by Ciz, Alley
BROADWAY BABY: *GIF of Justin Timberlake saying, “Oh stop it.”*
THE BIG HAMMER: Make sure you stock up. I plan on spending A LOT of time kissing those lips when I get back.
BROADWAY BABY: I don’t know about that, All-Star. I might need to put them on their own bye week after all the kissing I’ve been doing today.
THE BIG HAMMER: Excuse me??? Want to try that again? **wiggles finger in ear** I’m pretty sure I heard you wrong.
BROADWAY BABY: Lol. We’re texting, not speaking. It would be your eyes you’d need to fix, not your ears.
THE BIG HAMMER: Now’s not the time to be cute. Want to tell me again why you need ChapStick?
BROADWAY BABY: Because my lips are chapped.
BROADWAY BABY: *GIF of Michelle Tanner rolling her eyes and saying, “Duh.”*
THE BIG HAMMER: And what, pray tell, are they chapped from?
BROADWAY BABY: Kissing.
THE BIG HAMMER: Like from kissing your hand, your pillow—hell, a poster or life-sized cardboard cutout of me because you miss me so much??
BROADWAY BABY: Ooo, do they sell life-sized cardboard cutouts of you?
THE BIG HAMMER: Answer the question, Mels.
BROADWAY BABY: Ooo, you called me Mels, not baby. You MUST be serious.
THE BIG HAMMER: ???
BROADWAY BABY: Oh no. Your use of question marks is increasing.
THE BIG HAMMER: Mels????
BROADWAY BABY: A Mels and 4 question marks. Okay, okay, before you run out of characters, although *thinking face emoji* can you run out of characters in a text message? Asking for a friend *crying laughing emoji*
THE BIG HAMMER: MELS?????
BROADWAY BABY: Oooo, shouty capitals. Fine, keep your pants on, Donnelly. I was kissing a man, obvi.
THE BIG HAMMER: Melody, I am THE ONLY person you should be kissing. WTF!
BROADWAY BABY: It’s okay. I promise. Joe’s a really good kisser.
THE BIG HAMMER: MELODY BRIGHTLY!!!!!!!!!
BROADWAY BABY: Oh, full-named. And look at all those pretty exclamation points.
THE BIG HAMMER: Don’t make me rent a car and drive the 2 hours back to the city. I will gladly take the fine for being late to kick someone’s ass. I DO NOT find this funny. Who the fuck is Joe??????
BROADWAY BABY: My husband. He made sure to make an honest woman out of me.
THE BIG HAMMER: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!
BROADWAY BABY: Remove the hockey stick from your butt, Donnelly. I’m talking about Joe DiMaggio. You know, my second husband.
THE BIG HAMMER: OH MY GOD. You’ve been talking about the musical THIS ENTIRE TIME?
BROADWAY BABY: Maybe…
Chapter Nineteen
I collapse on the tile floor like a starfish, panting. This week has been brutal. We’ve been learning the choreography for all the big numbers of the show, and Zoey isn’t holding anything back. Hell, she is straight-up kicking the entire ensemble’s ass.
Man down.
No one mourns the wicked, Mels.
“You know…” There’s a shit-eating grin on Zoey’s face as she peers down at me, looking fresh as a daisy whereas I feel like a drowned rat. “For someone who left an active show, you’re pathetically out of shape, boo.”
“I don’t even have the energy to flip you off,” I grumble.
“Maybe if you were actually sleeping with your hockey hunk, your stamina wouldn’t be shit right now.”
“You make me sound like some type of high schooler with a purity ring.”
She snorts, dropping down to mirror my position on the floor, so close our noses almost touch when I turn to look at her.
“Besides…we haven’t gotten to see each other since the night we went to the game two weeks ago. Between rehearsals and his game schedule, we are busy, busy, busy.”
“Please tell me you two are at least having tons of phone sex with your nightly video chats?”
I shake my head.
“Sexting?”
Another shake.
“Not even a dick pic?” The incredulity in Zoey’s voice has me chuckling before I have to wrap an arm around my sore core muscles. My best friend is a dance Nazi.
“Nope. The closest we’ve come to sharing salacious photos was when you busted in on me after my shower and sent him the pic of me in a towel. I still can’t believe you did that, by the way.”
“Sorry not sorry.”
“Melody?” one of the production assistants calls out.
“Yes?” I crane my head back to look at the quintessential Brooklyn hipster.
“You have a visitor.”
“Shit!” I slap both hands over my face. “What time is it?”
“Noon,” he answers then calls to the room, “That’s lunch everyone. See you all in an hour.”
I groan.
Why did the day Jase and I agreed to meet for lunch have to be choreography day?
“Can you let him in?”
“You got it, Mels.”
I should get up, wipe the sweat from my face, straighten my ponytail, something, but I can’t move.
“Hey, baby.” Jase’s deep voice rumbles through me.
“Hey there, All-Star.” I speak through the fingers spread across my face, trying to hide.
“Shavasana is one of my favorite poses in yoga, but I think I’d much rather see you in downward dog.”
