Of course, everything about his body is beautiful to me.
I scroll through the pictures he took of me, and I’m embarrassed. True to his word, they’re all above my neck, but my expression is one of such intense longing—for him—that my face flushes hot. There’s no hiding the fact I’m falling for him hard.
Tacker is on his back, his own phone now in his hand. He doesn’t try to hide it from me, but his expression is intense as he works. I’ve never seen his home screen before. There’s a beautiful blonde’s photo set as the background.
Without ever having seen her before, I know it’s MJ.
He puts in his password, pulls up his text, and methodically saves each photo he took of me and texted to himself.
When he’s done, he puts the phone down and grins lecherously. “Got my spank bank loaded for the coming road trips.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You’re gross.”
“You adore me,” he counters, pulling me into him. He wraps his arm around me, going quiet for a long moment. “I’ve got a ton of photos of MJ on my phone. It’s kind of weird having you there with her.”
There’s no hiding the way my body tenses and instinctually tries to pull away from him at this proclamation.
Tightening his hold, he continues talking. “Don’t be upset by that.”
“I’m not,” I assure him, leaning my head back so he can see my eyes. See the truth there. “I’m not threatened by what you had with MJ, Tacker. I promise.”
“Many women would be,” he points out.
“Do you feel less for me because of her memory?” I ask this not because I need the answer, but because he does.
He shakes his head slowly, his gaze finally coming to me. There’s a telltale flush of pink in his cheeks. “Sometimes… I feel a lot more. Not because of her memory, but because of who you are.”
It’s not until I hear those words and feel the release of pressure from my chest that I realize… I was indeed bothered by MJ’s presence on his phone. Immediately, I feel shame and self-loathing that I couldn’t be more of a professional in my assessment of the situation, even though, deep down, all of my education means exactly squat when it comes to my own matters of the heart.
“I’m going to go see her parents next week,” he says. Once again… my body jolts. This time in pure surprise at the change of subject.
“You were close to them,” I point out. It’s something I learned in counseling—that Tacker was closer to MJ’s parents than to his own dad and stepmom. But like with all his other relationships after the crash, he’d pulled away.
He admitted the guilt was the worst when it came to them, because he had convinced himself he’d killed their only daughter. When I pressed him, though, he also had to admit they’d never made him feel that way. They’d never held him accountable. Instead, they’d only wanted to share their grief with him.
Since then, he has seen her parents periodically, forcing himself to be there for them. He told me they were the only people he ever made an effort for, so it makes me happy to know he’s going to see them.
“I want to tell them about you,” he continues, tracing my cheekbones with a fingertip. “I think they’d like to know.”
Cupping his cheek, I stroke the stubble there. “I think you’re an amazing man, Tacker. They’re incredibly lucky to still have you in their lives.”
“It seems like I’m the lucky one,” he murmurs right before bringing his lips to mine.
What starts out as a gentle kiss of gratitude turns hot with the mere touch of his tongue to mine. Then his fingers are inside me, and I’m melting all over again for him.
CHAPTER 28
Tacker
It’s the last week of regular season play, and we’re on the downswing. Two more away games, a last home game, and then we are in the playoffs. We’ve played so well this season that we’ve clinched the number-one seed.
This game should be easy. It’s against my former team—the Dallas Mustangs—and they aren’t even in playoff contention. But I can’t gloat about that. It has nothing to do with me leaving the organization. I was good—the best they had—but one man does not make an entire team.
I have no hard feelings against the Mustangs for cutting me loose in the expansion draft. I was a burden to them following the crash, first with my physical injuries and then with my emotional, which led me to sit out the entire last half of the season.
So yeah… should be an easy game.
Except it’s not.
One of the last-minute trades the Mustangs’ management made was for Lars Nilsson from the L.A. Demons. He and I have a history, and it’s not good.
In November, we had an incident where he was handing out jabs and stabs, trying to get me to retaliate. It’s what defensemen do to star players. Ordinarily, I’m cool under pressure. Able to compartmentalize that shit away from my emotions. I understand the value of keeping steady so I can score for my team.
But Lars got dirtier than normal, telling me that I played hockey as well as I flew planes.
At first, I couldn’t believe he’d said something so heartless. To prey upon someone’s loss—my loss.
Things went black after that.
No clue what the fuck happened except I was being pulled off an unconscious Lars Nilsson. Deep down, I knew I’d done something to him.
Even deeper down, I was pissed to still see him breathing—although I’ve never admitted that dirty little secret to anyone.
Later, I’d been told I’d struck him in the head with my knee. I’d even watched video of it—felt immense satisfaction in watching him go limp.
In hindsight, I’m sorry for it. Head injuries are serious, and I could have truly hurt the guy with long-term effects. I hated what my actions did to my team because I got suspended for ten games.
Hated how I felt about myself because I’d liked causing him pain.
But I’m not that guy these days.
Today, I’m a guy who’s back in the swing of life and focused on the championship prize. I’m not going to get distracted by a hockey player with a dented ego looking for some payback.
