13. Lawson

CHAPTER 13

LAWSON

“That was seriously so much fun,” Blakely says, looping her arm through mine as we exit the Penobscot Theatre Company, the cracked pavement looking like it may give under our feet as we exit the building.

It's now dark, but Main Street is lit up with golden lights, the theater behind us looking like it might’ve when it opened so many years ago, the gold details on the awning shimmering in a way it didn’t in the daylight.

I keep our stroll casual as we walk down Main Street, knowing I'm not ready for this night to end. “I'm glad you liked it,” I say, and I swallow a little roughly.

I planned this.

I planned a date that wasn't technically a date, for a girl who behaved like my girlfriend but wasn’t technically my girlfriend, because neither one of us supposedly wanted that.

Except that's a lie.

I did want her.

I wanted her to be mine in a way I never wanted anything else to be mine.

I didn't care what she called herself as long as she’s with me . But I also didn't want to be the asshole to tell her that, especially when her ex is still very much in the picture.

“Haven't you ever been there before?” I ask, turning us into a little coffee shop and grabbing us a table near the window.

“I haven’t,” she answers. “I'm kind of regretting never going before, but with school and practicing and the competitions, I just never had much time to explore things like this. Plus, any time I tried to get Brian to do something even a little bit out of the norm...” Her voice trails off and she shakes her head, smiling at the waiter when he comes up to take our coffee orders.

“You haven't brought him up in a couple weeks,” I say after the waiter leaves. “Any new developments?” I hate that I'm so hungry for information, but since our schedules lined up where I could spend Thanksgiving in Colorado with Mom and Lana last week, I haven’t seen Blakely in over five days.

And yes, we’d texted each other every day, but it isn’t the same as actually getting to see her, touch her, watch the little reactions that play across her face before she parts those luscious lips of hers.

She’d spent the holiday with her family and friends, a tradition they've done since they moved out here. I still hadn't met anyone beyond her friends, but I hadn't brought it up because it wasn't like I was whisking her off to meet my mother and sister either.

Slow. We we’re definitely taking this slow.

“His texts and calls have lessened,” she says, shaking her head. “Maybe he’s finally starting to get the point, but with the auditions for that show coming up soon, I'm anticipating an influx of requests.”

The waiter returns with our coffees, and we both pick up the white ceramic mugs and clink them together before taking quick sips of the hot liquid.

“Maybe I should just give in,” she says, and it isn't until she says it that I can see the exhaustion around her eyes when talking about the subject. She’s so very good at hiding the strain that it’s almost easy to believe it doesn’t affect her, strong and stubborn as she is. “Maybe I should just skate with him. Help him get on the reality TV show he wants so badly, and then he'll leave me alone.”

“You're fucking joking, right?” I ask, nearly choking on my second sip of coffee. I set the mug down, my brow furrowed.

She shifts in her chair, then shrugs. “The thought has crossed my mind. Especially when I can't sleep at night because I'm so damn tired of hearing the phone buzz over and over again. I've started to just shut it off when I go to bed, but it's like he's been doing it to me for so many months now that I anticipate it even when I can't hear it. I’ve thought about blocking his number, but I’m afraid he’ll start showing up to my place more if I do. It's getting old?—”

“Have you thought any more about going to the police?” I ask.

“I have,” she says. “I've played out the conversation in my head a dozen times. ‘Hello officer, I would like to file a harassment suit against my ex-boyfriend. No, he hasn't physically harmed me, but he keeps calling me a lot and texting. Sometimes he leaves flowers outside my door.’”

“When you say it like that…” I say, cringing just a bit.

“It sounds like I'm being ridiculous, doesn't it? In my mind, the only thing going to the police would do would…at the very least piss him off. Let's say the cops take me seriously and go talk to him. Tell him to stop doing what he's doing. He won't take that lightly. I know him well enough for that.” She blows out a breath. “But, if I gave him what he wanted... maybe he’d ride off into the sunset and forget I ever existed.”

“You can't really believe that,” I say. “I know you're smarter than that. You played that game for years with him, giving him exactly what he wanted in the hopes that you would get something back in return. Did you ever?”

She takes another long drink of her coffee and shakes her head.

“If you gave in to his irrational and demanding requests to skate with him for that stupid show, he would win . He would win and you would lose. Because he’d know he has the ability to break your resolve, which means he'll do it again and again, every time he needs you for something.”