The dirty promise in his words sends tingles chasing down my spine. I didn’t lie when I told Zoey we haven’t sexted, but Jase has skated the line with the same precision he uses on the ice.
“Ooooh, dirty talk yoga-style. I like it,” Zoey says, pulling out her phone, and I just know she’s texting Ella.
“Hey, Zo.”
“Loverboy.”
Upside down, I watch one of his blond brows lift, the left side of his mouth hitching up into a lopsided smirk.
“Loverboy?”
“Ignore her. Lord knows I do.” I side-eye my best friend.
Jase moves to stand over me, straddling me with one foot on either side of my hips. He’s dressed casually in a pair of light-wash jeans, a black t-shirt that’s molded to each one of his bulging muscles, a leather jacket, and a black Storm hat worn backward. His teeth flash as his smirk becomes a full-blown smile.
How is it he’s able to look both the bad boy and the boy next door? God he hits me with the razzle-dazzle.
“Are we still going out to eat? Or did you just want to have a picnic right here?”
“We can go out. Help me up?” With great effort, I lift an arm to him.
Ignoring it, he bends, curling a hand around my hips then scooping me up and tossing me over his shoulder as if I weigh nothing.
I let out a squeal as the world goes topsy-turvy.
He smacks my ass, giving the cheek a squeeze.
“Jase.”
“Just giving my girl a hand. Now, what are you in the mood for?”
“Jase, put me down.”
“Nope.”
“Jase.”
“Mels.”
I harrumph.
He chuckles.
Chapter Twenty
Paco’s Tacos is one of the city’s hidden gems. It is small, only big enough for a handful of small pub tables, and looks like what I imagine a food truck would if it had inside seating. It isn’t fancy, but the food is out of this fucking world.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been here,” my girl says as we take our seats across from each other after ordering, my arm easily spanning the wooden table to touch her.
“I picked well then. Paco makes the best fish tacos in the tri-state area.” It’s serendipitous her rehearsal space is only a few short blocks away.
“That’s a bold claim to make, Mr. Donnelly.”
“Oh, baby.” I tuck the errant curl that escaped her ponytail behind her ear. “I told you what it does to me when you call me that.”
“I know, but did you ever stop to think that I like it?”
“Minx.”
“Minx? Reall
y?”
I shrug and pull her in for a kiss. I missed her something fierce while I was gone.
“I pick these things up in book club,” I say when I finally release her.
She rests her chin on her fist, and the way her dark eyes sparkle while looking at me hits me in all the feels.
“Book club?” She arches a brow.
“Are you really surprised to learn this? I mean how could we not actually read the books with me on the cover?” I wave my hands down my upper body as if to say, Look at all this.
“You’re ridiculous.” I don’t miss the way she follows my movements, checking me out. I see you, baby. “But tell me more about this book club.”
“It originally started with us reading Maddey’s books when she started out, but over the years it has evolved into a bi-weekly occurrence.”
The rapt way she stares at me while I explain is everything. We’re not discussing anything deep, but she makes it feel that way.
“How do you manage that with your schedules?”
“They usually do them when the Blizzards are home and the rest of us video-chat in.”
Her expression changes, becoming almost wistful the longer she listens to stories about the antics we get up to. I’m happy she’s starting to lose the doubt she seems to wear around her like armor, but I’m not sure I like what this new look could mean. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it, either.
You gonna nut up and finally ask, Donnelly?
“Rehearsals going good?” I ask, needing to change the subject.
“Yeah. This week feels like it’s been all choreography, all the time. I’m counting down the seconds until it’s the weekend. Weekends off is the one perk to rehearsals.”
“Need a break?”
We sit back as Paco drops off our plates loaded with the famous fish tacos, the smell of fried fish and cilantro making my mouth water. It’s a good thing I don’t have to be as strict with my diet as the fighters, because Gem would have my ass for the work I’m about to put in here.
“A break, an ice bath, a massage—you name it, I need it. Don’t let Zoey fool you—she cracks that whip like no one else.”
“Sounds kinky. Can I watch?”
A napkin hits me in the face, the paper opening up from the ball she crumpled it into.
“You’re such a perv.”
There’s no missing the way she’s biting her cheek to hold back a smile.
“You still like me, baby.” I wink because I know how much she likes it; both Zoey and Ella told me so. They might have Covenette written all over them, but I’ll use their proximity to my girl to my advantage. Besides, they are more than willing to give me all the dirty details—especially Zoey.
“Debatable,” Mels says around a mouthful of food.
Her mmms have my dick stirring in my pants, and I wonder if she’ll make those sounds in bed.
“What if I told you I’d offer up my services and give you the massage you need?”
“Is that just a ploy to get me into bed?”
“Oh, baby.” I wipe a stray streak of salsa from her lip, another one of those mmms escaping at my touch. “I don’t need a ploy to get you into bed. When the time comes, you’ll be begging me to take you there.”
Her eyes flare and she sucks in an audible breath.
I want you too.