Like right now—Nilsson hacks at my leg with his stick—playing it off like he’s just trying to jockey for the puck Bishop just sent my way.
Lowering my shoulder, I give him a hard nudge to his chest as I put my blade on the biscuit. I juke right, he follows, then I cut left, making a one-eighty circle around him.
Left in the dust, Nilsson takes one more slice at my leg with his stick, but he misses.
Aaron Wylde does not. He comes out of nowhere, speeding like a freight train and squatting to lower his center of gravity. His shoulder goes into Nilsson’s chest, and I have a brief image of his feet flying out from under him. I toss the puck off to Dax in the corner, but it doesn’t matter.
Aaron is called for a penalty.
It was a vicious hit, which was completely illegal since the puck was nowhere near Nilsson when it was delivered.
Unsurprisingly, Aaron’s called for a game misconduct and booted off the ice.
Doesn’t matter.
There’s less than three minutes left until the end of the play, and we’re up by three goals.
Nilsson doesn’t mess with me for the rest of the game.
“You looked really good out there tonight,” Charles Schmidt says to me from across the table. He’s got a draft beer in front of him.
MJ’s father, Charles, is everything a man could want in a father-in-law. He was doting and protective of MJ, but never threatening to me. He treated me like an adult—a man—from the start, and we became close over the few years MJ and I dated. I’m especially touched that he came to the game tonight in an Arizona Vengeance jersey with my name and number on the back.
His wife, Patty, sits next to him with a glass of prosecco in front of her. She and MJ both loved that bubbly wine, and it’s exactly how I would describe her.
Bubbly.
Effervescent.
She was alwa
ys the life of any party, but, right now, she looks subdued and unsure of herself.
How can I blame her? I haven’t exactly been open and friendly to these people over the last year and a half.
Haven’t been mean, either. I couldn’t be outright mean to the two people who treated me like a son before I ever officially became one.
But I pulled away when I should have been helping them with their grief. I didn’t let them console me. Instead, I let their insistence I was not at fault in the crash fall on deaf ears.
I took my love away from them.
It’s something I need to rectify immediately, which is why I reached out to them and asked if they could meet up after the game.
So in a quiet but swank bar near the arena, I look first to Charles—then Patty—and lay out my apology. “I’m sorry for not being there for you after MJ died.”
They both jerk, their eyes flying wide in surprise. Patty starts shaking her head, and Charles’ eyes fill with tears.
I press on. “I was selfish. Caught up in my own guilt and grief, I forgot you two were probably hurting more than I was. Worse… you tried to help me and love me through it, and I ignored you. I know that caused you more pain, and I’m just so deeply sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”
Patty starts crying in earnest, pulling her cocktail napkin out from under her wine to dab at her eyes. Charles blinks his eyes furiously, giving a hard cough.
I have more to say, though, and I need to get it out before I lose my fortitude. “I got really lost for a long time. Didn’t want to go on, but I didn’t know how to end things either. So I just withdrew and became an ass to most people. I made so many bad choices, and I felt like shit all the time. MJ would have been so disappointed in me. The daughter you raised would have smacked me and told me to get my head out of my ass. You raised such an amazing woman, and I did her memory a disservice with the way I acted. If she—”
“Stop,” Charles commands, his eyebrows drawing inward. He raises a hand, pointing a shaky finger across the table. “Just stop, Tacker. None of what you’re saying is necessary.”
“But it is,” I say quietly. “Because I need you to know how much the two of you mean to me. My actions have said the opposite, so it’s important you know.”
“We know,” Patty says, reaching across the table to grab my hand. I latch onto hers, and we don’t let go. She smiles tremulously. “MJ picked the best man to be her partner. We couldn’t be more proud of you or love you any more than we do. You’ll always be a son to us, no matter what.”
Fuck… that gets me, and I have to blink back the tears.
Charles coughs again before taking a long pull on his beer. “Now that the touchy-feely crap is out of the way, how are you feeling about the playoffs?”
Patty gives her husband a sharp jab in the ribs with her elbow. He grunts with pain, shooting her an apologetic look.
Returning her attention to me, Patty says, “How are you doing? Really?”
It’s a relief that I can tell her something positive. “Good now. Truly.”
Patty beams. “That’s so good to hear, Tacker. We just want you to be happy.”
“I think I’m on my way,” I offer, glancing from one to the other. “It took me a long time to let go of the guilt.”
“You know we never—” Charles starts to say, but I cut him off by raising my hand.
“You never.” I aim my gaze directly at him. Never once had he made me feel guilty for taking his little girl onto that plane with me. Not one time had he ever held me responsible for not being able to land it safely. “And I can’t thank you enough for your trust and love.”
“Tell me how you did it?” Patty says, in a quiet demand to hear all about my journey. “What made you finally see reason… that none of it was your fault?”
I give a snort, followed by a smirk. “Well… I sort of got drunk, ran my truck into a concrete barrier at the arena right before a game, and got suspended.”
“Yeah… we read about that in the papers,” Charles says, his tone censuring.
