Chapter 9

Weightlifting is dangerous.

It's especially dangerous when you pay absolutely no attention to what you're doing. I'm benching one hundred and seventy pounds while staring at the finest ass I've ever seen.

We finished our spinning session, and Felicity was seriously impressive, her stamina noted. Afterward, she moved to the treadmill where she's remained ever since, breaking into a light jog. I don't know whether to hate or thank myself right now because the mirrors I installed along the length of the wall give me a perfect view of her bouncing tits while I sit behind, eyes laser-focused on her tight ass, fighting an ever-developing hard-on. If I don't stop gawking soon, there's a high probability that one of these weights is going to end up on my face.

Placing the bar back on the rack, I sit up and wipe my hands on my thighs. "Want to come show me what you can lift?" I thumb over my shoulder to the bar.

She's clearly nervous or maybe a little shy in my presence, and I guess watching me bench over twice her weight won't be helping. She's thrown me a sweet smile now and then, but for the most part, we've been working out and listening to music.

Felicity brings the treadmill to a stop. "I can try, but I tend to stick to stretching and cardio."

Yes, I can see that.

"I can help you, show you what to do, even spot you." I stand from the bench as she bends to collect her water bottle and makes her way over. "Straddle the bench then lean back, keeping your back flat to the surface." I adjust the weight, leaving a very light load before raising the bar and showing her how to lift correctly. Hovering over her, I'm ready to take the bar when she's done. It's easier said than done though because I have an enticing view of her ample cleavage, her tits pressed together in her sports bra. At a guess, I'd say she's a D cup.

Behave, Jon.

After a few reps, Felicity lets out a low groan. Christ, this is torturous. "Had enough?"I ask.

She quickly nods her head, and I take the bar, placing it back. "That's harder than it looks, and I clearly have no muscles." She chuckles, sitting up.

Grabbing my Gatorade, I straddle the bench, too, sitting just a few inches away from her so that we're face to face. Even though we aren't touching, it's an incredibly intimate position, and I can tell she feels the same level of intensity.

Taking a drink, I hold her gaze as her eyes drop to my mouth. "I can see a few muscles building in those biceps of yours," I say, reaching up and squeezing the top of her arm gently. Her skin is so fucking smooth, like velvet.

A bead of sweat appears at her hairline, casually making its way down her forehead. Before I can stop it, my hand shoots up and swipes it from her brow.

On instinct, Felicity pulls back, open-mouthed as she sucks in a breath. She shoots to her feet, almost tumbling over the bench as she hurries over to her bag. Shoving her towel, bottle, and air pods in as quickly as possible, she doesn't look up at me. "I should go. It's late, and I need to get some sleep."

I rise from the bench, disappointed she wants to leave but confident her reaction is in response to my touch. "Busy day tomorrow, eh?"

She puffs out a breath. "Yeah, up early, you know."

Sensing this may all be a ruse to get out of my apartment as quickly as possible, I push her further. I don't want her to leave yet. Maybe ever.

"Oh yeah, what you got planned?" Felicity isn't a good liar, that much is clear. She goes to speak then clamps her mouth shut, looking down at the floor. I take a few steps closer. "Look, if you want to go then just say so. I won't be offended. A little disappointed maybe. But I'm not about to make you stay or do anything you aren't a hundred percent comfortable with."

Still not looking up, she scuffs the floor lightly with her sneaker. After a beat she breaks her silence, "It's just…I don't know what I was expecting coming here. I guess I expected to find a boy desperate to get in my knickers, not a man interested in spending time with me, let alone actually wanting to work out." She pauses before speaking again, "I expected you to be a bit of?—"

"An asshole?" I finish for her.

Bright emerald eyes meet mine and she chuckles. "Yeah, I guess I was. But you aren't, are you? Or maybe this is all part of your plan, your way to get what you want."

It's hard not to let her words show how deeply they cut, but they do. It's clear what she thinks of me, and I can feel my hands begin to tremble slightly at the thought of her walking out of here and never wanting to see me again. I don't want to be the lonely, retired hockey player with no one to come home to. I want someone to share my bed— my life— and meeting Felicity has intensified those feelings tenfold.

I bite my bottom lip, trying to steady myself, and lean down to meet her eyes, Miley's "Slide Away" is soothing my gym speakers. "Felicity, believe me, I want in your pants. I can't lie to you and say I don't because I'm insanely attracted to you. But I have zero interest in getting you naked today if it means tomorrow, you won't answer my calls. Because I will be calling you. I don't know exactly what this is because I've never been in this position before. I just know I want to be in you and around you."

"Preoccupied about Saturday?"

I look up from my plate piled high with meatloaf and mashed potatoes and shrug. "Just tired, big practice sessions plus extra time in the gym."

Dad sits across from me, glasses resting on his nose, completing a crossword. He finishes another word and drops his puzzle and pen down beside him. "Fair enough, son, but take it easy and look after yourself. These are key years in your career. How you approach them will likely dictate how long you have left."

Reverting my gaze to my meal, I feel my jaw tighten and nod. "Don't I know it."

Before Dad can reply, Mom is by my side, spooning yet more mashed potatoes onto my plate. "Colorado this week, right?" she inquires, a breezy tone in her voice. She always loves having one or both of her boys home, catering to our every need.

The Colorado Kings are my former team, having played for them straight out of the draft. "Yeah, fly out tomorrow, four-night stay in total. I'll be back late on Sunday."

