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CHAPTER 54 - I CAME BACK
Date de publication:
2026-03-17 02:09:33
Dernier chapitre
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE FOURTEEN - MY NAME
The sweatpants have a hole in the left knee and a pasta stain on the thigh from Tuesday’s dinner. They’re the ugliest thing I own and I’m wearing them on the couch at 9 PM while a woman in an emerald dress worth more than my advance has her hand on my husband’s arm in a photograph that fourteen thousand people have already liked.I watch the stories from the beginning because watching from the beginning is the thing my body does when my brain knows it shouldn’t – the same compulsion that made me read the comments under the Sasha restaurant post, the same instinct that makes people press on bruises to check if they still hurt, and they always still hurt, and I press anyway because the pressing is its own kind of information.Story one: the venue. Some ballroom with chandeliers and the specific golden lighting that makes every person in the frame look like they were born into a tax bracket I can’t pronounce.Story two: Rhys at a table with teammates, his tuxedo fitting him in a way that
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE THIRTEEN - ALONE
He’s home and conscious and horizontal on the couch with the remote in one hand and his other arm thrown across the back cushion in the invitation posture.I can tell that he is present and available just by the way he is seated and not checking his phone or mentally rehearsing answers for a media call. He is just lying on a couch and watching a movie he chose because he wanted to watch it and not because a PR calendar told him where to be.The normalcy of the scene is so beautiful that I sit beside him and put my hand on his thigh because I've been waiting for this exact moment and couch and evening for approximately nine days and I intend to make full use of it.His thigh is warm under my palm through his sweatpants, and I leave my hand there as I wait for the response – the shift, the subtle tension that travels through his quadricep when my hand lands in a place his body recognizes as a prelude.The response doesn’t come.My fingers press into the muscle slightly, the way I’ve pre
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE TWELVE - TIME
He comes home at a normal hour on a Tuesday and the normalcy of it is so disorienting that I look up from the laptop in shock.5:43 PM.The door is opening at a time when doors are supposed to open, the keys landing on the counter in the spot where keys are supposed to land, his jacket hung on the hook instead of thrown over a chair because he’s not rushing. He’s not checking his phone or mentally partitioning the next forty minutes into blocks that belong to other people. He’s just HOME, in the kitchen, at a human hour, walking past my chair toward the fridge with the unhurried stride of a man who has an evening ahead of him instead of a schedule.I grab his waistband as he passes.My fingers hook into the fabric before my brain has formed a plan, the wanting arriving in my hand before it arrives in my head, because I haven’t touched him without a clock running in weeks and his body is RIGHT HERE moving past me at a pace that doesn’t require efficiency. The proximity of him combined
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE ELEVEN - WHERE I AM
The apartment has been empty for three days. It’s settled into the furniture and the walls. The hum of the refrigerator is louder than it has any right to be, and the clock above the stove is ticking with the authority of an appliance that knows it’s the only thing in the room still performing its function.Five-day road trip. West coast swing. And the schedule that was already partitioned into blocks that belonged to other people has now been physically removed from the same time zone. Which means the twenty-minute windows that used to produce rushed counter sex and stolen garlic bread have been replaced by phone calls that happen at 11 PM his time when his voice sounds like it’s been dragged across gravel and his brain is operating at approximately thirty percent capacity.I call him from the bed at eleven because eleven is the window we agreed on and the agreement is the only structure holding the distance together.“Hey.” His voice is somewhere between exhaustion and unconsciousne
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE TEN - NOT ENOUGH
He has twenty minutes between practice and a media call, which means by the time he walks through the door with his hair still damp and his practice jersey clinging to his chest – in the way that makes the fabric look like it’s been painted onto his body rather than pulled over it – we have approximately eighteen minutes.Two minutes will be spent on him finding his keys because he never puts them in the same place twice, which leaves sixteen, and I need at least four of those to feel like a person afterward instead of a pit stop, which leaves twelve, and twelve minutes is what we have.I’m at the counter when he comes in.He crosses the kitchen with the long, ground-eating stride that he uses between shifts on the ice, then his hands find my waist from behind and his mouth finds the spot below my ear that makes my knees soften.I’m turning into him before my brain has processed that he’s home because my body operates on a different network than my brain and the body’s network has bet
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE NINE - WIVES
The blog post takes me forty minutes to write, which is the first sign that something is wrong because the filthiest posts I've written took much less. All the posts poured out of me at 2 AM like the words had been sitting in my chest with their bags packed, just waiting for my fingers to open the door, and I’ve never in my life spent forty minutes arranging sentences into a shape that says nothing while appearing to say everything.I read it back and the words on the screen sound like a press release dressed in a sundress.“Grateful for this season of growth and the incredible support system that makes it all possible.”I wrote that.Those words came out of my fingers and onto the page and I published them with a caption that includes a heart emoji and a prayer-hands emoji.The post is about Rhys’s foundation work, but it doesn’t mention Deshawn by name or the stick against the boards or the kid’s hands or any of the details that would make it real. Real details are specific and iden
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