Second Dive: A Second Chance Sports Romance (Kings Of The Water Book 3)

by Jasmin Miller

Then he climbs on the bed beside me, still avoiding my gaze. “Can we lie down for a bit?”

  His voice cracks at the end, which unravels something inside my chest.

  His emotions mix with my own, my memory of when I first found out and how I reacted, how my parents reacted. It was so similar, the shock on all of our faces. The paralyzing panic and inability to process the info properly, the unwillingness to accept any of it.

  “Of course.” I climb toward the top of the bed and lie down on my back, holding my arms open toward him. “Come here.”

  And he does.

  He lies down beside me and places his head right on the long scar on my chest that starts under my neck and goes all the way down to just past the end of the sternal bone under my breasts.

  Right on the heart that beats for him like it knew him all along, like it loved him all along.

  But seeing his reaction—which almost justifies leaving him—causes my second heart to shatter into a million pieces for Noah Winters as a single tear runs down my cheek.

  Twenty

  Noah

  When I open my eyes, it’s dark outside.

  My cheek is still on Chloe’s chest, the same way I lay down on her earlier after her confession.

  I swallow hard, pushing all thoughts away about what Pandora's box we opened. I still have so many questions I want answered—need answered—but right now, I don’t want to think about any of them. I just want to hold on to Chloe some more. To be with her.

  The alarm clock on the nightstand confirms it’s the middle of the night. Chloe must have turned off the light at some point, but since the curtains aren’t drawn, there’s enough moonlight coming through the windows to illuminate the room in a light glow.

  It also allows me to see Chloe’s body under me when I slowly raise myself. Her skin shimmers in the silvery light as my eyes move from her stomach to the breast that’s closest to me. Staring at her perfect brown nipple that I want another taste of.

  My dick stirs in my boxers, wanting another round. Not having had enough of this woman yet.

  After a deep inhale, my gaze wanders and stops in the middle of her chest.

  My own chest restricts just like earlier, still incapable of understanding what the fuck happened to her. Unwilling to accept any of it.

  But there’s that scar.

  When she said anti-rejection drugs earlier, and I put two and two together, I wanted to throw up. I wanted to revert back to being a child, throw my hands over my ears, and pretend none of this was happening.

  A new heart. Fuck. Not only have I heard more than enough stories from Daisy about her work at the hospital over the years, but I’ve also attended my fair share of fundraisers and organ donations is always an important topic.

  My gaze focuses back on the scar. It’s lighter than most of the surrounding skin, only darker in a few spots. But it’s long, and I have to close my eyes from the images penetrating my mind. Doctors cutting so much of her body open to get out the one piece of her that I once thought of as mine.

  Why wasn’t I there for her?

  The sense of having failed her is so strong, I have to cover my mouth with my fist to keep myself from choking on these emotions.

  All this time I thought she left me for a better life, not wanting me anymore because I wasn’t good enough for her.

  But now? Now, I don’t know shit.

  My mind keeps spinning, my thoughts buzzing so loud, that the urge returns to hold my ears shut.

  Instead, my fingers reach out to touch her chest, to trace the scar with featherlight touches, not wanting to wake her, yet unable to not feel her skin with mine.

  A longing to please her, to make her—make both of us—forget about everything that just happened surges through me, literally propelling me forward.

  Toward her body. Wanting to reunite with her again.

  Because that’s the one thing that’s still right with us right now.

  Our bodies. They still unify in a way I’ve never experienced with anyone else. Like we were meant for each other and no one else. The perfect match.

  Her scar feels soft in the lighter spots, contrary to the rougher dark ones that still retain some smoothness. Her breast is right in front of my face, her chest still evenly rising and lowering.

  My gaze is on her breast, that nipple silently taunting me, begging me. Unable to control myself, I latch on to her nub like it holds the sweetest nectar of them all.

  Of course, this doesn’t go unnoticed. Chloe’s breathing hitches, and when I swirl my tongue around her taut peak, her eyes fly open.

