“You did? When?”
“Last night. It’s why I was up so late.”
“Shit, Genevieve, that’s amazing! Can I hear it?”
The excitement on his face is almost too much, and I push myself up for a taste of that grin. One kiss isn’t enough, though, and I quickly melt into need for more. “It’s not mixed yet, but as soon as I get a preview, I’ll play it for you.” I kiss him again, lingering this time. It’s like our bodies are magnetized. I can’t pull away.
“This is a close second to hearing your song,” he says with a sly look, his lips still just an inch from mine. Sparks snap in the sliver between us. I feel the heat of his breath, smell the hint of shampoo and mint.
I’d argue this is first as I adjust to straddle him. “Good thing my knees are still okay,” I say, leaning forward to latch my fingers into his hair. I sink down on his hips, enjoying the firm pressure of him through his thin gym shorts. I start a slow, deep rock.
He groans and leans his head back in protest. “My doctor would kill me. I’m not supposed to exert myself for three days.”
“Three days? Oliver, that’s not fair,” I say, kissing him again.
“I know. I’m sorry, I just—”
He’s so conflicted, and I feel badly for teasing him. “I’m joking. We need to take care of that knee.” I plant one last, long kiss on his lips before climbing back to a safer position at his side. I reach for the remote and pluck it off the cushion.
“What are you doing?” he asks when I un-pause the game.
“Watching my favorite sport.”
“It’s not a live game,” he says. “I was just studying old footage.”
I smile and nestle against him. He loops his arm around me, and I slide the remote into his hand. “Perfect. I want to see it through your eyes. Show me your world, Oliver.”
CHAPTER 9
An ode to the one who’s never known sun
Inviting peek from the shadows deep
A whisper of prayer through stale air
She creeps out afraid
To finally face
The brilliant shade
Of the mess she’s made
OLIVER
“Geez. I never paid attention to how much you guys move around,” Genevieve mutters with a hint of awe. “I always thought being goalie was the easy job.”
I snort a laugh. “Easy? I have to be the best athlete on the team. Okay, there. See how the defender dives to block the shot? He’s late so when the puck deflects, I have almost no time to react.” I cringe slightly at the replay. “That’s kind of what happened with my injury. I was cheating forward on the shooter and didn’t have time to recover when he passed instead. Well, plus Micky ended up on my knee.” Genevieve shudders, and I fast-forward to the next big play. “Okay, so here I managed to save Petey’s ass. See Petrovic give up the puck there at the blue line? We got lucky. But now watch this face-off. Keep an eye on Legace. I played with him in juniors, and he always passes left from that spot. But instead he fires a one-timer right off the pass from Shen.” I press play again, and we watch the puck slip just over my glove into the back of the net. Genevieve makes a face, and I laugh. “What?”
“How can you spend so much time watching replays of your mistakes?”
“Well, first off, there’s not much I could have done there. That was a freaking laser.”
“Still, if it were me, I’d want to focus on highlight reels of all my awesome saves.”
I tuck her closer and breathe in her citrus scent. “Because as much as it hurts, you only get better by studying your mistakes.”
She stiffens slightly in my arms, and I rest my lips on her hair. We’ve been watching hockey for over two hours now, and she still doesn’t seem bored of it. I’ve been providing as much commentary and insight into the action as I can, loving how she seems to absorb my every word with rapt fascination. She wants to know it all. Why the winger passed instead of took the shot. Why I moved out of the crease to challenge instead of pulling back. What happens after the period ends and we go through “that mysterious tunnel.” I answer her questions with patience and amusement, enjoying her interest as much as she seems to be enjoying learning. There’s something magical about seeing a world you love open up in someone else’s eyes.
“Well, I’m hungry, so you must be starving,” she says, pushing up from the couch and stretching. I already miss her warmth. It’s strange how much we’ve come to fit in such a short time. She checks her phone, her face falling.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, straightening as much as possible.
“Nothing,” she says absently. “Nothing.” She forces a quick smile and starts toward the kitchen. “Mind if I go through your fridge and cabinets?”
