“Of course not.”

“Okay. Good. ’Cause I don’t want that. Not at all anymore.”

His relief and mine match. “I’m glad.”

“Miller, Randy, Waters, and Westinghouse all have girlfriends. Well, Violet’s married to Waters, and I don’t know what the fuck is going on with Westinghouse and his girl, but I hang out with them, so I can avoid the bunnies.”

“That’s good.”

“I won’t do anything to hurt you, Poppy. Okay?”

“Okay.” I hope he means it. My heart is making big plans for this man, even though my head is telling me to slow down.

“Can I take you up to bed now? I’m not gonna get to have your hands on me for almost a week, and I’m not gonna like that very much.”

“Then we should definitely go to bed.”

The hockey season moves into full swing, and in no time it’s mid-November. Lance is still a constant in my bed and on my couch. But those are really the only places I spend time with him.

In the weeks we’ve been seeing each other, he has yet to invite me to a game, or to his house, or out with his friends. We did go out for coffee once, at the same little dessert café we went to before. I wasn’t allowed to get tea because then it technically wouldn’t have counted as the second date I’d agreed to.

I try not to dwell on what all the seclusion means or doesn’t mean because I like having him around, and he continues to be sweet and doting. Meals and flowers have continued to arrive on a regular basis. And one day I left work to find new snow tires on my car because there was a ten-percent possibility of snow.

This is obviously a lot of thoughtfulness, but I’m starting to wonder about the parameters of this relationship. Have I become a secret he’s hiding? And if so, from who? DO NOT FUCKING REPLY hasn’t messaged again, at least not while I’ve been with him, and past relationships haven’t come up again when we talk.

Then someone else calls a few days before he’s scheduled for another away series, with unknown as the contact.

He doesn’t answer, but it makes him act sketchy. Just like when DNFR called before, he powers down his phone and distracts me with sex.

But I don’t forget how anxious that incoming call made him, despite how focused on my needs he becomes, zeroed in on what makes me feel good. When I put my hands on him, his groan is almost pained, and he holds my palms against his skin, as if he could fuse me to his body.

One night he shows up at my place with the makings of a black eye after a home game. I have an early morning, but he’s exceptionally needy in a way I haven’t experienced before. I’m almost scared of what it might mean.

We’re lying in my bed, me sprawled across his chest, because that’s where he seems to like me best after sex. Really any time we’re alone and prone, he prefers me to be tucked into his side or on top of him.

His breathing is even, but there’s tension in his body. His phone buzzes on the nightstand beside mine. I feel his head turn, but he doesn’t make a move to get it.

“Lance?”

He makes a sound, acknowledging me.

“Are you okay?”

A long pause follows before he finally says, “Aye.” But his tone belies the word.

I lift my head and find him staring at the ceiling. I skim his lips with my fingertips, and he turns toward me.

I keep my eyes on his as I kiss his shoulder. “What’s wrong, baby?”

The pet name is one I’ve used only a couple of times before, and only when it seems like something’s on his mind. Like now. His hand comes up to cover mine, and his eyes fall closed as he kisses my fingertips.

“Tomorrow would’ve been my brother’s twenty-first birthday,” he whispers.

His intensity and introspection make sense now. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too.” He plays with my fingers, sweeping them back and forth across his lips.

“Lance?”

“Mmm.”

“Can I ask what happened to him?”

He tenses for a moment, and his hand tightens around mine. But eventually he releases a breath, along with my fingers.

“I don’t like to talk about it all that much.”

“It must’ve been awful with him being so young. Was he sick?”

Lance shakes his head. “I killed him.”

It’s my turn to tense, but I don’t take my hand away, because I’m aware his words are intended to shock and make me withdraw. “What do you mean?”

“The last time I told someone about this, she used it to manipulate me.”

“You mean the complicated relationship?”

I get a small nod in reply.

“Manipulate you how?”

“She would use it against me. She made it worse.”

“She made what worse?” I don’t understand where he’s going with this, and I have all sorts of scenarios running through my head that don’t add up to the man taking up space in my bed and my heart.

“The guilt.” He eyes me warily. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”

Though I haven’t been to see him play in person, I’ve seen Lance on the ice. The TV does a great job showcasing the aggression he works hard to contain most of the time. I’ve also seen the lid pop off and all the pent-up anger explode out of him. It results in things like the black eye he’s currently sporting. I can spin my own ideas about what could’ve happened, but knowing Lance, his perception on this might be skewed.