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when it comes to Holly, the only woman I’ve ever loved. She had me wrapped around her finger the minute we met at Cornell during my junior year and not much has changed since then. Divorced or not, there’s not a damn thing I wouldn’t do for her if she needed me.
My fingers twitch at my sides, which is better than giving into the disastrous urge to haul her upright and touch my skin to hers. Would she feel the same? Taste the same? I’ve got no shame in admitting that the questions haunt me more nights than not.
Here’s to hoping that one day I’ll be able to look at the woman in front of me and not feel the needle of regret pricking my calloused skin.
Nope, nope. Not happening! Especially since my heart is warring a battle of its own: keep the space between us or rush forward and offer comfort with my arms linked around his waist and a kiss pressed to his back. Decisions, decisions, and only one is acceptable given the circumstances of our non-existent relationship. Retreat now.
Sometimes romance isn’t cuddle sessions and lingerie—it’s clinging to the edge of the mattress and praying you don’t topple over when your wife decides to hog the entire bed.
Holly was equal parts my strength and my weakness, and in this moment, I can’t resist the pull—her pull.
We aren’t married, not anymore. But I won’t forget what you’re doing for me, Holly. I needed this and I needed you. When you need me next, don’t hesitate to ask. We’re family, even if it’s not the way we always envisioned, and I learned a long time ago to never take family for granted. Jackson.
Truth: letting Holly walk away is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Truth: I may have brought up divorce first but only because Holly had lost her spark, her luster, and I wasn’t enough anymore to rekindle her fire. Lie: I’ve moved on.
You can’t “grow apart” from somebody when they’ve got your heart in a vice. At least, that’s how it’s always felt for me, even now.
My talk with Jackson tonight . . . the way my heart felt lighter than it has in years? I’m not willing to share any of that, not just yet.
Losing Holly broke me—even if I was the reason we were broken in the first place—and only now, under her touch, do I feel as though I’m coming alive again.
“There was never going to be any fixing when we weren’t willing to compromise. We wouldn’t change—that was our downfall.”
Tonight, though, showed me everything that I need to know: I want my ex-wife with everything that I am. And I mean that I want all of her, both the seductress when she’s grinding on top of me and the vulnerable side that she shows to no one but me. I can win the Stanley Cup and earn back my place at Holly’s side. There’s no way I can’t.
No, Holly is the only one who’ll have that opportunity—even if that means pulling out the big stops to show her how much fight we still have left to give when it comes to saving our relationship.
Holly: You asked me if I ever wonder about us . . . Only every day since we signed the papers. Holly: Sometimes I think you’ve ruined me for anyone else.
Me: Tonight, I took my first breath of air in over a year. This thing between us . . . it’s not over, sweetheart. If you think I’ve ruined you for anyone else, just know that for me there’s been no one else. Full stop. Period. I’m ready to breathe again, Holls, and I only do that with you.
As hot ropes of cum jet onto my stomach, I pray that there will only be me in her future. That she’s as ruined as I am. I’ve never been a religious man . . . but that’s never stopped me from kneeling at the altar of Holly.
I want that again—the love, the knowledge that I’m standing next to my best friend, my other half. I just don’t know if it’s possible to reclaim what’s been lost . . . or if it’s even worth the possible risk of failing all over again. I fall asleep with my nose kissing the glass screen, my arm thrown out to the left side of the bed, reaching for a man who isn’t there.
What will undoubtedly be my last run for hockey’s holy grail. I’m thirty-four. That’s 238 years old in dog years. At least four-hundred in hockey years.
Wedding ring or not, though, my ex-wife has me by the balls and no one will do but her.
No, as much as I’ve tried not to let her silence needle me, Holly’s the reason I’ve spent more hours than I can count in the gym. She’s the reason sleep has eluded me. She’s the fucking reason why my bark is definitely as bad as my bite these days.
“But you can’t make a life out of relying on someone else’s happiness to fuel your own and make you feel complete, even if that happiness is your husband’s.”
“But when I finally had something of my own to show, I may as well have been married to a ghost.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, “I’m so fuckin’ sorry for making you feel like I didn’t care. That I wasn’t proud of you and everything you’ve done. That you felt, even for one damn second, that you were taken for granted . . . and that when you were no longer there in reach every moment of the day, you weren’t worth my time anymore.”
I hold up a hand, silencing the rumble of laughter. “No, but, really. Henri, dude, that can’t be—” “To the face!” Bordeaux thrusts a finger at his chin. “A puck to the face, épais. Osti de tabarnak de câlice.”
“What do you want?” I rasp against her skin. Her lips skim the underside of my jaw. “To bring you to your knees.” Famous last words, right there.