I don’t like her brush-off one bit and hate that I can’t even follow her easily. “Sure. Help yourself,” I call out, reaching for my crutches. They’re a mandatory precaution over the next couple of days. My knee is already feeling better from the fall, and I’m sure I could limp around fine now, but I’ve spent enough time being stupid and making bad decisions. I need to give my recovery every chance it can get, so if it means using crutches to get around my small apartment, then so be it. Hell, I gave up sex with my smoking hot girlfriend.
Girlfriend?
I stall at the blurted thought. We just met, and she’s never said anything to indicate she’d want that. If anything, she’s spent as much time pushing me away as pulling me close. And yet, my subconscious was clearly trying to tell me something just now. Probably that I’m in deep shit because I can’t imagine myself with another woman anymore. Now that I’ve glimpsed the girl in the mirror, I’m hopelessly hooked.
When I finally make my way to the kitchen, I stop cold. Warmth spreads through me in a sweet ache at the scene. Genevieve has a pile of ingredients on the counter, her hair twisted up and out of her way like she means business. Her teeth sink into her lower lip as she studies the container of fresh pasta and vegetables with a mystified expression. God, I’ve never seen anything so adorable in my life. It takes my entire arsenal of willpower not to interrupt her.
She must hear me in the doorway, however, and glances over with a quick warning look. “Don’t try to stop me. I want to make you dinner.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. Geez, I’m even getting hard over this. She’s just so damn amazing. I pull out the chairs at the table so I can sit in one and prop up my leg on the other. There’s no way in hell I’m missing a second of this. I might even sneak a couple photos and videos for my own enjoyment later.
She turns back to the counter, visibly bracing herself, and I prepare to keep my mouth shut until she asks for help.
“What are you making?” I ask, eyeing her curious mix of ingredients. Pasta, sure. Vegetables, maybe some weird salad? Eggs and milk, no idea. The dietician doesn’t need to know about this.
“Um…” She picks up the package of pasta. “Linguine,” she reads. “And something else. I’m not sure yet.”
I smile to myself as she continues reading the label. She frowns and focuses back on the other ingredients.
“Only two minutes to cook?” she asks.
“It’s fresh. It doesn’t take as long as the dried stuff.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure she knows what any of that means anyway as she places the package back on the counter and begins fishing through the drawers and cabinets.
“What do you need?” I ask.
“Cutting board and knife?”
“There’s a cutting board in the drawer beside the range, and knives are in the knife block by the microwave.”
She finds the cutting board, but the knife block proves to be a more worthy opponent. She touches each handle timidly, sliding it slowly from the block to check the blade, and I try to suppress my shock. Has she never handled a knife before? Shit, I don’t need her cutting off any fingers on my watch.
“Gen? Do you know how to use a knife?”
She twists a look toward
me and bites her lip. Her eyes well with such shame and embarrassment, my own chest hurts. God, this girl. She’s in my soul.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’d fucking break the microphone trying to sing. Bring the one in the top left corner of the block over to the table, along with the cutting board and that bell pepper. The big green one,” I clarify when she scans the vegetables with confusion. “Oh, and that small knife in the center row on the block. That’s a paring knife.”
She nods, her lip quivering as she collects the materials.
“Hey, Gen?”
She looks over with concern.
“You’re a badass. You know that?”
A smile slips over her lips as she blinks away the tears. “Should I wash the pepper first? I should, right?”
I show Genevieve how to use a knife, and just as I suspect, she’s a pro in no time. Her problem is experience, not competence, and I have a feeling there are a lot of things she could do if she only gave herself the chance to try.
She stares triumphantly at her piles of chopped vegetables, and I can’t help but snap a photo. Her shy look shifts into radiance when she realizes I want to preserve this moment because I’m so damn proud of her.
“That’s a lot of vegetables,” she says, scanning the mounds of cucumbers, peppers, carrots, tomatoes, and every other ingredient she could find.
