Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

HAYES

"This has to be the worst idea I've ever had, and I'm sleeping with my nanny."

"Hey, I happen to think both ideas are good."

I hold up my scratched and bloody hand. "Tell that to Coach Smith, who is going to have some serious questions when I roll into practice tomorrow all banged up."

"Just tell him the truth—you suck at building."

"I don't suck," I say through clenched teeth as I try to pry free the nail I put in crooked as shit.

Sunday Funday at the Park with Just Quinn and Flora the Little Flower has become one of Flora's favorite days, and since I'm hardly ever able to make it there to hang out with them, I got a wild hair up my ass and thought it would be a good idea to bring the park here. So, I've been spending this cloudy, cold November day building a playset in the backyard.

Sure, I could have had it delivered already assembled, but when I saw the salesman flirting with Quinn, I got pissed and told him to skip the sales pitch, then declared I could build it myself.

I was wrong. I'm four hours into this, I'm not even halfway done, and Flora gets home from school in two hours.

"Just take a deep breath." Quinn inhales steadily. "Then let it go."

I do as she says, but as expected, it does nothing to calm me down. I pick the hammer back up and channel all my frustration into getting the damn crooked nail out. When it finally pops free, I toss the hammer across the lawn and lie back, drained from the world's saddest playset build.

Quinn crawls across the grass next to me, laying her head on my chest.

"You're right. A nap sounds nice right now."

"Why do you need a nap? You haven't done anything all day."

"Supervising is very tough work, you know."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. I'm thoroughly exhausted."

"Oh, I doubt that, honey."

She lets out a shriek as I roll over on top of her, burying my face in her neck. I press my lips below her ear, then over her jaw, not stopping until my lips are on hers.

Butterscotch. Always fucking butterscotch.

I kiss her until she's writhing underneath me, silently pleading for more with her body. It's been like this a lot with us lately, stolen moments where we can't seem to keep our hands off each other.

Like the one where Hutch caught us. I still haven't talked to him about it, and I'm trying to put that off as long as possible because I know he'll have nothing positive to say about it. How could he? I hired Quinn to help me with Flora, not dry-hump me in the middle of the day. I know we should probably stop before we get carried away and nothing else gets done on this playset, but I can't seem to find it in me to break away from her.

So I don't. Instead, I slide my hand down her leg and bunch her skirt in my hand, pulling it up, up, up until her warm pussy is pressed to my cock that's been straining against my jeans all afternoon.

"Shit," she mutters, arching her hips into me. "That feels so good, Hayes."

She sounds so needy, like I didn't fuck her against the door the second she got home from dropping Flora off at school.

"We should probably go inside," she suggests when I finger the edge of her underwear, seeking access to my favorite place.

"Why? You scared someone will see us?"

She nods, and I laugh.

"There's no one here but us. Mr. Potts, who lives to the left, goes out to lunch with his daughter every Thursday. And the Yorks to the right won't be back until at least five thirty." I kiss her softly. "So if you want me to fuck you right here in this backyard, just say the word."

Her hazel eyes, a little more on the green side today, spark with heat, and she nods frantically, pulling at the button on my jeans.

"Ah, ah, ah." I move my hips out of her reach, and she frowns. "Use your words, Quinny."

She rolls her eyes and sighs. "Shut up and fuck me, Adam."

She undoes my pants, shoving them down my ass just far enough, and I slide her panties to the side, slamming into her with zero finesse. I don't care that it's sloppy and has zero rhythm. I don't care that I'm kneeling on top of the playset instructions or that I lied and have no clue if Mr. Potts is at lunch right now.

All I care about are the sounds Quinn is making, the way her cunt is gripping me tightly, and the way she calls my name when she falls apart around me .

I'm starting to wonder if I should care about why I don't care at all.

"Motherfucker!" Keller slams his stick against the board, snapping it right in half.

Nobody reacts, completely used to his outbursts. I don't blame him. Once again, we're sucking when we should be winning. It's frustrating that we can beat some of the best teams in the league, then struggle against teams we should easily outplay.

"Come on, Fox. Come on, come on, come on," Lawson mutters beside me as the Chicago player barrels down.

We've both been benched for the last ten minutes, Coach Smith trying to send the message that we need to get our shit together.

"Son of a bitch!" he yells as the opposing player sends the puck soaring past our goalie.