Mom heads around the table and sits opposite me before Dad comes to join us. We sit in silence for a couple of minutes, but it's a comforting atmosphere. I've never been a fan of silence—it"s usually a gateway allowing my mind to wander, typically to troubling places like my future, spent alone as a washed-up pro athlete. Here though, sitting in my family home, my mind stays firmly planted and calm. I love this house. I bought it for Mom and Dad five years ago and paid off their mortgage, allowing my dad to retire early and support Mom and Adam at home. The house also accommodates Adam's needs far better than their old place ever did. It's got an incredible backyard surrounded by tall evergreen trees and shrubs. It's a haven for wildlife, something Adam loves. We also converted the double garage into a self-contained living space for him, complete with a state-of-the-art sensory room. There's everything he could need here when he visits on the weekends.

Which is why it's so difficult when he chooses to stay away and in his apartment rather than come home for scheduled evenings. That's been happening more often, and the frequency of his calls and texts has fallen off a cliff. When we try to call, he rarely answers. I'm worried Adam is becoming more withdrawn. He used to want to attend more of my games, or he would time his visits home to watch them on TV with Dad, but that's also died. The optimistic side of me hopes he's becoming more independent, but the experienced brother says something's wrong. I'd go to him, but he wouldn't appreciate unexpected callers. Lately, I've felt like my brother is drifting away from us, and I know Mom and Dad see it too because it"s etched across their faces, and I'm powerless to do anything. The feeling eats away at me because other than our parents, all we have is each other, and that's a frightening prospect.

"Will you be heading out with the Kings after the match on Saturday?" Dad asks between mouthfuls of delicious home-cooked food.

I feel my shoulders tense at the simple question. "Yeah, Trent messaged me last week, asking if I wanted to meet up afterward, so I'll head to one of their usual bars for a few." Trent is the captain for the Kings, and we've kept in touch over the years, he's a good guy, but I've not been out with them in a while.

I should be looking forward to Saturday, but I"m not. The Colorado boys know the old Jon, the crazy rookie with a different woman each night, and that's not who I am anymore. I'm tired of plastering on a fa?ade to meet the expectations of who people think I am based on a version of me that died long ago.

"Good game, man."Jessie claps my shoulder as he walks back to his bench.

"Yeah, bro, you too," I reply.

Jensen, on the other hand, is less levelheaded toward the loss, ripping his pads off before ramming them into his bag, not bothering to have them wiped down. "Fucking good game? Yeah right, we played like shit."

He's not wrong, we did play like shit. My head has been up my ass for days now, and that feeling of dread has only amassed to the point where I got next to no sleep last night. I tossed and turned, eventually giving up in the early hours, then spent an hour searching for Felicity's social media. It's probably a bit creepy, but I followed and added her on every platform I could think of and even threw in a few likes for good measure. She's private on most accounts which isn't surprising, but the few pictures that are public are stunning. She hasn't added me back yet, but I'm trying not to read too much into it. Although she hurried out of my place on Friday night, I don't think her body language screamed I never want to see you again.

At least that's what I'm telling myself.

Insomnia isn't unusual for me, but it has gotten better over the years since I attended therapy. I started seeing my therapist, Ben, around three years ago when my anxiety and depression began pulling me under. I was barely functioning day to day, and I started to find less-than-healthy ways to cope with my troubles. Hitting the drink too hard or working out in my gym to the point where I could barely walk, desperate to numb my spiraling thoughts of loneliness and self-deprecation. I slept with more and more women, searching for affection and a feeling of being wanted.

I think we all look for validation in our lives, whether it be our successes or simply to be wanted and feel valued, and from the outside looking in, I have all of that, including an awesome but small family. So, when I started to take a downward spiral in my mental health for "no apparent reason" and it seeped into my game, the media started to question what could possibly be wrong. This "has-it-all, women falling at his feet, playboy hockey god." The external lack of validation left me reeling like I had no right to feel the way I did. So, with every bad day, my coping strategies became more extreme, and the compassion I held for myself dissipated altogether.

That was when Zach, the only person I confided in fully, suggested I speak with Ben, a therapist known for working with pro athletes. I've come a long way with his help and still see him each week to keep on the straight and narrow. I've been in more fights than I can recall, had painful insults fired at me from all four corners of the world, and I've had countless coaches tell me my best isn't good enough. Yet it's always the silent games we play with ourselves that hit the hardest.

"You coming out tonight, Jon?" Zach shouts from his shower stall.

"I am, but I'll be wherever Trent and the guys are, so probably the Indigo Lounge. You can join if you want?"

"Indigo, where the fuck is that? Never heard of that one before. But if it sells booze, I'm down. I need to drink tonight's game out of my system,"Jensen chimes in.

Form an orderly line.

"Okay, meet me in the lobby at nine, and we'll grab a ride," I shout over the pelting water streams.

"Can't we just walk? I could use the extra cool down tonight," Jensen protests.

"Ha! Yeah, I'd rather not. My legs have had enough exercise for tonight, plus you remember how it was last season. Colorado away games with their boy, Jon, in tow. The press is always hot on that one, and I don't want cameras in my face if I can help it," Zach answers on my behalf.

"Yeah, fair point, man. Okay, we'll see you at nine and catch a ride from there," Jensen responds.

I turn the shower off and step out into the main locker room. My senses tighten as the cold air hits my wet skin, but I welcome the sensation—anything to take my mind off tonight. Shaking it off, I throw my post-match suit on, forgoing the tie, and head out to grab the team bus back to the hotel.