can make it work. If we truly want to be in a relationship, then we’ll make that relationship work. The question is, do you want it?” He hesitates again. “Do you want me?”
The stark emotion contained in that one question robs me of breath. The words are so raw—do you want me? It’s not the hour-long confession I gave the other night, but that doesn’t make him any less exposed. All of his insecurities are revealed in his eyes, the hope, the regret, the fear that I might reject him. And, oddly enough, I also glimpse that familiar Connelly confidence. This man is even secure about being insecure, and damned if that doesn’t make me love him even more.
“I want you.” I clear my throat, because I sound like I’ve been chain-smoking for a week straight. “Of course I want you.” I exhale in a fast burst. “I love you, Jake.”
The last boy I said those words to chose himself over me, repeatedly, and without a second’s thought.
But the man I’m saying them to now? I have faith that he’ll always choose me, always choose us.
“I love you, too,” he whispers, and the next thing I know he’s kissing me and, oh my gosh, I missed this so much.
It’s only been a few days, but it feels like years since Jake’s warm lips were pressed up against mine. I loop my arms around his neck, kissing him back hungrily until his husky groan bounces off the locker room walls.
“Christ,” he chokes out. “We gotta stop that. Now.” He glances at his crotch. “Fuck. Too late.”
I follow his gaze and laugh when I notice the massive erection straining behind his zipper. “Control yourself, Jakey. You’re about to play hockey.”
“Don’t you know? Hockey players are passionate and aggressive,” he says silkily.
“Ha. Right. I totally forgot.” There’s a big, dumb smile on my face, and it refuses to subside. I’m overflowing with happiness, a state of being that is completely foreign to me. I’m not sure I like it.
Nah.
I actually kind of love it.
“You should go,” Jake says reluctantly. “The team’ll be bursting in any second now. Are you staying for the game?”
I nod. “My dad’s here, too.”
“Seriously? Aw fuck, why’d you have to tell me that? Now I’ll feel extra pressure to perform.”
“Don’t worry, Jakey. I speak from personal experience when I say I’ve got nothing but confidence in your ability to perform.”
He winks. “Thanks, baby.”
“Oh, and don’t let this freak you out even more, but he wants to take us to dinner after the game.”
“Don’t let this freak you out even more?” Jake scrubs his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ. Just leave, babe. Leave now before you do any more damage.”
“Love you,” I say in a singsong voice on my way to the door.
“Love you too.” He sighs from behind me.
That big-ass grin is still plastered to my face when I walk out, and a disgusting spring to my step carries me down the corridor, as if I’m a character in a Disney movie. Oh no. I’m in trouble. Badass Brenna Jensen isn’t allowed to fall this hard for a guy.
It happened. Deal with it.
Yeah.
I guess this is my life now.
At the end of the hall, I turn the corner and my happy gait takes a bit of a stumble when I bump directly into Daryl Pedersen’s bulky chest.
“Whoa there, Nelly,” he says with a chuckle—which dies the second he recognizes me. “Brenna.” His tone is careful now. “Here to cheer Connelly on, I suppose?”
“Yup. I came with my dad, actually.” When his expression darkens, I try not to laugh. “We’re both rooting for you today, Coach.”
Although he’s momentarily startled, he recovers quickly and gives me a smirk. “You can tell Chad I have no need for his support. Never have, never will.”
“Still a sore loser after all these years, eh, Coach?”
His response is terse. “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, but—”
“I heard you tried to bang my mother and she shot you down,” I cut in cheerfully. “And I’m not insinuating anything—I’m explicitly suggesting you were a sore loser back then, and you’re a sore loser now.” I shrug. “With that said, I’m still rooting for Harvard tonight. But that’s because of Jake, of course. Not you.”
Pedersen’s eyes narrow so much they resemble two dark slits. “You’re not like your mother,” he says slowly. I can’t tell if he’s pleased or disheartened by that. “Marie was a sweet southern belle. You’re…you’re not like her at all.”
I meet his disturbed