“Hold on.” She put up her hand. “I just need to make sure we’re not in parallel universes right now. You’re talking about having breaks in play to be able to come visit me?”
“Yeah,” he said with that what else attitude.
Breathe.
Breathe.
But the giddiness didn’t settle.
“Okay,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Come here.” She didn’t relent until she was back on his lap. “Now.” She took a breath, cupped his face, and said, “Tell me exactly what you want, Rafe.”
“What I’ve always wanted,” he said, his voice soft, matter-of-fact. “You. I just want to find a way to be with you.”
Those giddy flutters kicked up in her gut. Something had definitely happened at practice today. “And what about Tate?”
Unease hazed Rafe’s eyes, but Mia also recognized a familiar determination. One that she trusted. One that allowed her to relax and release all her reservations. Tate was as loyal as Rafe was dependable.
He met her eyes, then skimmed her face. “I can talk to him after the season’s over, two weeks at the longest.” He shook his head, his expression grim. “It won’t be pretty. He may hate me for a while.” Rafe went quiet, but his hands continued to move over her back. Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t know how Tate or Joe will feel about me, and I can’t control that.” He lifted his gaze to Mia’s and cupped her face. “What I do know is that I can’t face a future without you loving me.”
Mia’s breath caught, and a little gasp choked in her throat. She pressed her forehead to his and doubled her arms around his neck. His arms mirrored hers around her body, pulling her close.
He forced the air from her lungs, allowing her to pull in fresh air. And she used it to murmur a shaky “I love you,” at his ear, then laughed tears of relief. “I love you so much.”
Rafe turned his head and found her mouth with his, and Mia tasted a fresh wave of emotion and desperation.
He pulled back, dragged the shirt she’d pulled on over her head, and stroked his hands over her skin from hips to shoulders. “Show me, baby.”
16
Rafe raced off the ice during a line change near the end of the first period. On the bench, he purposely ignored the curious gazes of his teammates, leaned his shoulder against the wall, and followed the game while his breathing and his heart rate slowed.
His line mates, Tate and Ty, dropped to the bench and grabbed water bottles. Tate threw Rafe a towel, and he wiped the acrylic shield on his helmet.
Paul, one of the developmental trainers, stopped next to Rafe. “Chippy game already.”
“Yeah.” He tossed the towel at Tate, and when he looked back, Rafe said, “Water?”
The water bottle flew. Rafe caught it and squirted the cold liquid into his mouth. He felt Paul’s gaze on his face, scrutinizing, like he was trying to crawl inside Rafe’s head.
He knew he was acting different today. He was feeling different today. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Even if there was, he wouldn’t, because he was playing the best hockey of his life.
But he wasn’t feeling high today. Not like he had in previous games after making love to Mia and playing like Gretzky. Correction, after fucking Mia. Maybe that was the difference. Last night, he and Mia had made love. And today, Rafe was playing like Gretzky and Crosby combined. On drugs.
And, ironically, it wasn’t because of the sex. Yet it was.
Rafe was fully aware that while the act of sex itself was a fantastic stress reliever and energy inducer, it was no magic wand for great hockey. But making love with Mia and hearing those words come from her heart had shifted the foundation of Rafe’s life. And he’d been all in…until he’d shown up at the stadium. And been greeted so enthusiastically by Tate and the rest of his team.
F
acing them all, knowing he would very well also soon shift the foundation of all their lives—and not for the better—had put a huge dent in his post I-love-you euphoria. Everything in Rafe’s life had suddenly gained significance—and fragility—making him intensely in the moment. Hyperaware of his relationship with Tate, his interactions with every teammate. Which had extended to the game. To every micromovement of every opponent and the puck on the ice.
That made Rafe lightning quick. It enabled him to anticipate things before they happened. Allowed him to cut off plays, block shots, steal passes, and make the only two goals in the game thus far.
Now, on the ice, Beckett slammed the Ducks’ defenseman against the boards and slapped the puck to Maddox, who sprinted toward the opposition’s goal.
Rafe took the empty spot on the end of the bench beside Tate and rested his burning thighs, trying to keep his head in the game. He’d be going back in soon and needed to be informed when he did.
“You’re white-hot again tonight,” Tate said without taking his eyes off the ice.