“You can kiss me any time you want. Even when you’re mad. Even when we’re unsure,” I remind him. I remember what my parents said. “We can love each other through a fight, y’know.”
Is that a tear drizzling down his cheek? It’s hard to tell for sure with the shower water in the way and I don’t get to inspect him long enough to come to a conclusion. His lips slam to mine, while he remains careful of doing anything that might hurt my ribs.
The problem is, anything breathing-related does so even the kiss hurts, but also worth it. I don’t want him taking his lips away for anything. It’s like lightning. The pent-up craving for each other bursts like a damn and spills every ounce of our desire until we’re bathing in it. I want to crawl inside him. Glue myself to him. Get closer and closer and closer. We kiss each other as if our lives depend on it.
When his lips pull from mine, it takes effort like they’ve been suctioned there, and he has to unstick them. We stare into the abyss of each other’s eyes, wild and spellbound.
But I see the cracks in his veneer.
If I begged him to come with me now, patch us all up, sew us back together like we’re one of my dad’s dolls, he would because he loves me. That’s what Mercy does. He loves unconditionally, a rarity, a true needle in a haystack. His parents take advantage of that, maybe without meaning to, but they do, and I won’t be one of them.
Here he is hurting like hell because of what happened between us, but he’s taking care of me anyway.
“Merc, I hate to ask, but will you help me get dressed?”
“If you think I’m letting you do it by yourself, you’re plain fucking wrong.”
I smile.
His water-logged shoes squelch as he ushers me toward the hook where I’ve got my stuff hanging. Grabbing a towel from the shelf, he gets to work patting me dry and actively trying not to look at my dick. He’s soaked to the bone and as hot as he looks, it’s gotta be uncomfortable. “I’ve got some extra stuff in my bag if you want,” I tell him. “You can wear my suit.”
I’ve got my suit I wore to the game and some nice comfy sweats, slides, a t-shirt, and a hoodie for the victory celebration.
A devious smile spreads onto his face and I want to be mad about it, but I’d rather this than his sad bunny look. “I’m wearing the sweats, Leslie. You’re wearing the suit so that I can stare at you in it all night.” He wraps me in the towel, gathering up my precious sweatpants, and nudges me toward the outer area where all the cubbies are.
“Ooooh! That’s a cruel and unusual punishment, Coach,” I complain. “Shouldn’t I be as comfortable as possible in my time of need?”
He tilts his head, pausing our journey toward the cubbies. “Complaining to complain?” he checks.
He knew!
I nod and wink and carry on with my tirade, which is both true and not at the same time. I would rather be wearing my sweats and I want to see if I can break him, but at the same time, I want him to make me do the thing I don’t wanna do.
Yeah, I’m different, and I can’t explain it either. Just how it is.
“Nice try. You’re wearing everything. The tie too and the shoes.”
My mouth drops, but my eyes are smiling and while he dresses me, I think things like, I wanna see him in my jersey again—the new one I’ll get when I play for New York. I wanna see him at my games cheering me on when he can and I wanna be at his doing the same when I can.
He deserves a big romantic ending. A huge gesture so that he knows I’m gonna stay firmly planted in his life no matter what.
I get an idea.
“You’re not gonna complain some more?”
“Nope.” I smile as wide as I fucking can.
“What are you up to?”
I shrug.
His eyes are filled with suspicion as they should be, but he takes the hint that he’s not getting anything outta me at this juncture.
When I’m uncomfortably settled in my suit and he’s snug and cozy in my beautiful sweats, he lifts my hockey bag for me, not allowing me near it.
“I can carry my bag,” I grumble.
“You still sound like a dying pick-up truck when you breathe, Leslie.”
