RHETT

          There are many things that make me feel like my heart is about to explode. Brie Sheridan is one of them—but it's a good kind of explosion, if there even is such a thing.

          She lies on my bed, stomach up, and props herself up on her elbows to get a better look at me. I can imagine the look on my face right now, moments away from aggressively salivating like a Pavlovian dog at the mere sight of my girlfriend, and even she looks amused by this. We're both being the furthest thing from demure right now.

          "You're way too clothed right now," Brie says. "I think it's pretty unfair."

          "Pot, meet kettle," I retort, taking off my jacket in a swift move. I toss it aside, silently happy that it lands right on the back of the Clothes Chair™, adding to my constantly increasing pile of clothes I need to take to the laundry room.

          "What a gentleman. You even take off your clothes first." She straightens, sitting up, and I remember she no longer has a jacket to remove, leaving us at an equal playing field—the way it has always been supposed to be. It might be just clothing, but I don't want things to feel rushed or like she's being forced to do something she might not be ready to do. "We don't have to do everything at the same time."

          "We don't have to do anything at all if you don't want to."

          Brie chews on her bottom lip, pondering, then pulls her blouse over her head, sending all my rational thoughts out of the window. I'm feeling incredibly overdressed for the occasion, but I don't want to skip steps or rush into things . . . although it could also be my anxiety signaling danger when there is none.

          I might be overthinking all of this, as I usually do, and she's likely to be far more relaxed about it than I could ever be.

          I try my hardest not to gawk, but she's sitting there in a black bra—lace, no less—and it's hard to keep my resolve instead of behaving like a pervert. She's so attractive, so perfect it's physically painful—like staring at the sun and permanently being in her orbit. Her skin is blazing to the touch, seeping into my clothes as she slides forward and hooks her fingers through the hoops of my jeans.

          I exhale. We've yet to do anything and I'm already feeling feverish; it makes me wonder if I'll survive the night.

          "I want to. You'll just have to be patient with me," she mutters, cheeks flushed. I can't tell whether it's from embarrassment or because of the shift in atmosphere. "I haven't done this in a while."

          "That's fine. Neither have I." The blush on her cheeks grows more intense, if possible. "Just tell me what to do."

          "I'd very much like to kiss you."

          I cup the nape of her neck with my hand, pulling her to me, and she sighs softly against my mouth when our lips meet. She's ready for it, shivering when my tongue brushes against hers, and I wonder if she can feel how hard my heart is beating right now—especially when her hands slowly trail down my chest and tug at the hem of my shirt.

          It's all soft and slow at first, getting more urgent as she slowly unbuttons my shirt (how she can do it with her eyes closed is beyond me), and she smiles when she gets to the end and a pathetic little moan escapes from my throat. When she pulls away to catch her breath, my lips are on her jaw, following the path down to her throat, and it's her turn to gasp, squirming against me.

          I shrug off my shirt, purposefully pulling back right before my mouth would brush over the hollow of her throat. She lets out a small huff in protest, neck craned up to leave a big area exposed, and then . . . and then she grins.

          "Please never wear a shirt again."

          "Says you."

          Brie smirks, sliding back on the bed to give me space to crawl after her—the way I always do. When don't I follow her? "It's sort of illegal for me to walk around without a shirt."

          "Respectfully, I agree. It's criminal how hot you are."

          She wraps her arms around my neck, stifling a giggle, and pulls me down. We're so close that when either of us inhales, our chests brush and I have to support myself on the bed frame so I don't accidentally crush her. The possibility of it happening hadn't crossed my mind until I caught a proper glimpse of her body.

          She's not tiny tiny, but she's significantly smaller than me. She's very much in shape and so am I, courtesy of my rigorous workout schedule and hours spent on the ice, but the difference in physique is evident. And still . . .

          Her skin is soft under my touch, the sweet scent of her peach body cream borderline intoxicating. My lips leave a trail of kisses behind, following the path down her throat to her chest, stopping by her navel when her fingers tangle in my hair. She leads me down, down, though I still want to keep my promise about taking things slow and being careful. We're not racing anything or anyone, so there's no reason to rush, but I fear what will happen to me if we take too long.

          Brie lets out a shaky breath when my hands slide down her waist and rest on her hips. "Rhett . . ."

          "We can still stop," I remind her. She bites down on her bottom lip, looking at me through impossibly long lashes, and I have to restrain myself from letting my mind run rampant. "Just because you said yes once . . ."

          "I know. I know I can go back on it. I'm just . . . it really has been a while. There are times when I fear I won't ever feel comfortable with anyone else, some random guy ever again." One of her hands weakly cups my cheek. "Then I remember you're not just some random guy. You're my random guy, my home, the one I feel the most comfortable with. You're Rhett fucking Price. And there's no one else I'd rather be here with."

          I laugh. "I sure as hell hope so. I wouldn't want you to use my own room as a hookup spot with someone else. Not classy at all."

          She playfully rolls her eyes, just as her thumb slowly presses against my bottom lip. "Don't test me when I'm being all open and honest with you. I thought we were all about healthy communication."

          "We're still healthily communicating about boundaries. No hooking up with other people in my room."

          "But elsewhere would be fine? You're lucky I love you."

          "I mean, yeah, but why would you feel the need to hook up with someone else when you have me?"