The sexual tension crackles between us. It has been too many days since we saw each other in the flesh, and even then we weren’t alone. My family—the ultimate cockblocks.
I need her, my mouth on hers, in a room—preferably with a lock on the door—and hours of uninterrupted alone time. Then maybe the beast inside will quiet down enough to be able to think of something that isn’t Melody, though it’s doubtful.
“Are you excited for this weekend?” She stacks her empty plate on top of mine like I want to be on her.
The All-Star Game.
I have a love-hate relationship with the entire weekend. Love because it’s a good time and the skills competitions are a way to show off in a fun way. Hate because it’s just another time I’m compared to Ryan.
It doesn’t matter that we play different positions; the comparisons always come. He went offense, I went defense. Hell, my entire style of play was crafted around being able to help protect Ryan on the ice growing up. He’s older, but I’m bigger. As a freaking prodigy on ice, there were always people gunning for him.
“It’ll be a spectacle, that’s for sure.”
One of her dark brows lifts.
“Well…” I lean forward on my elbows. “You’ve met the infamous Coven. You think they were bad after a game? You have no idea how they are during these things.”
“Tell me.”
The tingles set off by the absentminded way she traces patterns on my forearm is distracting. What was it she asked?
Oh, yeah. The All-Star Game.
“Okay, let’s see.” Bubble gum invades my senses as I overtake the table with my size, getting as close to her as possible. “Whether it’s all of us like this year or only one, everyone travels to the game. Siblings, parents, Covenettes, friends, babies—you name it, they are there. God, it was a miracle we didn’t incite an international incident during the Olympics with the ridiculousness our family brings.
“I like to exaggerate—at least according to JD—but when I say there are like fifty people who make up our cheering section, it’s a pretty close estimate.”
“I can’t even imagine.” Another wistful expression falls over her beautiful face.
“What about your opening night? You’re the lead, so won’t the audience be packed with your family?”
Her gaze falls, my forearm her sole focus. “No, not really. My brother will come if he doesn’t have work and maybe my aunt and uncle, but that’s about it. And Ella if she’s not a part of the orchestra.”
“What about your parents?”
“Probably not. I think I was in high school the last time they saw me in anything.”
Ah, that’s what I’ve been picking up on.
My heart breaks.
Scrolling through my memory, I recall every time she tensed, looked away, lost the sparkle in her eye, or changed the subject if we were texting when she heard stories of my insane family.
I may have my hang-ups over not measuring up to Ryan, but they do not stem from my parents. That baggage is all my own. Ruth and Robert Donnelly couldn’t be more supportive if they tried.
To hear that her parents can’t bring themselves to show up for something as major as opening night as a lead in a Broadway musical has me feeling a little rage-y.
Broadway show or kindergarten production, your kid has a performance, you show up.
“I’m sorry, baby.” I curl my fingers around the back of her neck, pulling her in and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Silently I vow to always show up when it counts.
Chapter Twenty-One
Walking back to rehearsal after lunch, I thank god for every one of my acting chops. Without them, there would be no way to hide the riot of emotions I’m feeling.
The way his hazel eyes softened to a pale green when he asked about my parents told me he picked up on the hurt, but I shoved it down before he was able to see how deep it actually runs.
Intellectually, I know my parents care, but the only member of my immediate family who has ever showed it is my brother.
And what would he say about you dating Jase?
Ignoring the way my conscience taps its foot at me, I snuggle deeper into the arm wrapped around my shoulders and walk through the door to the rehearsal room.
“Which one of these guys is the one trying to move in on my woman?” He scowls at the room like the big, bad defenseman he is.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Mels.” Is it wrong that I like the way he growls my name? “Show me.”
“Let’s see.” I tap my pursed lips. “Husband number one.” I point to the actor playing James Dougherty. “Husband number three
.” Another point to the Arthur Miller actor. “But the one from the infamous ChapStick day is husband number two.” Finally I point to Mr. Joe DiMaggio.
His hold tightens and I roll my lips to restrain a smile. Pushing onto my toes, lips to his ear, I whisper in my best breathy Marilyn voice, “And don’t forget Mr. President.”
I feel more than hear Jase’s groan as I point out the JFK actor.
“Fuck this.”
I’m hurled around and our mouths fuse together.
Holy hell. Where did he learn to kiss like this? Sure, I’ve spent more time kissing men on stage than in real life, but not once can I recall ever feeling this level of passion. It’s just a freaking kiss, for cripes’ sake.
But the way Jase Donnelly does it is so much more.
There are nips and sucks and don’t even get me started on that tongue ring. How is it I always forget about the piercing until he uses it against me?
Whistles and applause echo in the room, but still, he doesn’t let me go. My fingers curl in the cotton of his shirt, our bodies pressed together like Lego pieces.
With one last drag of the ball bearing across my bottom lip, he releases me, his thumb following the same path. Well shit, Jonathan Groff, I’m totally fucked.
“Mine.” I don’t miss how he says this loud enough for our captive audience to hear.
Oh my god. Are they giving us a standing ovation? Fucking Zoey.
