I pride myself on my discipline and self-restraint.

I rarely cheat on the diet my nutritionist designed to keep me functioning at peak potential as I move out of my drink-beer-and-eat-pizza-and-still-kill-it-on-the-ice twenties and into my have-to-work-twice-as-hard-to-maintain-game-shape mid-thirties. I never skip leg day—or arm day, or ab day—and I give everything on the ice, whether it’s an optional skate, mandatory practice, a mid-season snoozer of a game, or the final battle of the playoffs.

I maintain firm but fair boundaries for my daughter, and ensure she’s eating well and getting enough sleep. I’m equally fair as a team captain, choosing positive reinforcement and constructive, privately-delivered criticism over a raised voice or a brutal come-down on a floundering rookie in front of his new team. I take my supplements religiously, watch YouTube videos until I master whatever French braid is in style this week at Chloe’s school, book a massage with the team trainer every Wednesday to keep my bum shoulder functioning smoothly, and clip Chloe’s nails every other Thursday night.

I am structured, dedicated, focused, and in control of myself, my team, and my household.

But right now, all I want to do is drop Chloe off at her grandparents' house, drive back to Government Camp as fast as the Cruiser can go on the windy mountain roads, book a hotel room, and shack up with Laura for the next two or three weeks, shirking all of my responsibilities and committing myself solely to the study of the art of getting her off.

The two-hour drive has done absolutely fuck all to take off the edge, probably because I’ve spent most of it mentally replaying scenes from our stolen weekend.

A particular favorite is of Laura’s lips parting and her eyes sliding closed as I roll my tongue against her clit, increasing my pressure until she arches into my mouth and I drive my tongue deep into her pussy, needing to feel her body pulse as she comes for me. Because of me. Because I’ve brought this strong, sexy, in-control woman to her knees.

And then there’s Laura with her shirt unbuttoned in the moonlight, holding my gaze as she straddles me on the chair we dragged out onto the deck so we could listen to the waves crash while we went for round five. Images of my hands parting the fabric of her white button-up and cupping her breasts, of her reaching between us and fitting my swollen length to where she is already hot and ready for me, so ready that the moment we glide together is pure bliss, pure relief, perfection unlike anything I’ve felt in so long.

And then we start to move, my cock stroking deep inside her. Deeper, deeper, as our eyes meet and hold and fucking becomes something more. Something true and right and so intense that by the time we finally reach the edge together I can barely breathe. My lungs are locked tight, and my heart is pounding, and I’m so lost in Laura that all I can do is wrap my arms around her and wait for the world to stop spinning and my soul to slip back into my skin.

It’s that moment—the moment when I realized that I was making love to Laura, not just fucking away the loneliness—that pulses through my mind again and again, inspiring an erection so intense that, after I pull into Steve and Angie’s driveway, I have to take a moment to talk myself down before I get out of the truck.

Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?

This is the house where I used to spend holidays with my wife and my newborn child. And while I know that it’s healthy, even necessary, to move on after loss, and three years is probably more than sufficient time to wait before starting a new relationship, that isn’t what’s happening here.

What’s happening is that I’ve got a completely inappropriate hard-on for the friend who agreed to help me fool my in-laws, deceiving them into backing off and leaving me be. A friend who clearly has no interest in letting me close to her body again, let alone her heart.

Which means I need to get my head on straight and stop dwelling on the past.

Exhaling with the same intensity as that moment before I take to the ice for a game, I push out of the Cruiser, waving at Steve and Angie, who are already halfway down the drive.

“Hello, hello!” Angie, looking like the consummate grandma in a poinsettia sweater and khakis, topped by a “Gimme Some Sugar” apron the same gray as her shoulder-length hair, holds out both arms, aiming her slim body at Laura, who smiles widely and leans down to accept a way-too-enthusiastic hug. “You must be Laura, we’re so pleased to meet you! And you’re so beautiful! Look, Steve, look how beautiful she is.”

“Beautiful,” Steve echoes, reaching out to pat me on the back as he meets me at the rear of the truck. “We appreciate redheads around here.”

“I had red hair when I was younger,” Angie confides with a laugh.

“And I’m a redhead,” Chloe crows, running past Angie into the house. “Come on, Laura, come see my toys!”

“She’ll be there in just a second,” Angie calls over her shoulder. “Don’t rush us. We need to say a proper hello.” She turns back, beaming up at Laura as she takes her hand and pats it like a beloved pet, overdoing it every bit as much as I feared she would.

But at least Laura should be prepared. I warned her before we left the tourism center that my in-laws are genuinely effusive people.

“Now, tell me all about yourself,” Angie continues. “Brendan says you work for the Badgers. That must be so much fun. We love hockey. Catch a game at least four times a year, even though the drive home from the city at night isn’t Steve’s favorite. Brendan tries to get us to stay the night at his house, but I need my own bed. Can’t sleep a wink when I’m in a strange place.”

“Unless it’s that fancy hotel they opened on the other side of the mountain.” Steve winks as he helps me pull the bags out of the back of the Cruiser.

“Well, that’s another story,” Angie says with a guilty grin. “I do love a room with a mountain view. And room service for breakfast. Speaking of breakfast, have you all eaten? The turkey won’t be ready until two, but I’ve got quiche to warm up, or we could start the holiday off right with pie.”

“We’ve eaten, but I’m sure Chloe will be up for pie.” Laura follows Angie up the walk. “She’s been bragging about her Gammy’s pies for weeks.”

Angie nods seriously. “They really are quite good. I want us to be friends, Laura, so I won’t start things off on the wrong foot by being falsely modest about my pies.”

Laura laughs. “Good. Why should women play down our accomplishments while men get to brag all they want?”

Angie glances over her shoulder at me, her pale blue eyes widening with excitement. “Oh, Brendan. I love her already.” She hooks her arm through Laura’s. “So, which do you want to try first, sweetheart? My award-winning double-dark-chocolate coconut pie, the raspberry cream, or something more traditional, like pumpkin or apple?”

The women disappear into the house. I’m about to start up the walk after them, when Steve puts a hand on my shoulder again.

“Thanks for this, son. Angie’s been over the moon since you called yesterday,” he says, his gaze misty behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “I know it might feel strange to be here with someone other than Mary, but this is going to be good. For everyone. And it’s what Mary would have wanted. As her dad, there’s no doubt in my mind about that. From the time she was a tiny thing, she had the sweetest, most generous heart.”

My throat goes tight, and a familiar wave of grief washes into my chest—soft, like the tide rolling in, not the tsunami of pain that used to hit, hard and without warning, in the early days after the accident, but still potent.

I still miss her.

I’m not sure I’m ready to move on, no matter what my in-laws, my friends, or my cock have to say about it. I care about Laura, and I want to fuck her with the desperation of a man who’s been deprived of the comfort and release of sexual intimacy for over three years, but I’m not ready to fall in love again.

Make love, yes, but everything that goes with it—no. Hell no.

That certainty makes it easier to force a smile for Steve and say, “Thanks. I’m glad you guys are getting to meet Laura. She’s something special.”

And she is. She’s sexy, fun, passionate, and great with kids, and I’m sure someday she’ll make the right guy very happy. But that guy won’t be me. She deserves to date someone whole and capable of making her dreams comes true, not a fractured man who might never fully recover from losing the woman he promised to love and cherish.

Promises like that aren’t intended to be easily broken. Maybe for most people, death makes moving on easier, but that hasn’t been the case for me.

And I can’t be anyone but who I am, no matter how many people—including myself—wish I were someone else.