She smiles at me, and I swear the damn look takes my breath away. “You know, it's almost infuriating how damn perceptive you are.”

I laugh, happy to see the light return to her eyes. “Admit it, you love it,” I say, returning to our normal playful tone.

“Never said I didn't,” she says. “But it's funny that you don't always show everybody else that side of you,” she continues. “Your reputation certainly doesn't paint you as the super perceptive and compassionate guy. Instead, it's all wild parties and orgies and the like.”

I laugh and shake my head. “There were no orgies,” I say.

“Sure,” she says, dragging out the word.

“There wasn't,” I assure her. “The wild parties definitely happened, and I'm not saying I haven't ever had more than one partner at once, but definitely not three or more. I may have the stamina of a Greek god, but that doesn't mean I want to overexert myself.”

Blakely laughs so unexpectedly that she almost spits her coffee back into her cup. “You’re impossible,” she says but she's looking at me like I’m anything but.

That look has my heart expanding in my chest a few sizes, filling up every empty inch of me and spreading warmth beneath my skin. Fucking hell, I never knew how wonderful it could be to stick with one person who totally understands me as opposed to bed hopping. I had no idea the emptiness it created in me, under the guise of nothing but pure ecstatic fun. I definitely don’t miss it, even if I have no clue how to properly navigate whatever it is Blakely and I are doing.

“Shifting topics,” Blakely says, reeling in her laughter. “You played amazing against the Coyotes last night.”

I nod, a little pride swelling inside me. “We're really starting to feel like an actual team now,” I admit. “I'm starting to see our chances at turning this team around and I'm not mad about it.”

“I'm not either,” she says. “I've never seen the Badgers look as tight-knit and promising as I have recently. It may be my first year of coaching, but I've been an avid follower since…” She abruptly cuts herself off, and I tilt my head. “Since we moved here years ago,” she hurries to finish.

I narrow my gaze at her, trying to work out the puzzle around these brief instances where Blakely catches herself or bites her tongue. I brought it up a couple weeks ago when we had our first fight over me taking Waller out for being a prick, but whatever she’s hiding she clearly isn’t ready to tell me yet, and I'd be an asshole if I tried to force it out of her. So, I don't comment on it, and instead smile at her.

“I'm glad that we can impress you, Coach,” I say teasingly. “You know what would make me play even better?”

A beautiful little flush dusts her cheeks, and I'm always so blown away by that, especially since we knew each other on an incredibly intimate level, but I love the fact that I can still set her off in public like this.

“What's that?”

“If you wore my jersey to the next game.”

Blakely gapes at me, then takes another drink of her coffee before setting it down. “I can't show favoritism,” she says.

“But that doesn't mean you don't want to,” I fire back.

“I didn't say that either,” she says. “I'm perfectly content wearing my own coach jersey.”

“As you should be,” I say. “But you’d look hot in a player jersey. My player jersey.”

“Are you saying I wouldn't look hot in any other player’s jersey?” She leans forward, smirking at me across the table. “Would that upset you? If I wore somebody else's number on my back?”

The thought of her with somebody else's name on her back sends a spike of jealousy spearing straight through me. Which is ridiculous because wearing someone else's jersey, especially when you’re a coach and part of the team, doesn’t mean anything.

“No,” I finally admit. “You’re a Badger. You can wear whoever you want. But,” I say, leaning so close our lips are almost touching. “If you wore mine, it would mean something.”

Her eyes flutter from my lips to my eyes and back again. “What would it mean?” she asks, her voice breathless.

“It would mean that you wanted me. Wanted me and no one else. And that you would want the world to know it.”

She gasps a little, panic flaring in her eyes. “Are you saying you want to take this to McClaren? To Coach Hardin?”

“What if I am?” My heart pounds against my chest. This is the closest we've ever danced toward public exclusivity.

“What about you being married to the NHL?”

“I'm not proposing to you, damsel,” I tease.

“You know what I mean,” she says, leaning back in her chair a little bit. Putting that distance between us that speaks volumes about how uncomfortable she is with this conversation.

“I know what I said when we first met.” I shrug. “I didn’t plan on meeting you. I didn’t plan on this happening. And I know why you're not ready, but when you are, I’ll be here. I just want you to know that I didn't want my position in this to be an uncertainty in your mind.”