          Her arm returns to its previous position, wrapped around my neck to pull me back down. "No one ever compares to you, anyway."

          I intend to meet those expectations.

          Judging by the look of blissful relaxation on her face by the end of the night, as she curls herself next to me, I've succeeded.

          It's just me and her. Forevermore.

ᓚᘏᗢ

          I make the conscious decision to be better.

          Now, it sounds simple enough, but, to me, it's been unnecessarily complicated. The safest, most comfortable thing to do would be to remain idle and complacent instead of challenging myself, watching my own life unfold in front of my passive eyes. If it happens, it happens, and I can't do anything to change the course of things.

          I don't want to live like that anymore. So, I decide to be a more active participant in my life in all of its areas—hockey, academia, family, friendship, relationship. I force myself to define clearer priorities, focusing on the things I can directly have an impact on instead of agonizing over what's far out of my reach.

          My anxiety is truly having a field day—more like weeks—as it finds extra opportunities to make me panic in anticipation, but my grounding exercises have been strangely helpful. Sometimes I run out of things I can smell or see, but the frustration that comes from it is a quick and easy distraction, so I'll take what I can get. It certainly beats constantly feeling on edge or like I'm about to pass out.

          Since I can't do anything regarding the scout for the Islanders but wait for them to get in touch with me if they're interested in signing me, I shove that thought away from my mind as often as it's humanly possible.

          The waiting is torture, though, and, even though I've been playing like my options are still open—which they are, although the Islanders don't need to know that—just so I can attract potential offers, there's still the lingering fear that it's not enough. It makes me obsess about whether I'm being ghosted or not, although the contract was never guaranteed and all I can do is play the waiting game, and it's not great.

          I'm not good at not being in control, which is ironic considering it's the anxiety that's usually overpowering my rational thoughts. Whenever I think I'm in control, most of the time I'm not.

          "Are you sure you don't mind?" Andy asks me, for the nth time. We've just finished playing against Boston College, having completely decimated them and cementing Bennington as the team to bet and the front contender for the championship trophy. "If you have plans—"

          "My plans are helping you out," I point out, running a hand through my recently washed hair. I want to look as presentable as I can possibly be for the conference in just a few minutes, having convinced myself every small thing matters when it comes to attracting the attention of hidden scouts and potential sponsors. "You don't have to worry about a thing."

          Andy hesitates, gulping. "Do you have any experience?"

          "I've had pets."

          "Rhett, for my sake and yours, I'm going to assume you're joking and you didn't just compare having a pet and taking care of a child."

          I elbow him. "What do you think?"

          "The fact that I had to do a double take there is more than enough to answer that question." I nod. That's a valid concern, especially when the child in question is his daughter. "If you don't feel comfortable, Jackie can call her sister and ask her to babysit again, no worries."

          "I'm comfortable. I'm great with kids." This isn't a lie. For some reason, kids and animals absolutely adore me, even though I'm the youngest child and all my cousins are older than me. I don't tell Andy I accidentally let my past three goldfish die, but that's something the past version of me did and would do. I'm more responsible now . . . I think. I hope. "We'll be fine. Can I ask Brie to join me?"

          He swings back and forth on his heels, sneaking a peek towards the nearly full conference room. "Yes, but for all that is sacred, please do not hook up with your girlfriend in front of my daughter. She's had it rough enough as is; we don't need a traumatized child to top it all off."

          "I'm sorry for interrupting, but do you two have a minute?" someone asks. We both turn to face the source of the voice, finding the scout from the New York Islanders, and I nearly have to pick up my jaw from the floor. Surely I can take care of a child even while failing to behave normally in front of someone who holds my entire future in their hands . . . right? "I believe we've met in person a few weeks back."

          "Hey, man," Andy greets, shaking his hand and pulling him into an one-arm hug like they're old pals. At least I get hugged by my best friend with both his arms, like I need to feel superior to a scout, but it's still nice to know I'm Andy's favorite. After Daisy and his sisters, of course. "We're just about to head into the conference room."

          "It won't take long." He shakes my hand as well, but makes no move to indicate I'm also welcome to hug him. I'd rather not, but I find it's easier to follow other people's social and contextual clues regarding what to do and how to greet them instead of coming up with them myself. "I'm sure you two remember our conversation in New York."

          I sure as hell do, as I can barely think about anything else, including coursework, but I didn't know Andy had also been approached by the scout.

          The betrayal stings a little bit, as it's one of those things best friends supposedly share with one another; I talked his ear off about the offer, for one, and all he did was sit there, listen, and be supportive yet reasonable at the same time. He told me to not get my hopes up just in case, but that I was likely to be offered a contract if I kept doing everything right. All this time, he had also been offered a card and I didn't know a damn thing about it.

          It would be the dream to be scouted alongside him, though, and that thought is a million times stronger than that of his supposed betrayal. I can't imagine life without Andrew de Haan, with the past four years being some of the best I've had, partially because of him; playing professionally with him would shoot us both to stardom—together.

          "The Islanders would be delighted to have you both on board after graduation," the scout informs, when he decides we've suffered enough, and Andy even loses his balance. "When I said we'd keep in touch, I meant it. We've been negotiating with other interested parties, but we get what we want. We're winners. You're winners. We'll both win if you agree."

          "Wow," I croak out. "Holy—"

          "—shit," Andy completes.

          Holy shit indeed.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

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