Colliding Love - Tucker Billi...

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.

Another random fact? She doesn't like popcorn and favors peanut M&Ms when watching a movie—which I stopped and bought on my way home. She likes her drinks so cold that it'll give anyone else a brain freeze. Bold, bright colors dominate her wardrobe, but she seems self-conscious anytime I point it out.

If I were to participate in a gameshow about Sawyer Tucker, I'm convinced I'd blow any competitors out of the water, including every one of her siblings. Anything she's ever told me is slotted somewhere in my brain, information that's just waiting for the right time to be plucked out, held up as proof that I pay attention.

Many people would probably find my competitive nature off-putting, but as Sawyer's focus snags the bag of M&Ms on the coffee table and then shifts to the pitcher of water with almost more ice than liquid, I realize, not for the first time, that I don't give a shit what other people think of me. No one, including her, has ever accused me of being wise. I'm going after her with intention when I'm not sure what my intentions are. When her gaze meets mine, I can't tell if she's surprised, impressed, or confused by my gesture.

"I didn't know you liked your water so cold," she says.

"I don't," I say, "but you do."

"And the chocolate?"

"Also for you."

"You know this isn't a date."

"I'd do the same for Chayton." Which is actually true, so I can claim it with confidence. 

When I give a shit about something or someone, I don't go half-assed about any of it. I care, or I don't care at all. My belief, forged by too many foster homes as a kid, is that the gray areas in life are the ones that hurt you. 

For a while, I let myself forget that rule with Sawyer. She was trying so hard to trim or cut back whatever was growing between us that I thought avoidance might be best. Hockey is still my priority, but I can't see how wanting to be with her can hurt my career.

She's assessing me, and I let her without breaking eye contact. My cards are on the table, and she knows what I want. She can reject me or refuse to see what's between us. In my mind, at least one of us being honest is much better than me trying to hide what's right there.

"I don't know if that admission about Chayton is as comforting as it should be," she says, her voice hushed.

Because she's come to know me like I know her.

"I've never tried to date Chayton," I say, unable to hide a hint of a smile.

"But he's basically your family."

"He is my family. You really haven't looked me up yet? Chayton's dad adopted me out of foster care at fourteen. The family I'd been placed with didn't like the high level of hockey I was moving into. Rec hockey was fine, but the traveling teams? Not a fucking chance. The percentage of players who make it to the WHL was too low for them to even consider the path I wanted to pursue. By some stroke of luck, I ended up on a team with Chayton. His dad," my voice grows gruff at the memory, "saw something in me they couldn't see. Hockey was something I knew in my gut I was built to do. There was no way I wasn't going to be on the right side of those statistics."

"What about your biological family?"

I swallow down my urge to tell her I'm not talking about it. Other than what's already out in the press, I avoid any questions about my upbringing at interviews now. I'm a big enough name that I can tell networks what I will and won't talk about, and most of them who want access to me are more interested in the hockey I play now anyway. The lead up to the WHL draft was the worst. My 온라인카지노게임 was on repeat. Nowhere to hide.

"From what I know, my mom had me as a teen. Left home. Died in a car accident when I was a toddler. No one claimed me, so I went into the system."

"Logan." She breathes out my name like her heart is breaking for me, but of all the things I'd love her to feel, sympathy is at the bottom of the list.

"It was a long time ago."

"You've never tried to find any of them?"

"No."

"You're not curious?"

"I'm famous enough now that, if they wanted to know me, they'd reach out."

"You can't know that."

"I can. As soon as I signed my big fat WHL contract, the tabloids were all over my 온라인카지노게임. My fucking first foster family still had things I arrived with after my mom died. Instead of reaching out to me, they sold my shit to the press. My hi온라인카지노게임. My only connection to my mother." I hate how angry and distraught I still sound about the way that all went down.

When I was moved from the first foster home, everything that was mine should have gone with me. In any other circumstance, I'd tell whoever I was talking to that I was over the betrayal. Deep down, I know that isn't accurate, but this conversation with Sawyer is driving that truth home.