“Wow,” she says, looking utterly mystified. It’s cute as hell. “I was not expecting that.”

“Trust me, I wasn't either,” I say honestly. I hold up my mug, offering it to her. “Cheers to unexpected surprises.”

“That seems like a scary thing to toast to,” she says, but she clinks her mug against mine and we both take a drink.

I grin at her as a comfortable silence falls over our table and we finish our coffees.

Then she looks at me questioningly. “What are you smiling at?”

“I'm just imagining what you're going to look like with the number thirty-four on your back,” I say.

Her grin deepens and she shrugs. “Well, if I ever was going to wear the number thirty-four to a game, I’d have to wear a bunch of other numbers first. That way it doesn’t draw suspicion. Regardless of where we are right now, neither one of us wants to bring anymore drama to our careers, right?”

“We are kind of on a high note right now,” I say. “I wouldn't want to create any rumblings among the team, not when we just found a rhythm.”

“Right,” she says. “So, hypothetically , I'd have to wear somebody else's number first.” She narrows her gaze at me. “If I do, are you going to attack the person?”

“I deserve that,” I say. “But no, damsel. I've learned my lesson. I'll only play hero if you actually need my help. Which nine times out of ten, you don't.”

She smiles, leaning over the table, looking like she’s ready to kiss me before she sinks back into her seat, her eyes catching on something behind me, and her smile turning into a frown in a second flat.

I turn around, following her line of sight and my smile melts away too, replaced by a glare. Her douchebag ex just walked into the coffee shop, either knowing she was here or by a very unhappy accident. Either way, it understandably kills the building momentum between us.

I shift in my seat, pulling out my wallet and leaving more than enough cash on the table before I reach for Blakely’s hand, gently tugging on her so we can get the fuck out of there. I don’t want to give that asshole a chance to look at her, let alone talk to her.

She’s tense as she walks behind me, and I swear I can feel the anxiety rolling off of her and into my body as we clear the doors without him stopping us.

“Speaking of when I need you to be my hero,” she says after we've made it a few blocks back to my car and are safely inside.

I chuckle, then hold her hand as I navigate down the roads. “Always,” I say. “Now, more importantly, your place or mine?”

She squeezes my hand, tilting her head back against the seat like the exhaustion of just seeing him took everything out of her. “I don't care,” she says. “As long as I'm with you.”

It's hard to breathe around how big my heart grows at those words, and I feel so damn lucky to be the person she wants to be with even when she's wrung out.

I make the turn that will take us to my place.

“I have a bigger bathtub,” I explain. “I'll run you one, and then we'll watch a show in bed.”

“Where did you come from?” she asks, almost so quietly I don't know if she meant to say it out loud.

“I told you,” I say, nothing but pure arrogance in my voice. “Greek god descendant here.”

She laughs, shaking her head.

“But more realistically?” I ask. “I was raised by a single mother, and I have a sister who is only seventeen months younger than me. You know me, I may be cocky, but I know how damn lucky I am to have been raised by a strong independent woman who ensured I knew how to treat the opposite sex. And my baby sister only reinforced those rules. I'm sorry it's not the norm for you, but hey, it's been four months since you've met me. You’ve got to be getting a little used to it by now, right?”

“Honestly,” she says as I pull into my apartment complex parking lot. “I could spend a lifetime with you and probably never get used to the way you handle me.”

I swallow hard, her mention at forever doing nothing to terrify me and everything to excite me. Which confuses the fuck out of me.

It's only been four months. I just fucking said that, and now my heart's doing a little Bugs Bunny dance over the use of the word lifetime ?

Yep. Yep it is. Just hopping around all happy and shit. Perfect.

I throw the car in park, and unbuckle my seat belt, immediately reaching across the gear shift and cupping her cheek. I put on my best cocky smile and kiss her quickly before pulling away.

“Let me handle you some more,” I say with every ounce of innuendo I can. Anything I can do to hide the fact that I’ve quite literally fallen for a girl who constantly tells me she doesn't want to be in a relationship ever again.

I’ve always had a reckless side, but I've never played with such high stakes before.

Even though I’m a Badger, I’m not used to losing, and if I lose Blakely Wren, I’m not sure I’ll know how to come back from that.