Fox sits in the net on his knees, hanging his head. He's done for the night. Coach isn't going to let him stay in after that soft goal. Dash, our other goalie, puts his helmet on and readies himself to hit the ice. Fox skates slowly toward the bench, his shoulders sunken in, and I know the guy is going to be beating himself up over this.

It's just not our night. Sometimes you have games where you just suck, and this is one of them.

He skates down the tunnel, likely taking a break before the cameras are trained on him, ready to pick apart his game.

"Hayes! Lawson! Go!"

We jump over the boards in unison as our names are called, getting a second chance with the new goalie. The puck hits my stick, and I skate harder than I have all night, carrying it into the zone with minimal pushback from Chicago. They're taking it easy this shift, trying to suss out what they can and can't get away with now that there are new guys on the ice. They play it too safe, and I get my first shot of the night. I miss, but the puck soars over to Lawson, who shoots it back to me and I try again.

Still nothing.

We skate it around, taking a few checks from the Chicago players but winning the board battles. I zip it over to Lawson, who tries the same angle I did, and the lamp lights up, silencing the crowd.

"Fuck yes!" he cheers, and I skate up to him, bumping helmets. "Let's get to work!"

We run by the bench, fist-bumping everyone, even Foxy who is looking a little happier than when we left the ice, then we go again. We manage to make it within a goal, but in the end, it's not enough. We still walk back to the locker room with zero points on the night.

It's crushing.

The room is quiet as we strip out of our gear, missing that usual banter and fun as we go through our post-game routines.

"It was a tough loss out there tonight," Coach Smith says. "We fought back, but it wasn't enough. I'm still proud of you. You didn't give up when it got hard. That's the real struggle, you know? It's not losing. It's being able to walk away at the end of the night and still look at yourself and know you gave it your all. You boys did. Now rest up. We got work to do."

"Heard!" we all call out.

That's really the last thing most of us say as we file out of the room and onto the bus back to the hotel for the night. We have two days off, so we're not flying to Detroit until tomorrow.

When we walk into the hotel, I head for the bar instead of my room like I should so I can call Flora. It's just been one of those nights, and a drink sounds good to take the edge off. I'm unsurprised when Hutch slides onto the stool next to me a few moments later, and I sigh. I've been waiting for this conversation.

"I'll take one of whatever he's having," he tells the bartender of The Sinclair Chicago, who nods and pours him a cold one.

They slide it over the bar top and hurry down the stretch as a few other teammates join us on the other end. Guess tonight is a good night to drink our feelings.

"So, the nanny, huh?" Hutch says after several quiet moments.

I nod. "The nanny."

He whistles lowly. "That's something. Not surprising, but still something."

I look over at him for the first time, narrowing my eyes. "Why is it not surprising? Because I'm an idiot who has no self-control and usually fucks everything up?"

"No. Because of the way you were looking at her that day Auden and I watched Flora."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean, dumbass , is it was obvious you were into her."

I scoff. "I was not. I barely even knew her then."

Sure, I had kissed her, but I wasn't into Quinn. I was just a horny idiot. I'm still just a horny idiot.

"How long?"

I shrug. "A while."

"Before or after the season started?"

"Technically, the night it started. Unless you count our kiss. "

He lifts his brows. "Damn, you wasted no time, did you?"

I want so fucking badly to punch him off his barstool right now, but I know if I do, it'll cause a scene, and there are too many people around for that.

"Like you have any room to talk." I wave my hand around the bar we're sitting in. "You fucked the woman who built this when it went against her contract."

His eyes darken. "Don't talk about Auden like that."

"Then don't talk about Quinn like that."

He smirks, and I want to punch that off too.

"Stop fucking looking at me like that," I growl.

"No."

"Yes."

"No," he counters, sounding too much like Lawson right now for his own good.

I roll my eyes with a huff. "Whatever."

He laughs. "Look, I'm not here to judge. I'm really not. We both already know I have no business doing so after what Auden and I did."

"Then why are you here?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Just to let you know I know and I get it. Sometimes we meet people we shouldn't want, but we do anyway, and we do things we shouldn't do to have them in our lives. It's not the smartest decision, but it's still one we make, you know?"

I do know. Being with Quinn is a decision I make every day, and even when I know I'm making the wrong one, I can't help it. He's right. I am into her. Big-time.

