. I heed the silent reminder, trying not to get ahead of myself. But this could be a real opportunity to change my parents’ lives.
If they allow it, a little voice reminds me.
Because it’s true, the last time I broached the subject of helping with their debts, they’d completely shut me down. Or rather, they’d shut Garrett down. After his rookie year, he’d signed a five-year multi-million-dollar contract with the franchise, so much money we’d both been floored by the amount. And being the amazing person he is, Garrett immediately offered to take care of my parents’ debts—to which they’d responded with an unequivocal no way.
And Garrett thinks I’m stubborn. I can’t even count how many conversations I had with them, but Mom and Dad wouldn’t budge. Mom said it wouldn’t be right. Dad said he refused to let his future son-in-law incur his debts. I swear, they’re too proud for their own good.
But this might be different. Technically this is “my” money, even though Garrett and I share our finances. If I play this carefully, maybe I can convince my folks to finally accept my help.
As excitement eddies in my stomach, I spend much of the afternoon researching home prices in Ransom, Indiana, and the penalties for breaking a mortgage early. I even leave a message for a real estate agent down there so I can ask some questions. Get a sense if this is even a feasible idea. But Lord, how incredible would it be if Mom and Dad could pay off their de
bts and move to Boston? Or hell, even Philly, if they wanted to be closer to Aunt Nicole. Obviously I’m partial to Boston, but I’d just be happy to have them out of Ransom.
That town holds nothing but bad memories for me and my family. When I was fifteen years old, one of my classmates sexually assaulted me at a party, and life was never the same after that. I was accused of some pretty horrible things, the worst being that I’d made up the entire encounter. My parents were shunned, ostracized, all the while being forced to interact with my attacker’s parents, one of whom is the mayor of Ransom.
Fuck that place. If Garrett’s on board, I’m spending every dime of that royalty check to rescue my folks, and this time they’re not going to stop me.
My spirits are soaring sky-high when Garrett gets home that evening. He’d messaged from the plane earlier complaining that the food sucked, so I make sure to have takeout waiting from his favorite restaurant.
No matter how short the time away, the minute he walks through the door, he greets me like he hasn’t seen me in months. Drops his bag in the hallway, grabs my hips, and presses his mouth to mine. The greedy kiss steals the oxygen from my lungs, leaving me breathless.
“Hey,” I say, smiling against his lips.
“They’ve got to stop sending me to these things.”
“That bad?”
“I feel like I should give those guys their money back.”
“So I guess we can cross pro golfer off your post-hockey retirement plan?”
“Shouldn’t seem that different, right?” We head toward the kitchen when he catches a whiff of the food warming in the oven. “A stick and a projectile. But half the time I couldn’t even tell where the damn ball went.”
I can tell from his posture that his poor performance on the green isn’t what’s really got him stressed out. In an earlier text, he’d given me the heads-up he’d agreed to do The Legacy with his dad, but hadn’t elaborated. I hate to broach the subject, but I’m too curious not to.
“So, ah, what made you agree to the ESPN sit-down with you and Phil?” I hedge, handing him a beer.
“I got strong-armed into it,” he grumbles before taking a swig. “Basically, the bastard went ahead and accepted on my behalf. Landon said it would raise too many eyebrows if I backed out now.”
“Dude. Your dad is such a dick.”
“Dude. I know.” But he’s smiling now, watching me over the lip of his bottle. “You look happy. I mean, of course you are, because I’m home—”
I snort. My man is a paragon of modesty.
“But what else is up?”
Unable to mask my glee, I walk over to the side table and grab the royalty check. With a flourish, I hand it to him. “Surprise.”
His eyes jump from the paper to mine. “Holy shit! Are you serious? This is for one song?”
I nod, bringing my own glass of sparkling water to my lips. “Yup. The one I wrote for Delilah,” I confirm before taking a sip.
“This is incredible. Damn, Wellsy. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” I’m rather pleased with myself when his bottle taps my glass in a jubilant cheers.
“I mean it. I’m so proud of you.” His silvery eyes shine bright. “I know how hard you work. And it’s paying off. For real.” He pulls me into a hug. “You deserve it, babe.”
This is the time, a voice urges. Tell him now.
I should. I really should. But this is the first time in ages that I’ve seen him this relaxed. No tension in his shoulders. Joy in his eyes. The moment I tell him I’m pregnant, this lightness will turn heavy. It’ll force us to have days’ or weeks’ worth of deep discussions that my mind doesn’t want to get weighed down by at the moment.
So I bite my tongue, and we sit for a nice dinner. Maybe I’m a coward. I probably am. But I don’t want to ruin what is otherwise a brief and perfect moment. We get so few of these lately.
We don’t even make it through dessert before Garrett’s got his hands on me. Feeling me up while I grab spoons out of the drawer so we can split the huge slice of chocolate mousse cake I picked up from my favorite bakery. But Garrett’s not interested in cake, and when he peels my shirt up to squeeze my breasts, I shiver uncontrollably and forget about it too.
Suddenly we’re stumbling clumsily toward the living room, because it’s closer than the bedroom. Tripping over clothes that are falling to the floor. We follow suit, falling onto the carpet. Naked and sucking each other’s faces off.
