Since I was a kid, making it into the World Hockey League was the ultimate goal. No relationship could match my first love, and after my rough childhood, I wasn't putting my heart on the line.
When Bellerive makes a successful bid to move the Califo...
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I've never craved the company of a woman before, but when my doorbell rings, I almost release an audible sigh of relief. We went our separate ways after the training session to freshen up—which felt date-like to me, but I certainly wasn't going to call her on that—and she agreed to come to my apartment as soon as she was ready.
It's been almost two hours.
Two hours.
My gut tells me that women don't take two hours to show up at a guy's apartment for a casual hangout unless they give a shit about the outcome. I could be wrong—the number of women I've attempted to date in any real sense is pretty fucking low.
As I go to answer the door, I decide that if she's wearing any makeup, she's invested in whatever isn't currently happening between us. Actions speak louder than words. She doesn't wear makeup to our training sessions—ever.
The minute I open the door, I can't help examining her face like an astronaut searching for signs of life on a foreign planet.
All the tension runs out of my shoulders, and I almost sag in relief.
She's done something to her eyes because they look bigger and brighter, and her lips are a slightly different shade. She can say whatever she wants about casual flirting and hanging out, but I'm not operating in la-la land to believe she feels something too.
She didn't dress up. Her leggings and bold multi-colored tank top are classic Sawyer attire, but that just makes me more convinced that she's trying to tell herself a lie while giving away the truth to me.
"I thought we could watch a movie," I say, stepping back to let her get past me.
"A movie?" She glances at me over her shoulder as she heads to the living room. "What movie? I'm picky."
"Love Letters from Spain. That's your favorite isn't it? I've never seen it."
"Of course you haven't," she says, with a hint of teasing in her tone. "You're too young for classic Ellie Cooper and Wyatt Burgess."
"Please do not play the age card with me. We both know it's bullshit."
"You want me to play the wisdom card instead?"
"You think you're wiser than me?" I can't help tracing the shape of her as she walks, admiring the tight fit of her leggings across her ass.
"In so many ways," she says, sinking into the couch. "You've got me beat in hockey, and not much else."
Instead of giving her space, I take the seat on the couch closest to her. We're not touching, but I can feel the heat of her, catch the hint of Tom Ford's Vanilla Sex, which always fucks up my senses. Even before I was willing to admit that I was developing obsession-level feelings for my trainer, I spent far too much time categorizing and filing away information about her—most of which I would have considered useless, if I'd let myself think about it. Like the fact that she can recite whole portions of Love Letters to Spain whenever I say anything that has even a loose connection. I haven't seen the film, but I feel like I know it.
