Jackson
“So, yeah, he hurt me,” Claire says, her voice laced with pain. “Just not how you think.”
The locker room goes quiet, awkward, and I feel like a dick, having pushed Claire to answer the question in the first place.
I just…
It never fucking crossed my mind to think that someone would stand her up—or that, worse, someone would get a look at her and not want to worship at her fucking feet.
Beautiful, sweet, quiet, but with a spine of steel, Claire deserves the world.
It’s why I’ve fought what I’m feeling, fought the urge to keep my distance, did my fucking level best to make sure I didn’t get close enough to let my bullshit hurt her.
And that fucker who was supposed to take her on a date had hurt her.
So…I’m going to kill the bastard.
She spins on her heel before I can get his full name, address, and social security number, and hurries from the room.
And…I don’t think.
I just follow her, trailing her until we’re out of earshot, letting her put some space between us and the locker room. But I catch her arm when she turns the corner and would’ve stepped into a hall with a floor that isn’t covered with skate mats.
A hall that has a floor where I can’t follow her.
“Claire,” I say, drawing her back against me.
And it’s like every ragged edge in my soul is suddenly smoothed over—sharp, broken edges are softened, sanded down, left unblemished and unmarked.
“Don’t,” she whispers.
I can’t.
Yet, I can’t stop myself.
I spin her so she’s facing me, cup her cheek in one palm, willing her to understand how fucking precious she is. “He’s an asshole and you deserve better.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and then away, and the pain in the deep brown depths calls to me, spurs me on. I have to make her understand that, have to make sure she knows how fucking great she is. “Sure,” she says quietly, the four letters filled with disbelief.
Rage fills my belly, burns up the back of my throat.
How does this woman not see how fucking perfect she is?
And…fuck it.
I’m going to make her see.
I have to.
“Claire,” I begin.
“I’m fine,” she whispers, trying to pull free.
But I’m done with this, done with keeping my distance. I draw her with me as I turn and move us through a door and into one of the empty rooms lining the hallway, closing it behind us, pinning her back against the wooden panel.
She’s tall for a woman, but I’m taller, especially in my skates. “You’re not fine.”
Her chin lifts. “I am fine.”
“Liar.”
She shoves at my chest and when that doesn’t move me, she tosses her hands up. “It wasn’t going to work long-term anyway, I knew that going in.”
“Why wouldn’t it work?”
She frowns at me. “Um…because I live in Baltimore and can’t have a states away boyfriend?”
Snark.
Sass.
This woman only gives them to me.
And I fucking love it.
“So, why did you go on the date in the first place?” My hands are on either side of her head and I sneak them in a little, allowing my fingertips to brush the silken ends of her ponytail.
So fucking soft.
Like I know the rest of her will be.
Her cheeks go pink. “It doesn’t matter.”
And that reaction tells me that it matters a whole fucking lot. “Claire,” I warn.
She scowls at me. “Don’t pull that big, broody hockey player nonsense. You can’t bully me into giving you an answer and—”
“—you don’t owe me any explanation of your life,” I finish, am able to because she’s told us guys on the team the same thing enough times that I’ve memorized her answer.
Those eyes narrow further. “Exactly.”
“So,” I say, ignoring the laser beams she’s tossing my direction and pushing for an answer anyway. “Did you just need to get laid?”
Pink turns to bright red, and she shoves harder at my chest. “You’re an asshole, you know that, right?”
“Yup.”
It’s why I’ve waited so long to be here.
To touch her.
To feel the lush curves of her body pressed to mine.
A huffed-out breath. “Back up,” she snaps. “I have work to do.”
“Been a long time, kitty cat?” I ask, leaning more heavily against her, wishing I wasn’t mostly dressed in my gear, wishing I could feel her naked skin against my own.
“I—no.”
But there’s something in her tone, in the way panic enters her eyes that has me freezing, leaning even closer, studying her face.
“Why then?”
Her jaw clenches and I know she’s not going to tell me—know that I can push and push, but that she’ll double down and won’t fucking tell me.
I inhale the sweet scent of her, commit the notes of it to memory.
And then I avoid pushing and commence with…pissing her off.
That’ll get her to talk.
Hell, it may be the only way right about now.
“So,” I say dryly, “you’re getting enough dick at home that you don’t need sex. What then?” I tap a finger to my chin, watching as her frown deepens. “You just want a guy to buy you dinner and drinks?”
She sputters. “That’s n-not—”
“Ah, I see. Don’t worry. I’m sure I can talk to someone and put in a good word for you with Luc,” I cajole. “See about getting you a raise. Or maybe I’ll talk to the guys and do a collection, get you some gift cards for Red Lobster or something.”
Her eyes say she’s going to kill me.
But the devil in me can’t stop.
Not when I need to her tell me, even if she does it while being pissed.
“Not Red Lobster?” I say. “Fine.” I sigh. “You drive a hard bargain, but I’m sure I can swing a meal at The Cheesecake Factory—”
“Fuck. You,” she hisses.
I shrug and then push a button I know will get her talking. “It’s not me who’s trying to get laid while on the road.”
“I told you—” she growls and shoves at my chest. “I didn’t want sex or a free meal. I just wanted to go on a real date—” She clamps her lips together, cheeks flaring, eyes darting away, chin dropping.
Fuck.
A real date?
“Sweetheart,” I rumble.
Her head flies up. “Don’t,” she snaps, jabbing a finger into my chest. “Don’t pretend to care about me.”
“That’s not fair, I—”
I want to say I do care, but that would involve admitting shit that I can’t and…
Fuck.
“Let me go.”
“No,” I growl, stepping closer, trapping her hand between us.
Maybe I can’t tell her everything, but I can make this better, can solve this problem—
And then what?
I walk away.
Yes.
God, I don’t fucking want to.
I don’t even think I can.
Not if I allow myself—
But the emotional shitstorm in my mind doesn’t matter.
Because she’s rolling her eyes and snapping, “Okay fine. You want to know my sad sob story? Really? You do, right? You want to know the whole pathetic truth? I’ve never been laid, okay?”
Every muscle in my body tightens.
“I’ve never even been on a real date. Hell, I’m so pathetic”—she tosses up her hands again—“that I’ve never even been kissed!”
She’s fucking beautiful.
And furious and smart and sweet and untouched, apparently, and—
I give in.
Mine.
The most important thing is that she’s mine.
I cup her jaw again, tilt her face up. “Well, I can at least solve that one for you.”
Her brows draw together. “What—?”
No more words.
We’ve exchanged enough fucking words these last seasons.
It’s time for action.
So, I bend…
And press my mouth to hers.