Eden Finley

“You have a crush. On me.” The arrogance all hockey players possess shines through.

“You’re too old for anyone to have a crush on.”

“Just because my joints think I’m an old man doesn’t mean I’m not irresistible. I can still pull a guy in his early twenties. That makes me super-hot.”

A hot, miserable asshole with his muscles, tanned skin, and tattoo sleeve. Don’t even get me started on the beard he’s growing out. But all of that aside, he’s still miserable.

“Are you a virgin?” I ask, my voice gruff.

“No.” He averts his gaze. Matt’s so a virgin. “I’ve done plenty of … stuff. It counts.”

“No, it doesn’t. Have you ever had anal? Given or received.”

“That’s not the defining criteria for sex, you know.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“What’s it to you?” he snaps.

Damon smiles.

“What?” I ask.

“You like him.”

“He’s a cranky asshole.”

“You really like him.”

“Babe, seriously. It’ll be fine.” We both pause at the slip of his tongue, but he recovers faster than I do. “Don’t worry, I call all my hookups babe. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Oh. “Is that because you don’t remember their names?”

“Not at all, Mike.”

“Funny.”

He said he only needed a minute to recover, and then I said it: stay.

I asked him to stay with me.

If I didn’t know it already, I definitely do now. I’m so screwed.

He said he only needed a minute to recover, and then I said it: stay.

I asked him to stay with me.

If I didn’t know it already, I definitely do now. I’m so screwed.

“Fuck you very much. Twenty-six is not old, and I’m not trying to fuck you. I’m in love with your brother, jackass.” My eyes widen. “Don’t tell him I said that.” Why did I say that?

That wasn’t supposed to come out of my mouth. It’s not even supposed to be a thought in my head.

I try to convince myself it’s part of the act. Yup. That’s all it is.

Part. Of. The. Act.

Realization cuts through my gut, and I want to vomit. “You’re moving to Chicago.”

His nod is subtle, but the slight movement is still enough to rip a hole in my fucking chest.

I force a small smile. “I think I’m supposed to say congratulations or whatever.”

“Unless …” He looks away. “Unless there’s a reason for me to stay here.” His voice goes up at the end, almost as if it’s a question, but at the same time it sounds like a statement.

Now’s the time to lay it out there. I want him to pick me. Love me. Make me his life instead of football. Then I recoil at the notion. I have no right asking anyone to choose me, even if I desperately want them to.

“We have until you go. And then public appearances. We won’t be together, but I want to keep seeing you.”

“Like a fuck buddy situation?”

God, I want to hold onto anything he’s willing to give me, but I don’t think my heart could take it. “Like a we’re always going to be friends type situation.”

“Friends.” He practically gags on the word, and I don’t blame him.