“So many vegetables,” I say with a laugh, plucking a cucumber from the bowl. “What are you doing with them?”
“Um. Well.” She squints back at the counter. “I wanted to make a salad, but you don’t have any lettuce. So, I guess… a bowl of chopped vegetables?”
I laugh and shrug. “A bowl of chopped vegetables. My favorite.”
“I thought maybe an egg or something too. For protein?”
Hmm… okay... I decide not to ask about the milk. Maybe she’ll forget. “You could boil eggs and throw one on top. There’s a vinaigrette in the fridge you could use as well if you want to season… it.” Not sure what to call whatever she’s making.
Her expression brightens, and I can tell she’s enjoying herself. I’d eat roadkill right now to see her smile like that.
“I need a pot, right? To boil the eggs?”
I nod. “In the cabinet beside the oven. Put the eggs in first, then fill the pot with cold water.”
“All the way?”
“No, just about halfway. So the eggs are covered.”
She nods, her tongue creeping out between her lips as she works. I’ve noticed this several times now, and it’s the cutest thing ever. When she’s in the zone, she’s a force. I can only imagine how intoxicating it would be to see her do something she’s mastered. A deep longing to watch her perform wells within me.
Over the next hour we successfully complete her weird egg-vegetable salad, cook the pasta (about five minutes too long), and even manage an olive oil toss and freshly grated parmesan. Is it a Chef Lana masterpiece? No, but I suspect she’d approve of her client’s hard work and ambition.
Genevieve chews a raw carrot, while staring at her plate of pasta. “This is the first time I’ve ever made a meal,” she says quietly. “I don’t think I’ve ever even made toast.”
I swallow my surprise, not wanting her to feel self-conscious. I can’t imagine how terrifying it must be to face a world you don’t feel equipped to navigate with even the most basic skills. Her parents did her no favors by raising her in a bubble, and the whole thing makes me burn hot again. She’s so capable, so curious and bright, and yet she’s held back by her own fear of what she can’t do. Of being judged and ridiculed over every second of her existence.
“Well, this is the best damn egg-vegetable salad I’ve ever had,” I say with a grin.
She smiles back, chuckling lightly to herself. “It’s… interesting.” She shoves more vegetables around the bowl, making a face. “Kind of gross. I’m guessing if it’s the best, it’s because you’ve never had an egg-vegetable salad before.”
“Has anyone?” I shovel another forkful of the strange concoction in my mouth.
“You don’t have to eat it,” she says with a laugh. “We can just order something.”
“Hey, I’ve eaten way worse, trust me.”
“The pasta is so mushy too.”
“Easier for our intestines to digest.”
She scrunches her nose, and I laugh. Chewing through another bite, she softens as she watches me pretend to enjoy her gross food. “It was fun, though, Oliver. Thanks for helping me do this. I didn’t think I could.” She rolls toward me in the desk chair we brought over for her and takes my hands. Her eyes search mine as she leans close, squeezing my fingers. “You…” She blinks back emotion. “You make me want to try things. You make me brave.”
I kiss her, gently at first, then more urgently when it’s not enough. Her hands thread into my hair as I cup the back of her neck, and that strange word comes barreling back. Girlfriend. I see myself in her dressing room while she gets ready for a show. I see her up in the stands, cheering me on with the other player wives and girlfriends. I see a future of more bad homemade meals and lazy mornings in bed. Of crazy schedules and passionate reunions. Not only do I see it, I want it. Badly. It’s right there, front and center in my mind. A future, and my blood fires hot and goes cold at the same time.
It’s the first time in my life I’ve seen a future that wasn’t related to hockey.
I say goodbye to Genevieve the following morning, even making my way up the marathon staircase to see her out. She ended up staying the night when our laidback date of cuddling and talking ran late. I’ve never woken up beside a woman after not having sex in my life. It was amazing seeing her next to me in my queen bed, tucked in my arms, breathing softly like she was completely relaxed. So peaceful and uninhibited. I was angry at her alarm for waking her up this morning, but she had an interview, and I have another long day of sitting around doing nothing.
