My thighs clench, along with every single muscle from the waist down. It’s because I liked that you got hard. My clasped hands are suddenly very interesting.

“Sorry. That was crass. I like it better here than at the clinic.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“So it is because I got hard? I thought you said that happens all the time.”

I stumble over my words, unable to find anything that isn’t inappropriate. “It does. Sometimes. And that’s not the reason…” I make a hand gesture.

“Is it because of what happened last year? With your friend? At my house? I told you I was sorry about that, too.”

I can tell he doesn’t remember anything about that night, which is almost gratifying, because it means Kristi wasn’t a memorable lay.

“It’s really not about that. Kristi and I were never good friends anyway.”

“Then I don’t understand why you can’t treat me here again.”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You’ve already said that.” He’s agitated now, chewing on his bottom lip as he shifts from foot to foot.

“I shouldn’t have done the home treatment. It blurs lines.”

“Okay. You can treat me at the clinic if it makes you feel more comfortable. I like you touching me.”

Those words and his tone are going to haunt me tonight. I know it already.

I can’t tell if he means it the way I’ve taken it: suggestively. “What about the team therapist? Shouldn’t you use him?”

His expression is as pleading and panicked as his tone. “I don’t want to go to someone else. Please, Poppy.”

He’s so hard to say no to, especially with how worried he seems. I don’t know why he’s so intent on it being me, but I want to erase his anxiety.

“No more home visits.”

“Okay. No more home visits.” He blows out a quick, relieved breath and flashes me a grin. “I’m gonna go now, before you change yer mind.”

That Scottish accent kills me.

He shoves his feet into his shoes and opens the door. “Bye, Poppy. Thanks again for taking care of me.”

I can’t make eye contact, so I look at his forehead. “Bye, Lance. You’re welcome.”

When the door closes, I sag against the wall.

I don’t know how I’m going to manage this. Part of me wants him to know the truth: that he was my first kiss. That I never forgot it. With a decade of life and experiences, of boyfriends and plenty of new first kisses, I should be long past romanticizing Lance in my head. But I’ve been searching for the spark I felt when he kissed me since then, and I’ve never been able to find it.

Maybe it was just because it was my very first kiss. A part of me has always wanted to test that theory, and last year I almost had the chance, until I let Kristi get in the way.

When Lance made the NHL, I watched every game, because even after all that time, seeing him brought back that memory and the fleeting feelings that came with it.

But if I told him the truth, I’d also want him to know how my perfect memory was tainted when the gossip mill started churning out pictures of him with all these women. And how that night at the bar, when I saw him for the first time in over a decade, he shattered the beautiful glass jar I’d kept that first-kiss moment safe in for all these years.

CHAPTER 11

PUSH

LANCE

I’m sitting in the airport, and I’m bored. I’ve done the Sudoku in the paper. It took me all of fifteen minutes, and it was supposed to be one of the hard ones.

If I hadn’t come across hockey, I probably would’ve gone into some kind of career where I could work with numbers all day. I love numbers. They make sense. They’re constant, and they don’t change. A formula is a formula.

People don’t work the same way. Emotions make them unpredictable. Like right now Miller is in a shit mood. He’s been texting Sunny every three minutes and researching signs of labor and statistics on first-time pregnancies. Baby Butterson should be hanging tight for a few more weeks, but apparently he’s getting antsy.

Miller puts his phone to his ear. “Hey, Sunny Sunshine, we’re gonna board the plane soon. I wanted to check on you one last time—yeah…yeah. I know. I get that. I don’t like that I’m not there right now.”

He drops his voice to a whisper, gets out of his seat, and wanders toward the windows, watching the planes as he runs his hand through his hair, making the short blond strands stand on end.

I don’t know whether to feel sorry for him or envious. I have no idea what it’s like to need someone like that. Well, I guess maybe I do. Although, with Tash it wasn’t about need; at least not in the same way I think it is with Miller and Sunny. It was more about want.

Sometimes I wonder if I only wanted her to myself because she’d never give me that. Which is fucked up. There are things about me that aren’t right, and I know it’s because of how things went down in my house as a kid.

My dad comes from money. Lots of money. So does my mum. It’s the reason I have the house I do. My hockey salary is great, but I already had lots of cash flow before I started earning my own. The weird thing about money is that people equate it with stability, but there was nothing stable about my childhood.

I remember the way my mum used to go after my dad. Sometimes I wonder if my propensity for aggression is hereditary, or maybe she conditioned it into me. She was a small woman, always watching what she ate, always taking some kind of class or drinking something that was supposed to help keep her thin or whatever. I’m pretty sure it was just booze, now that I think about it.