  Neither one of us says a word as I take my sweet time with one breast before moving over to the other, but not before kissing every single millimeter of her scar from the bottom all the way to the top.

  When I reach her collarbone, I get sidetracked by her throat that’s been working almost mechanically, entrancing me with its rhythm. I make my way up one smooth side, to her ear, down the curve of her jaw, until I finally get to her mouth.

  I press my lips to the corners of hers and stay there for one solemn moment. Just feeling her, breathing her in, letting this forlorn feeling of joy wash through me that she’s actually here. Alive and well.

  “I’ve missed you, Chloe.” They’re very simple words, but they describe my life well. I’ve missed this girl something fierce.

  “I’ve missed you too, Noah. So, so much.”

  My thoughts want to run but I pause. She came back to me. I shut off my analytical brain. To enjoy her. All of her.

  When I move an inch to the center of her lips, my tongue darts out to lick over her curved cupid’s bow. The same one she used to complain about as a teenager, because it’s always been pointier and not as round as she considered more beautiful.

  I’ve always loved it exactly the way it is.

  Her mouth opens at the action, just as I hoped.

  When my mouth closes over hers in a deep kiss, her tongue comes out to play.

  Sassy and adventurous just like she seems now. More confident, taking what it wants.

  My dick twitches in approval, imagining a lot of other uses for that tongue and sweet mouth.

  She gives as good as she gets, and even though this is a slowed-down, sweeter version of our earlier session, it doesn’t lack an ounce of heat or passion.

  My body is on autopilot at this point, crawling on top of her, lining up perfectly with her core that’s still covered in her underwear.

  We continue to kiss and dry-hump in earnest, something I haven’t done since . . . well, since high school with this very woman.

  Both of our breathing accelerates, and for a moment, fear grips my chest that I might actually come like this.

  Chloe pulls back, rubbing her hot core against my dick like it’s the best thing she’s ever done in her life. And then her moan reverberates around the room as if it’s meant for just that.

  My balls tingle, and I slow my movements for both our sakes.

  When she’s calmed down, her eyes focus on me, her hand coming up to gently brush over my cheek and mouth, tracing my lips lazily until I snatch her finger and begin sucking on it.

  Her eyes flare, the fire igniting to almost torturous levels.

  Her head turns to the side. “Condoms are in the top drawer.”

  I nod and reach over, shaking thoughts away of why she’d have any at all.

  Thirty seconds later, I pull off my boxers and sheath myself while she wriggles out of her underwear and tosses it across the room.

  My mouth waters at the sight of her.

  So open to me. So wet for me.

  The pressure behind my breastbone builds.

  Mine.

  Before I can analyze that damn thought, she pushes against me. As impatient as before.

  Instead of moving above her, I stay on my knees, and pull her toward me and my waiting erection.

  When she’s right in front of me, waiting, begging with her body, glistening for me, I take a steadying breath an
d push into her. Filling her, making both of us groan in relief at the reconnection.

  Her breasts move with every thrust until she cups them. Playing with them, driving me insane. I let go of one of her legs and move my hand over her hip to her sensitive nub, watching her writhe under my touch, so on edge from the stimulation that my movements turn sloppy and out of sync.

  When I feel her tighten around me, I lose my battle and come so hard that my vision goes blurry for a moment.

  Our harsh breathing is the only noise in the room.

  Why does the sound of that make my stomach feel all weird?

  When Chloe scoots up the bed to grab some tissues, I slip off the bed and go through the same routine I went through earlier. Taking care of the condom, washing up, and putting my boxers back on.

  This time, I keep my gaze straight, not looking at the medication.

  I know I’ll have to face reality at some point but not now. Later. Tomorrow.

  After I get some more sleep with my woman in my arms.

  My woman?

  I scoff at myself. I’m simply falling into old patterns. A slip of the tongue.