"That's awful." Her hand is on my leg, and then she secures her fingers with mine. Her skin is soft. "Did you ever get any of it back?"

"Had my agent call the tabloid and offer to buy everything. Some of it was junk, but that quilt in my spare room—the one you slept under—my mom made that."

She gets off the couch and keeps our hands locked, tugging me toward the room again. We stand in the doorway and then she draws me over to the bed, running her hand along the multi-colored fabric.

"She worked at a craft store," I say. "Made this from odds and ends, I guess. She was killed driving home from work."

"And where were you?"

"At the elderly neighbor's in the apartment complex. I got hold of the police report. She watched me, so my mom could keep the rent paid, food on the table. Mom had a diary, too. I read a few pages when I first got it, but..." 

I let go of Sawyer's hand and tug open the drawer to one of the nightstands, drawing out the book, flipping the pages of neat handwriting without reading anything. When I left California to come here, I kept my apartment mostly as it was, but I couldn't leave my mom's things behind again. 

"Too hard to read, I guess." My voice is gruff with the emotion I'm working hard to keep in check.

"Have you ever tried to find the neighbor?"

"No," I admit.

"You don't think it might help? To talk to someone who knew her?"

"She might not even be alive."

"Or your extended family?"

"If they wanted to know me, they would."

"Because you're hockey-famous?"

"Yeah. I'm not invisible."

"But they'd have to follow hockey to know about you, Logan. Right? You're not the Dennis Rodman of hockey, going to Hollywood parties, walking red carpets, putting yourself out there. You play the game, and you go home. The most low-key form of famous."

She's come to stand beside me, and I catch another whiff of her perfume. It's a stupid time to think about it, but the desire to slide my hands into her hair, kiss her, and forget this conversation rises up so strongly that I clench and unclench my hand to keep myself in check. I want to drown in her. Sink so far under that every time I inhale, all I breathe in is her.

"I just don't see the point," I say, struggling to keep focused on the conversation.

"I don't think you'll know if there's a point until you try. With all these ancestry databases now-a-days, you probably wouldn't even have to work that hard to find someone related to you."

I tug open the drawer and put the diary back inside. It's possible there are family clues in the diary, but I can't stomach reading it. It feels like an unnecessary invasion of my mom's privacy. Having it makes me feel connected to her, reading it drives home the realization that I don't remember her at all.

"Movie time," I say, taking Sawyer's hand and drawing her back into the living room where I've already cued up the film on the television.

"Maybe we should talk about this more," she says as I tug her down into the couch beside me.

"We really shouldn't." I pour her a glass of water, rip open the bag of peanut M&Ms, and pass her both before plopping my feet onto the top of the coffee table. I hit play and focus on the TV. "This isn't a date, remember?"

"Would Chayton just let you pretend like what you said didn't matter?"

The opening of the movie is playing, but I'm not really seeing any of it.

"Act as if what you told me wasn't a big deal?" she prods.

"He'd know it was a huge deal. The biggest deal. Which is why he'd let me drop it."

When I finally look at her, I realize she's set the bag of chocolate and the drink back on the table. Her palm finds my cheek, and her thumb smooths the scruff of my beard.

"It all makes so much sense to me," she says, as though I should understand what didn't make sense before.

"Doc, I'm really approaching my "fuck it" moment here. If you keep acting like this is a date, I'm going to treat it like it's a date."

"What does that mean?"

"You keep touching me. You wore makeup. You're encouraging me to share traumatic personal stories. All of it makes me want to kiss you so fucking bad that it's painful. But more than that—and I can't even believe it's possible to say I want something more than that—I want you to want it too. I don't ever want to put you in a position where what I want is more important than what you want. You told me you don't want this, but it feels like you do. If I'm reading that wrong, tell me."

The movie is playing, but neither of us is watching it. She's searching my expression like I hold all the answers, and I really wish I did. But I don't know what she needs to hear, what she needs me to say that'll tip the scales.

"If we were to do this," she says, "we'd need really strict, firm, ground rules."

Okay, what do you think her rules will be? And do you think he'll agree?

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