22. Brett

Brett

Fallon stops just short of kissing me. I freeze between her legs for a fraction of a moment—the slightest hesitation known to man, before I bridge the gap and press my lips to hers. Her mouth falls open for me, her legs loosening like they've melted, allowing me to step closer.

The moment I slide my tongue against hers, it's like she's unlocked something in me. I need every part of her under my fingers, and so I touch and touch her—my hands drawing up under the back of her shirt, skating over the impossibly soft skin on her back, which is warm to the touch. I feel the goosebumps I leave in my wake, and it makes me shiver, too.

Fallon is all hands—her fingers fluttering over my body like she isn't sure where to land. Everything she does is frenetic, like she's trying to touch down in every country at once. Her fingers slide through my hair, then twist, pulling and making me gasp against her. I want her to keep doing that—keep tugging on my hair, but her hands drift down, fingers cupping the back of my neck and down into the collar of my shirt.

Reaching around, she flattens her palms against my chest, and for a terrifying moment, I think she might push me away, but then she spreads her fingers wide and lets out a noise of approval, and I allow myself one errant thought that's not about Fallon: I have to thank Sammy for never letting me skip a day in the gym.

I find her hips and grip them tightly, loving that smooth, flat part of her that's so sturdy and solid, despite the softness that exists everywhere else. Using her hips as anchors, I draw her closer, bringing her to the edge of the counter so I can press against her, loving the way she sucks in a breath at the friction of my length against her through our layers of clothes.

Then her hands drift further down, slipping under the hem of my shirt, and— Fuck it —I sacrifice a moment pressed against her to step back, grabbing my shirt like it's personally attacked me, ripping it over my head, and tossing it onto the floor.

The air she sucks through her teeth is validating, making my skin prickle, wanting her hands back on me. I slot myself between her legs again, brain alive with her warmth, her breath, that soft, sweet scent, all oranges and something completely and wholly Fallon.

I want her.

My brain flashes back to other hookups—the women I've cycled in and out of my bed since becoming a professional athlete—women who preened and posed, making porn-ish sounds and looking, at every moment, like they were performing. It never felt real with them, only like something I was checking off a list.

Become a famous athlete. Check. Get the payday. Check. Take gorgeous women home. Check.

If I was a woman in a hockey player's bed, I'd probably feel the pressure, too. I'd probably try to mold myself to them, like they had, trying to center the world around their axis. Women are held to impossible standards, so it's no wonder that the models and superstars I found in my bed were conscious of those standards, striving to meet them with each breath.

But Fallon isn't a model, or a superstar. She's a woman, a physical therapist, someone wearing cotton underwear, which my fingers have just drifted near. She's soft, soft, soft, and so real under my fingers. I could sink into her, grip her tightly, and the thought of it makes my cock jump—my hands on her sides, drawing her back and into me—the way I could curve over her, how I'd make her cry out, pleading for me, saying my name—

My palms feel molten as I drag them over her back, then, in a moment of inspiration, I reach around, drawing up her shirt and pressing our stomachs together. She gasps, and I flatten myself against her, kissing her and kissing her, my chin jutting against hers. I bring my hand around to her back to keep her from flattening on the counter, though the moment I picture that, I want it, too.

Grinding my hips against her, I try to feel her out, to see what she wants, and when she rolls her hips against mine, I nearly sigh in relief.

She wants me, too. And she'll get me.

Reaching down, I find the elastic band of her underwear and slip my fingers under it, my entire body tensing in anticipation—the first moment I'll touch her, feel her warmth, have her slipping against my fingertips—

And then, a crackle. A whine. Something in her pocket starting to wail, the fuzzy noise muffled under her fabric.

We freeze, braced against each other. I stare at her chest as it falls and rises, feeling like the moment after a race down the ice to get the puck. I might throw up. I might pass out.

My hand has stalled just inside the band of her underwear. When June lets out her first, solid cry, Fallon pulls back.

Just like that, the moment is over.

"Shit," she whispers, sliding down, off the counter and sliding passed me, not meeting my eyes, "I'll get her."

***

The next morning, I wake up in my bed, alone.

Groaning, I draw my body out of the warmth and comfort of the sheets and stumble to my bathroom, brushing my teeth and stepping into the shower.

Last night, after Fallon disappeared into June's room, I'd lingered in the kitchen, body buzzing, wondering if she might come back. Maybe she would walk right back into the kitchen and hop up on the counter, and we could slip back into the moment.

But after twenty minutes passed and there was still no sign of her, I'd walked to the baby's room, waiting outside the door, holding my breath.

No crying. So Fallon was in June's room, hiding from me.

I'd collected my shirt from the floor and went to my bedroom as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake June again. Maybe Fallon thought it was a mistake? Maybe she felt awkward about it, out of the moment, unsure of how to tell me it was a bad idea?

Now, I step into the shower and lean my head against the tile, hand drifting South, wrapping around my cock. When I picture Fallon last night, eyes wide, skin burning against mine, it only takes minutes for me to come, and when I do, I don't feel satisfied.

I scrub my body and get out, dressing and walking down into the living room, wondering what I'm going to find.

Fallon is in the kitchen, making June a bottle. There are several dirty bottles in the sink, and a paper on the counter.

"Good morning," she says, immediately—too chipper—and from the way she drops her eyes, I think she can tell it's too forced.