  When I slip back under the covers, Chloe faces me. Her shirt from earlier is back on, and I’m sure she’s dressed under the covers too.

  I mimic her sleep position, lying on my side facing her, with my hands in front of me.

  We lie like this for a long time, just staring at each other. My mind is tired, still exhausted from the new revelation, satisfied after the sex, but also curious about what’s going on in Chloe’s head.

  How does she feel about all of this?

  The sex, the fact that I found out about her . . . what do you call it? Situation? Sickness? Condition?

  “Were you going to tell me?” My voice is rough, and my throat dry as if I haven’t had a sip of water in days.

  But I have to know. The question has been on my mind ever since I found out, spinning in my brain like an angry tornado, causing damage I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to repair.

  Because fuck. This is Chloe.

  With. A. New. Fucking. Heart.

  She shrugs, and a gush of air whooshes out of my lungs at my exhale.

  “I don’t know. Probably at some point . . . I think.” She closes her eyes, and I feel an odd sense of relief that she doesn’t see me right now. And that I can’t see her eyes right now either.

  Why the hell wouldn’t she tell me? Would I tell her if the roles were reversed?

  Shit.

  I don’t know if I would.

  Maybe it would depend on the intentions I had for her, for us.

  Well, fuck.

  I’m not sure I like where that thought leads either.

  When she wordlessly turns around, I can’t help myself and close the gap between us.

  Did she just sniffle?

  God. I know I wasn’t given a choice to be with her, but she was my world. And I would have wanted to be there every step of every grueling moment. Yet somehow, this brave woman fought on her own. Is still fighting.

  She’s had years to accept this, yet here she cries. Selfishly, I want to be angry, hurt, sad . . . but that makes this all about me.

  I cannot fathom how hard this is for her. This is her everyday.

  I put my arm around her and pull her close, letting the comfort of her body aligning so perfectly with mine slowly soothe me to sleep.

  Twenty-One

  Chloe

  When I wake up the next morning, my brain is fuzzy. Until the events from last night slam into me. The sex. Goodness, the amazing sex.

  Then Noah finding my medicine. My stomach clenches at the image that’s stuck in my mind. Noah looking so broken, so helpless. Then more sex later in the middle of the night. More tender this time, making me feel cherished and complete.

  The bed beside me is empty, and I roll onto my back to stare up at the ceiling for a few minutes. Then I close my eyes and place my left hand on my heart and my right on my stomach, focusing on each deep inhale and exhale. Trying to find my equilibrium. Needing it to get through whatever will happen next. To me. To Noah. To us.

  Even though there isn’t a future for us, I still know that I owe him more—he deserves to know how this happened.

  And I was planning on telling him. Eventually.

  My therapist used to say, “What happened is done and can’t be changed. How you will react to it, and what you’ll make of it though, is up to you and will shape your future.”

  One of the most important pearls of wisdom I carry around with me as if it got imprinted on my new heart. She retired only a year after I received my transplant, and I had great therapists after her, but her impact has always been the most significant.

  I know what the right thing to do is, but sadly, that doesn’t eliminate the desire to flee, to pretend none of this happened.

  Ten more deep breaths. That’s what I give myself before I push back the covers and walk to the bathroom where thankfully, my morning brain takes over. Using the toilet, brushing my teeth, taking my medicine. It’s been my routine for so long, I don’t pause. I don’t wonder. I just do.

  When I gather my hair and twist it on top of my head, my gaze drifts to the small window. I lift the blinds and stare at my tiny backyard, if you can even call it that. More like a small patio area, but that’s more than enough for me. I was lucky to snatch up a house I could afford in this neighborhood. It’s a bit out of the price range I was looking at, but it works for now.

  Like an invisible pull, I look to the patio where my beloved swing is. The main reason I go outside at all. And that’s where he sits. On one side with his legs outstretched in front of him and his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the sky.

  He didn’t go home. Why does my heart react to that?