I wish I could stop, wish I could go back to being annoyed by her inability to make a black coffee right. But I can't. Hell, I bet if she made one now and messed it up, I'd find it endearing. She's just gotten under my skin like that.

"I like her," Hutch says. "For what it's worth. You seem…different lately. I know you kind of got the shit end of the stick at the beginning of the summer with all the crap with your niece, and I know you were struggling with adjusting. But now, since Quinn came along, you've seemed a lot more like your old self. As much as I hated that guy in the beginning, I kind of missed him, and it's good to have the old you back. I think you have her to thank for that."

I have been feeling a lot like my old self lately. I chalked it up to getting proper sleep, not having to worry about Flora every waking moment, and being back on the ice, but maybe there's something to what Hutch is saying. Maybe it does have to do with Quinn.

"Anyway," he says, "your secret is safe with me. So if you were worried I'd say something to someone, I won't. I'll keep my lips sealed until you're ready to tell everyone else."

"Tell everyone else what?"

"That you're with Quinn."

"I'm not with Quinn."

He laughs as he stands up. "Right, Hayesy. Whatever you say."

He pats me on the back twice before heading up to his room. I don't realize until he's walked away that he never touched his drink, and I haven't touched mine either. Suddenly, a beer doesn't sound so good right now. At the moment, I kind of just want to call home.

I make my way up to my room, falling backward onto my bed and trying to shut out the shit game and even the conversation with Hutch. I inhale deeply, then exhale, and all it does is remind me of Quinn trying to coach me through building that playset I never finished. I smile, thinking of Flora and her.

I miss them.

I pull my phone from my pocket and hit Quinn's name. It rings only twice before she answers.

"Hello?" she says, sounding like she's out of breath. Like she ran to answer the call… my call.

"Hey. How's it going?"

She sighs sympathetically. "Better than your night, apparently."

I grunt. "I'd hope so. "

"Flora's asleep already."

"I kind of figured. It's late."

"Oh."

I called for you.

But I don't say that. We've been doing this a lot lately. I call even when I know Flora is in bed for the night and Quinn tells me so, but we still talk anyway. I wish I could chalk it up to not liking being alone with my thoughts, but I don't think it's that. I think I just like talking to her.

I clear my throat. "So, how was your day?"

I swear I hear her smile. "It was good. Long. Flora and I baked cookies, and we didn't burn the house down, so you better say you're impressed, or we won't save you any."

"Who are you kidding? You weren't going to save me any anyway."

She laughs. "That's true."

"I'm impressed. And thankful. I'm not sure I could have handled a phone call from the fire department tonight."

"I probably would have just let you be surprised when you got home."

I chuckle because she so would. "I'm not sure if I should say thank you for that or not."

"You should."

"Then thank you. "

We fall silent, and I scoot up on the bed, pressing my back against the headboard as I loosen my tie.

"Sorry you lost tonight," she says quietly.

"Me too."

"You tried though. That counts for something, doesn't it?"

"You sound like Coach Smith."

"He's a smart man. A very, very hot smart man."

"Quinn…" I growl in warning.

I know Smith is very dedicated to Emilia, and I know there is no way anything would ever happen between him and Quinn, but the idea still sends a wave of jealousy through me.

"What? You have eyes. You can't deny it, and you know it."

She giggles. She's totally fucking with me, and damn if it isn't working.

"You're doing a very good job of distracting me from playing like shit, you know."

"I'm trying. Tell me all the good things you like about the game."

"The money."

She laughs loudly, then I hear her slap her hand over her mouth. "Shh. Flora's sleeping."

"You always did have trouble being quiet."

"Hayes…" Now it's her turn to give me a warning. "An yway," she says pointedly. "I'm sure the money part is nice."

"Very much so, especially given how broke I was growing up. I can't tell you the number of times I stole peanut butter from our local grocery store just so I didn't starve because my parents always conveniently forgot to go shopping."

"That's…"

"Fucked up? Yeah, I know."

Though I can feel the sadness coming off her, I like that she doesn't try to tell me how sorry she is for me. I've always hated everyone's pity whenever they find out about my past.

"How—and please don't take this the wrong way—how did you afford to play?"