“I was so messed up, but for some reason, the team wouldn’t give up on me. I mean… I had to do some work. They required I go to therapy and when I did, well… let’s just say it was what I needed. Some professional help to make me start seeing things from a different perspective. Wish I would have done it a long time ago, honestly.”
Patty squeezes my hand. “The point is you’ve done it now. I’m just so happy to hear that, Tacker. You deserve to be happy.”
I drop my eyes to the table, wanting—no needing—to be fully transparent with them. To tell them the hardest part of what I need to say.
Lifting my head, I look them directly in the face—first Charles, then Patty—and tell them, “I’ve met someone. And well… I’m sort of moving forward with a relationship with her.”
I brace, holding my breath, not knowing how they will react. Hurt? Sadness? Anger?
Instead, I get smiles.
Serious fucking smiles from them both. Full of pure elation for me. My heart swells. I genuinely didn’t think it was possible to love these people more than I already did. It means they trust MJ’s memory will always burn bright with me, and that I loved her as fiercely as I could while she was on this earth.
It says they never had any expectations for me to be lonely or hold her up on a pedestal, never to be replaced in my affections.
I let out a sigh, along with a nervous laugh. “Got to tell you… I was nervous about telling you that.”
Patty leans forward, clearly excited. “You must tell us all about her. Don’t leave out a single detail about how you met and fell in love.”
I flinch when she drops the “L” word so casually, yet it’s not from an adverse feeling.
Just more surprising that Patty would assume I am in love with Nora.
It makes me think… am I?
I pull out my phone, then bring it out of sleep mode. “Let me show you a picture of her.”
Nora’s face comes up on my home screen. I’d replaced MJ’s picture with Nora’s on the flight here to Dallas. It seemed way more symbolic than it really needed to be, but I have my safety net. MJ’s pictures will always stay on my phone so I can look at them and never forget what she was to me.
“Oh, she’s beautiful.” Patty sighs, tilts her head, and studies Nora’s face. It’s a great face.
“Would MJ have liked her?” Charles asks, and that gives me a little stab of pain deep in my gut.
My eyes rise to meet his. “Yeah… she would have really liked her.”
“That’s all I need to know,” he says, then raises his beer in the air for a silent toast to both MJ and Nora.
Laughing, I settle back into my chair, placing my phone on the table. “So… Nora was actually my therapist to start.”
“Oh…” Patty squeals, clapping her hands. “A forbidden love story.”
Smirking, I lift my chin. “Yeah… you could say that.”
CHAPTER 29
Tacker
Twisting my wrist, I check my watch as my fingers on my other hand impatiently drum on the desktop. Management called an “emergency” team meeting, and it’s interfering in my time with Nora. I’d been on my way out the door to her place when the call came in, directing everyone to the team auditorium at the arena where we normally hold our meetings and game film reviews.
I’d just flown in from our Texas road trip—Dallas, then Houston—and we were slated to have the entire day off today. After that is our last home game of the regular season. Next week, the playoffs start.
So today was the perfect opportunity to spend time with Nora—who I had been missing greatly these last several days I was gone. Our plan was to attempt that horseback ride that got waylaid when Raul got sick. Once we finished that, if I had any say in it, part of the day would be spent in bed. Perhaps we’d go out to dinner, or maybe we’d order in and eat in bed.
Regardless, I wanted the full day and evening with Nora. But with eve
ry second that ticks by, said time is being wasted.
“You want to go hit some golf balls today?” Aaron asks, nudging me in the arm. He’s playing some game on his phone while we wait, slouched in his chair with his long legs spread out in front of him. His eyes are bloodshot, and his hair is sticking up all over the place.
It tells me he had a late—probably drunken—time out last night. He’d probably been woken up by the call to come into the arena for a meeting.
“Can’t,” I reply, checking my watch one more time. A total of twenty seconds has passed since the last check. “Going to hang with Nora today.”
“Of course you are,” he mutters.
Guilt nags as I study his face. “I’m sorry, man. I know I owe you some time.”
Aaron grins ruefully. “As much as I wish you’d revert back to the party animal I once loved and adored when we played together in Dallas long before you met MJ, honestly, dude… I’m glad you’ve found Nora. I’d rather you do what makes you happiest, even if it’s not hanging out with my lame ass.”
“Your ass is not lame,” I assure him, which causes the players sitting in the row in front of us to glance back at us with raised eyebrows.
Ignoring them, I add, “But seriously… let’s plan something right now. How about Sunday? After practice? We’ll go shoot eighteen and relax.”
Truth is, I have to plan in advance now. That’s because, in my mind, all my free time belongs to Nora.
Not because she’s demanded it, because I want it that way. Doesn’t mean I don’t want friendships and to hang with my buds, but if it isn’t planned in advance, they can rest assured I’ve already got something going with Nora.
“Yeah… sure,” he replies as his attention returns to his game. “We can do that.”
My mind already starts calculating whether I can squeeze in time with Nora that day. If we play a round of golf starting around eleven AM after practice, I could head to the ranch and pick Nora up for dinner. That would probably work.
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