I close the door of Sandy’s house, turn to head back downstairs—and flinch.
Sandy stands in the hall, arms crossed with a stern look, Kelsie cemented beside him.
“Welcome back, man,” I say, limping toward them and my door with my crutches.
His gaze lowers to my knee, and I stop moving as if somehow that will hide the evidence.
“Thanks. Got in late last night. Jacked up your knee again?”
I shrug. “Fell on the treadmill.”
“I heard.”
I clench my fists on the crutches. “You heard?”
“Carlos called me after it happened. What were you doing training without him anyway? And on the treadmill no less?”
“I don’t need Carlos to run cardio.”
“Apparently, you do.”
I glare at him and take another step, furious that I can’t do so without limping. This stupid knee. No way I’m making it another two months until I can skate again.
“It was just a dumb accident. I’ll be working again by Saturday.”
He nods, but his mood doesn’t seem to improve any. It’s then that I notice the scowl on Kelsie’s face as well. Great. Who knows what she’s told him. “Carlos also mentioned you’ve been hung up on Genevieve Fox. I told him no way our boy would be so stupid.”
My gaze hardens into a glare as I straighten as much as my knee will allow. “Carlos needs to mind his own damn business.”
“Yeah, except now she’s sleeping over at my house? That makes it my business.”
“You never had issues with my judgement in having people over as long as we stay downstairs and out of your way.”
His eyes bore into me for an open standoff, until he finally sighs. “Ollie, come on, dude. What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re hurting, I get it. It fucking sucks being on the sidelines. Believe me, I’ve been there. I totally understand the need for a distraction, to feel relevant and validated again. And Genevieve Fox? Dude, it doesn’t get any more relevant and validated than that. But trust me,
that is not what you need right now.”
“That is not what you think it is. She’s not a distraction. She’s amazing, and you all don’t know what the hell I need right now.”
I storm forward, ignoring the pinch in my knee as I stalk toward the basement.
“Oliver…”
I ignore him, reaching for the doorframe to support my descent down the first step.
“Oliver,” Sandy says, firmer. He grabs my arm to pull me around. I narrow my gaze at him, tired of fighting everyone on this. Tired of pain and weakness. Tired of being a fraction of what I should be. Just so damn tired. “Come out with us tonight.”
“What?”
“We have an off-day tomorrow so a few of us are going out with the wives to grab a bite and a drink. Come with us. You need some time with the team.” He looks sincere, like he’s genuinely worried about me. My gaze flickers to Kelsie who looks the same, and my anger starts to lift. I know they care. As annoying as these intrusions are, it’s only because they all want what’s best for me. And truthfully, I miss the guys. I miss feeling like part of something.
“Okay, but I’m not supposed to be on my knee so no dancing, bowling, or other lame-ass activity.”
Sandy laughs and claps my shoulder. “Fair enough. We missed you on this road trip, man. We really missed you.”
“I saw,” I mutter.
Liars.
Not sure what part of “no dancing” was confusing for my teammates, but here we are at a trendy club, enjoying a VIP table and bottle service. Since I don’t drink and can’t dance at the moment, my night with the guys is turning out to be painfully underwhelming. It was great seeing them, and I appreciate their thinly veiled attempts to make me feel included. Thing is, it’s hard to feel better when you see right through the B.S. A half-hour into the night, I’m already alone at the table. The single guys are off on random conquests, while the committed ones are enjoying a sensual night with their significant others. Even Sandy and Kelsie are rocking a rare evening out with no kids. I’m happy for them, I am, but my brain is already consumed by a petite redhead when her song blasts over the sound system. Heavy bass thumps a remix of this already popular club anthem, and I feel downright sick with longing at her silky signature voice. I’m pretty sure Sandy and Kelsie look over the second the song comes on, but I don’t give a shit. I pull out my phone. Open the video app. And record.
Breaking South: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 3) Page 11