  I try to get a read on his face, but he’s too far away.

  My fingers and toes tingle as I change into leggings, a T-shirt, and a big sweater and head downstairs. I forgo the rest of my morning routine of tea and breakfast, for now. The need to talk to Noah first overshadows everything else.

  The sliding door closes quietly behind me as I make my way to the swing, without a word or a sound, not wanting to disturb this serene scene. The sun is still rising in the sky, barely able to cast its rays through the morning clouds.

  The swing protests when I sit down but it came with the house, so I can’t complain. I scrubbed it until it sparkled as much as it ever would. Plus, it’s comfortable. Squeaky but comfortable.

  We aren’t high enough in the hills to have a view of the bay, but this little piece of lush greenery makes up for it. The quiet melody of the fountain soothes my nerves as I pull my feet up on the cushion and wrap my arms around them.

  Minutes tick by as we sit like this with Noah keeping the movement going.

  When I bite my lip so hard that I’m afraid I might have drawn blood, I close my eyes and take a calming breath.

  You’ve got this. You will feel so much better once it’s out there.

  “Do you remember I told you my sickness got worse when we went to see my grandparents?” I don’t wait for an answer and keep my gaze on the fountain. “It was shortly after we got to Los Angeles, and everyone thought I might have gotten pneumonia like my mom had a few weeks before. So my dad dragged me to the doctor. They did a bunch of tests and the X-rays showed that my heart was enlarged and that I had possible fluid around my lungs.”

  The swing stops for a moment before it resumes, and I use that time to swallow past the obstruction in my throat.

  “You never told me about the heart stuff.”

  “I know.” I lower my gaze. “It was all too much, and I didn’t want to worry you. You had started your summer swim camp already, and I knew how much you were looking forward to it.”

  He exhales loudly but stays quiet.

  “The next few weeks are a bit of a blur. They rushed me to the hospital where they specialize in cardiac care, which happens to be one of the best in the country. I was put o
n medications and more tests were done. I spent some time in the ICU and the cardiac unit, but was sent home when the medication seemed to work, even though they still couldn’t diagnose me.” I don’t tell him how miserable I was, or that I missed him with my whole being and cried myself to sleep more nights than not.

  “And you guys were staying with your grandparents?”

  “Yeah. Grandpa wasn’t the youngest anymore, and Grandma had just broken her hip. It was a bit of a mess. My parents didn’t know what to do, but when things took a turn for the worse a week later, I was rushed back to the hospital with an abnormally high heartbeat. At that point, they were able to diagnose me with cardiomyopathy caused by myocarditis, a heart disease that can lead to heart failure.”

  I snort and glance over at him. “Can you believe it can be caused by a common cold?”

  His eyes are closed, but I wait until he opens them and looks at me. I need to establish this connection with him, I need to know I didn’t imagine it last night. When his glassy gaze finally locks with mine, time stops for a moment.

  I don’t want to go on, but I know he needs to know, even if he doesn’t really want to.

  His chest hitches when he opens his mouth. “Is that when you sent me that message?”

  I’m lost in his gaze and can’t look away even if I wanted to. But I know there’s no way I can get any words out right now, so I nod.

  And swallow. Hard. It takes me three times to finally succeed.

  He scrubs a hand over his face. “I could have been there for you.”

  “I know.”

  “I would have wanted to be there for you.”

  My chin trembles. “I know.”

  “Fuck.” He releases a heavy sigh and leans back again against the cushion, covering his face with his hands.

  I’m glad for the short break because it allows me to get a grip on my emotions too. I’ve already shed more than enough tears over the last decade.

  When he leans forward with his elbows on his knees, my stomach knots. I know this isn’t easy for him. I knew back then it would break him right alongside me, and he would have dropped everything to be with me, which is exactly why I ended things. I couldn’t do that to him. Not when he had such a great career—such a great life—ahead of him . . . when I couldn’t even be sure I’d survive the following days or weeks.