But, if she wants to pretend like it didn't happen, I can respect that. I sit at the island, telling myself that I won't make any more advances on her. No matter how badly I want to.

And no matter the fact that she kissed me.

Sure, I'd been standing in front of her, staring down at her, hoping she would give me a sign that she wanted to be kissed. And my prayers had been answered when she tugged me into her—but she's changed her mind.

And it's fine. It's okay.

It has to be.

"Uh, here," Fallon says, tapping the paper on the counter and meeting my eyes quickly before flicking them down again. "I printed more questions."

"You printed them?" I ask, frowning.

"Yeah." Then, awkwardly, "sorry—I saw the printer in the office, and thought it would be okay—"

"No, yeah, it is." I pull the paper toward me and clear my throat. "I didn't—I guess I didn't realize I have a printer."

"Yeah," she says, reaching into the sink for the dirty bottles. She lets out a laugh. "Right."

"Hey," I say, rapping the faucet to get her attention. "Don't worry about that. The housekeeper is coming today."

"Oh." She hesitates, then drops the bottle into the sink. "Right."

This is miserable. I look at June, who's propped in a little chair, swaying back and forth, her little hands tightly fisted at her sides. I want to blame her for what happened last night, for so rudely crying right when Fallon and I were in the middle of the best kiss of my life, but maybe it's a blessing in disguise.

Maybe, if June hadn't interrupted, we would have gone all the way, and Fallon would have regretted it afterward. The thought of it makes my stomach curdle.

"Want to read them?" Fallon asks, lifting the baby from the chair and nudging the bottle's nipple against her lips. I watch as Fallon holds her, feeding her, then realize what she's asking.

"Oh, yeah." I look down at the paper, my brain taking a moment to unscramble the words and letters. "Yeah."

"We have that meeting with the lawyer later," she says, eyes meeting mine, something unsure and fearful there. "You can still make it, right?"

I nod, glancing back at the paper in front of me. "Yes. So…‘What attracted you to your spouse initially?'"

This seems like a loaded question, I think.

When I look up, Fallon is blushing fiercely, so I decide to take one for the team.

"Well," I answer first, looking away from her. "I liked that you seemed competent at your job. That you were careful and gentle with me, even though I'm a big guy. I'd worked with other PTs who treated me like a piece of meat. I also liked that you seemed to care about my overall health, rather than getting me out on the ice as soon as possible, though, I guess that's not fair, because you didn't really know who I was—"

Fallon saves me from my rambling.

"I liked that you were funny," she cuts in, still blushing. "And obviously…handsome."

I feel heat rush to my face. What the hell is this? I feel like a high schooler, admitting their crush for the first time. Sitting here in the kitchen, talking to Fallon, looking at her, but not being able to touch her and have her the way I want, it's infuriating. Painful, bitter, but in an almost addictive way. Like pressing against a loose tooth.

"You think I'm handsome," I joke, glad some of the awkwardness is falling away. "That's a first."

"Oh, shut up." The blush spreads to the tips of her ears. "What's next?"

"How do we divide household chores?"

"We don't do chores, apparently," Fallon laughs. "We're filthy stinking rich."

"Hey—I don't smell," I say, a lame attempt at humor.

"No, you don't," Fallon agrees. I have to press the back of my hand into the counter to keep from saying something. It's killing me to dance around what happened last night.

"What are some of your shared goals for the future?"

Fallon looks to me, tearing her eyes from June, and I feel it hanging there between us—the knowledge that, when this is done, we'll go on and get our divorce. She'll move out. Maybe we'll stay friends.

My eyes drift to June, and I feel a sudden, intense tugging. I don't want to let her go—either of them.

"We want the best for June," I say, speaking before Fallon can. I meet her eyes, holding them as steadily as I can, trying to convey the things I can say through this answer—it may be fake, but it's also not. "We want her to grow up well-fed, knowing she's loved, with her found family and her real family. I want to teach her hockey, then let her pick the sport she loves most—or no sports. You'll make sure she's healthy and so, so strong. We'll watch her do what she wants and support her every step of the way. We'll watch her break her heart, love, and get back up again when she falls down. She'll come back to us every single break from college because she loves us, and she'll bring those other kids—the ones who have nowhere to go—back to our house, because she knows we're always happy to grow the family. We'll have so much love it's overflowing. You'll open your clinic. I'll go into the hall of fame."

"Matching pajamas on Christmas morning," Fallon murmurs, softly, her eyes trained on June's little fist. When she looks up and meets my eyes again, there's something broken in her expression. "It's a great answer."

I bite my lip, wanting to tell her that it's not just an answer—it's the answer. But she looks so fragile in this moment. And she pulled back from me last night.

A voice enters my head, saying that this is just another example of me being impulsive—thinking I could adopt a child and raise a family. I can't even make it to practice on time.

Glancing down at the paper, I forge ahead, clearing my throat and reading the next question.

"Okay." I run my hand over my mouth and chin. "What is your spouse's favorite food?"

"Oh," Fallon chuckles. Our eyes meet, and I know we're thinking the same thing. A small smile spreads over her face. Some of that fragility is gone, and for the first time, some of the awkwardness between us eases.

"Wait—I know this," I say, laughing, and, at the same time, we say, "Peanut butter and cheese!"