Puck Me Harder

CHAPTER 15

ELLE

There's a knock on my hotel room door at 2 AM.

I know it's Blake before I open it. I can feel him through the door that specific gravitational pull that's defined my entire adult life.

"What are you doing?" I ask when I see him.

He's still in his street clothes from after the game. His hair is damp. His eyes are dark with something that looks like desperation and need mixed together.

"Finishing what I started," he says.

He doesn't wait for permission. He pushes me back against the wall not aggressively, but with inevitability and he kisses me like he's drowning and I'm the only oxygen left.

It's possessive. It's intense. It's feral.

And I kiss him back.

My hands find his hair. His hands find my waist, pulling me close, pressing me harder against the wall. His mouth moves down my neck, and I'm gasping, and every cell in my body is screaming yes, yes, this, you, finally.

"Blake—" I start, but he silences me by kissing me again, deeper this time.

We're tangled together in the dark of the hotel room. Clothes are coming off. My hands are under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the muscle underneath. His hands are on my thighs, lifting me, pressing me harder against the wall.

We don't make it to the bedroom.

We're against the wall, and it's intense and desperate and all the things we've been holding back for five years. His mouth on my collarbone, his hands everywhere, his body pressing me into the wall like he's trying to make me part of the structure.

"I need you," he whispers against my skin. "Elle, I need you."

"I know," I say, and I do know. I can feel it in the way he's touching me, in the desperation of his movements, in the way he's saying my name like it's a prayer.

It's fast and hard and devastating, and when it's over, we're tangled together on the floor of the hotel room, both breathing hard, both shaking.

Blake pulls me against his chest, and he whispers: "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it."

I don't respond. I just hold him close. I bury my face in his neck, and I breathe him in, and I understand that I'm completely, irrevocably undone.

After, we're lying on the carpet, tangled together, and Blake is still holding me like I'm going to disappear if he lets go.

"Stay," he says quietly. "Please. Just stay with me."

I should say no. I should get up and put my clothes back on and tell him to leave. I should protect myself from whatever this is.

Instead, I stay. I let him hold me. I let him believe that this means something.

For an hour, we lie on that carpet, and I pretend that physical intimacy is enough to fix what's broken between us.

But by the time the sun starts to rise, I understand that it's not.

Blake is still holding me, still not moving, and I know I have to be the one to break this.

"This doesn't mean anything," I say quietly.

Blake's arms tighten around me. "What?"

"This. What we just did. It was just..." I pause, looking for the words. "It was just us acting on our lust for each other. That's all."

"Elle—"

"It doesn't change anything, Blake. It doesn't fix the fact that you've destroyed me. It doesn't fix the fact that being connected to you is destroying my career. It doesn't mean we have a future. It's just sex."

He's silent for a long moment.

"Is that what you really believe?" he asks.

"Yes," I lie.

Because the truth is worse. The truth is that what just happened on that hotel room floor was the most intimate thing I've ever experienced. The truth is that Blake whispering "I'm sorry" while inside me broke something fundamental. The truth is that I love him more now than I did five years ago, and that terrifies me.

But I can't tell him any of that.

"I think you should go," I say, and I'm already pulling away from him, already putting my clothes back on, already rebuilding the walls he just demolished.

Blake sits up, and he's watching me with an expression that I can't quite read.

"Elle—"

"Please just go, Blake."

He leaves without arguing. That's how I know I've wounded him—not with words, but with the suggestion that what happened between us was meaningless.

FIVE YEARS AGO

It's the night before I'm supposed to leave him.

I've already packed most of my things. I've already decided. But Blake doesn't know yet, and I'm not ready to tell him, so we're in bed together, and he's tender in a way he usually isn't.

"Please don't leave me," he whispers against my hair. "Please. I know I haven't been present. I know I've been choosing hockey over you. But I can change. I promise. I can change."

He's moving slowly, reverently, like he's trying to memorize every inch of my body. Like this might be the last time.

"I believe you," I say, and I do. In that moment, with him inside me, with him whispering promises, I genuinely believe that he can change. I believe that my love is enough to make him choose differently. I believe that surrender is the same as salvation.

"I'm not going anywhere," I lie. "I'm staying. I'm yours."

"Forever?" he asks, and his voice is desperate. "Tell me forever."

"Forever," I say, and I mean it in that moment. Forever with you. Forever accepting that hockey comes first. Forever being the backup plan.

But by morning, I've changed my mind.

Forever isn't sustainable when forever means being invisible.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't see Blake for three days.

He doesn't call. He doesn't text. He doesn't show up at my hotel room again. He just... disappears.

And I understand that I've done exactly what I said I would do—I've made our physical intimacy meaningless. I've reduced what happened between us to just s*x, just lust, just the temporary collision of two people who can't stay away from each other.

But that doesn't make it feel meaningless.

Every time I close my eyes, I can feel his hands on me. Every time I breathe, I can smell him. Every time I think about leaving the city, going back to my apartment, moving on with my life, I feel like I'm drowning.

Physical intimacy doesn't fix emotional wounds. It doesn't erase five years of hurt. It doesn't solve the fundamental problem: Blake and I are destructive to each other, and we always have been.

But it also doesn't erase the fact that what we have is real. That when he's inside me, when he's holding me close, when he's whispering apologies—in those moments, I am completely, utterly certain that this is the only thing that matters.

And then I wake up, and I remember that certainty isn't enough.

Blake is breaking. I'm breaking. And neither of us knows how to stop the free fall.