“God, I love you,” he grunts, his teeth sinking into my shoulder.
The tiny sting makes me moan. I squeeze his bare ass and lift my hips to press myself against his straining erection. Being in his arms again, after even just a couple of days, reminds me how addictive this feeling is. The raw chemistry between us. How much I love him.
The shivers return when he starts kissing my breasts. Holy fuck, my boobs are hypersensitive and it’s making my vision waver.
And after weeks of not noticing my constant bathroom trips and the new development of the smell of eggs making me queasy, Garrett chooses this moment to notice something: my swollen, tender breasts.
“Jeez, your tits feel so full,” he mutters, cupping them with both palms. “You getting your period soon?”
I almost burst out laughing.
Do it now, I order myself. Tell him.
I mean, this is the perfect opening. “Well, you see, my period hasn’t come in two months. Surprise! I’m pregnant!”
But then he’ll stop doing this—lowering his head to suck on one aching nipple. And it’s so sensitive, it sends ripples of pleasure dancing through me. I let out a blissful moan. Oh my God. Maybe pregnancy isn’t so bad. Maybe this hormonal hurricane that’s wreaking havoc on me finally has some benefits. Like the exquisite agony of Garrett’s mouth on my nipple. How impossibly wet I am when he slips his hand between my thighs.
He feels it too, groaning loudly. “Jesus,” he grinds out. “Is this all for me?”
“Always,” I mumble against his lips.
He kisses me again, his tongue seeking mine, at the same time he plunges inside me, his thick length filling me to the hilt. Then he fucks me on the living room floor carpet that we’d argued about buying for nearly an hour when we’d moved into this brownstone. I’d wanted something more durable, easier to vacuum. He’d argued valiantly for the longer, softer shag. And then after I kept asking why, he got frustrated. In the middle of IKEA, in front of a sales associate whose anxious gaze was ping-ponging between us, Garrett had yanked me closer and growled in my ear, “Because there’s gonna be a time when I’m too hot for you to make it to the bedroom, and I’ll end up fucking you on the living room floor. Sue me for wanting your ass to be comfortable.”
In response, I’d shut up and told the sales guy we wanted the carpet.
Now, I’m rolling Garrett onto his back and straddling his muscular thighs as he thrusts upward, filling me completely. He looks so gorgeous lying there at my mercy. Gray eyes molten, eyelids heavy. His bottom lip is captured between his teeth as he lets out a labored breath, clearly struggling for control.
“Don’t fight it,” I tell him, my nails scraping his defined pecs as I lay my palms flat to his chest. My lower body grinds him, bringing us both closer to the edge. “I’m almost there.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I squeeze my thighs together, and he groans, his features going taut. “Coming, baby,” he groans.
I watch him as he does, loving the noises he makes, the way his eyelids go heavy before closing altogether. The feel of him finding release inside me triggers my climax, and soon I’m the one making noise, eyes squeezed shut as I collapse on top of him.
A while later, we finally make it back to the bedroom, where we take a shower before falling into bed and getting sweaty all over again. As I’m drifting off to sleep in Garrett’s strong arms, I promise myself I’m going to tell him tomorrow.
38
Hannah
I’m going t
o tell him today.
I can’t not tell him today.
I’m reaching the point where I don’t think I can delay it any longer. It’s been a week since our living room sex-fest, and I still haven’t put on my big girl pants and told my boyfriend we’re with child. But Allie’s right—Garrett is going to start recognizing the changes in me. Last time, he’d noticed my swollen breasts. Who knows what he’ll notice next time. And next time, maybe he’ll connect the dots.
So today’s the day. All I have to do is wait for Garrett to finally drag his ass out of bed so I can tell him. Though in his defense, it’s only eight in the morning. I’m the one who woke up at an ungodly hour.
I thought the upside to pregnancy was not having period cramps, but joke’s on me. Now I have pregnancy cramps. I woke up at the crack of dawn feeling like I was getting kicked in the stomach by a horse. Even a long, hot shower and some Tylenol hasn’t done anything to abate this sensation that makes me long for last week’s constant nausea.
No excuses, an inner voice pipes up, that wise part of me that knows I’d been about to convince myself to use cramps as an excuse to stall again.
But nope. No stalling.
Today is the day.
“Motherfucker!” Garrett shouts from the bedroom.
Okay, maybe today’s not the day.
Lying in the living room with my laptop and headphones while I work on a new song, I jump at the outburst. Sliding the earphones off, I hear what sounds like Garrett cursing and getting into a scuffle with our closet.
I hurry toward our room. “You okay in there?”
“Do I have to wear a tie to this thing?” He comes out half-dressed with a wad of ties in his hand.
“What thing?”
He spares me a dark look. “The Legacy interview. The first taping is in a couple hours.”
Yikes. Today is definitely not the day.
I’d totally forgotten Garrett was doing that this morning. Stupid pregnancy brain has been kicking in lately, jumbling my thoughts. Yesterday I couldn’t remember where I’d left my car keys, searching for twenty minutes before realizing I was holding them in my hand.