"I didn't." I laugh lightly. "We had this community center in town, and I used to go a lot because it was free and a safe place to hang out after school. Anything was better than going home, so I would sit and watch the practices and games. I fell in love with the sport without ever stepping on the ice. One night when I was about ten, during a particularly bad fight my parents were having where I got an ashtray lobbed at my head, I snuck out of the house and into the rink. I found an old pair of skates in the lost and found, and I took 'em for a spin." I smile, remembering it. "I could barely make it around the ice the first lap, but on the second? I was golden. Flying all over the place. For the first time ever, I felt free, like nothing bad that was happening at home could touch me out there."

I blink rapidly, my eyes suddenly stinging. I try not to look back at the shit life I had too often, and right now, it's feeling a lot closer than it has in a long time. I have no idea why I'm telling Quinn all this, but I can't stop.

"Anyway, I got caught. I guess the coach was in his office working late, and I had no idea. He came out and busted me, then offered me the bargain of a lifetime—I could pay him back for using his rink by keeping his locker room clean, and in exchange, I could come out and skate whenever he wasn't using the ice."

"You spent way too much time out there, didn't you?" she guesses.

"Yep. I was out there every night and every morning, skating until my legs were screaming at me."

"Did you just skate, or…"

"Eventually, Coach noticed my dedication and gave me a stick and some gloves. It was used, ratty equipment that was way too big for me, but I didn't care. I worked hard for a year and saved every spare penny I had from mowing lawns so I could pay the registration fee and join the league. Of course, I hadn't thought of actually buying equipment that fit me. But I guess at that point, Coach had a special interest in me and gave me some stuff he said was ‘defective' that just happened to be my exact size." I laugh to myself. "Of course, I realize now he bought it specially for me, but man, I was ready as hell to believe the lie back then. Anything that got me on that team."

"He sounds like a great guy," Quinn says.

"He was. The best. He coached me, spending extra hours at the rink to run drills with me to get me up to where I needed to be, and then he personally took me to and from games. He gave me a chance at a better life, and I wish he were here right now to see me living my dream. Probably wouldn't be proud of some of the shit I've pulled along the way, but…"

"Maybe not you throwing that statue into the pool."

I wince. "That was such a stupid move."

"It was, but we all make mistakes. We all do those things we aren't supposed to that sound good in the moment and come back to bite us in the ass later."

Like us. We aren't supposed to be doing what we're doing, but it sure did sound good when we agreed to this affair of ours. Now… Well, fuck, it still sounds good, even though we still aren't supposed to be doing it.

Guess I haven't quite learned my lesson, huh?

"But he'd be proud," she says. "There's no way he wouldn't be. You're playing in the NHL, you have a niece who worships you, and you're no longer destroying hotel rooms just for the fun of it. I'd say that's something to be proud of."

She's right. That is something to be proud of. Sure, it's the bare minimum, but it's still something. Better than how I used to be, that's for damn sure.

"Thanks," I say.

"You're welcome."

We fall silent again, nothing but hushed breaths and running thoughts. And mine are definitely running right now.

Where is she? Is she curled up in her bed or on the couch, a muted TV show flashing across the screen? Is she wearing those ridiculously short sleep shorts she prances around in? Is her hair that feels like silk between my fingers up in a messy bun or hanging loose around her shoulders? Does she smell like butterscotch?

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course she smells like butterscotch.

"Well…" she says after several minutes. "I should probably head to bed, and you should too. I know it's late there."

It is late, and I should get to bed. But I want to keep talking to her too .

Then she yawns, and I know there's no way I'm going to keep her up.

"Probably, sleepyhead."

"Hey, I've been wrangling a seven-year-old and a cat named Pickles who she tried to sneak into school all day. What have you done?" She pauses. "Wait. Don't answer that."

I laugh. "That's what I thought. Just one more question…"

"Yes?"

"What are they?"

She definitely smiles this time. She always does when I ask about her earrings. "Sushi rolls."

"But you don't even like sushi."

"So? They're still cute."

I shake my head. Quinn logic.

"Good night, Adam," she whispers.

"Night, honey."

When I finally crawl into bed, I don't even spend the time falling asleep thinking about my horrible game. I think about Quinn and her sushi earrings and all the other things about her that make me smile. What we're doing might technically be wrong, but I can't help but think it feels so, so right.

And I have no idea what to do about it.