Sunday is a game day, so Tate heads to Madison Square Gardens early for their morning skate. He comes back to the hotel for lunch and a nap before leaving again at three. The last time I dated an athlete, we lived in the same city and he didn’t want me in his space on game days.

There are a lot of things that are different about Tate. The way his face lights up when he sees me after being away for a few hours.

I consider going to watch the game in person, because I know he’d like that, but there are some—a lot—of things I need to sort out before I can take that step. So I stay in his room, instead, and get work done right up until the moment the game begins.

Once it does, I’m glad I decided to stay behind instead of going to Madison Square Gardens. It’s an epic disaster almost from the beginning and I have a hard enough time watching—cringing—in private, I can’t imagine what it would have been like if I were there.

Over and over, I’m tempted to turn it off because it tears me up inside to see things going badly for Tate and his team. And every time I reach for the remote, I stop myself because it would be like turning my back on him when things are rough. And that’s not me. What is me, is that little glimmer of optimism. That there’s still time for them to pull it together.

Until there isn’t.

When the final horn blows, the Lumberjacks head off the ice, heads bowed. The final score is five to one. A loss is a loss, but at least they weren’t shut out. I don’t know why that matters to me, but it does, even though Tate wasn’t involved in that single goal.

I turn off the television. I don’t want to see them interview Tate. It’s going to be ugly. Everyone has high expectations of him, and I know he’s already beating himself up. I don’t need to watch the pile on.

More than that, I don’t want to watch it. I know for Tate, it’s part of the job to be accountable to the press and the public. But there’s a level of discomfort for me that goes beyond that of witnessing the equivalent of him screwing up at the office. Between interviews and getting showered and dressed, it’s going to be well over an hour before Tate gets back, so I haul out my laptop to do some work.

Nearly two hours after the game ends, I hear male voices in the hall. Tate’s back. I close my laptop and put it away. Then I feel awkward. I’m not sure what to do with myself. If they’d won, I would have been naked, posing provocatively on the bed. That’s exactly the wrong thing in this instance, and I hate that I don’t know what to do.

The electronic lock clicks and Tate walks in. He looks miserable and my heart aches.

He shoots me a wan smile. “You’re still here.”

“I said I would be.”

“We lost. Badly,” he says as he shrugs out of his coat and lays it over a chair. His suit jacket follows.

I get up and go to him. “I know, and I’m sorry.” Grabbing his hand, I lead him back to the bed and he sits on the edge. “Do you want something to drink? A beer?”

He shakes his head as he toes off his shoes. “No. Thanks.”

I lie on the bed, and moments later, he joins me, pulling me into his side. I rest my head on his chest and let us both just be.

“It was a total shit-show out there tonight. And I was the star of the disaster,” he says. There’s a sadness in his voice. Disappointment. And anger.

From my perspective, he’s overreacting, but that’s not what he wants to hear. At least I can remind him the rest of the team bears some responsibility, too. “You’ve all played better, there’s no denying that.”

“You watched. I was kind of hoping you hadn’t.”

“Of course I watched.” I stroke his arm as his heart thumps hard and fast against my ear. “I won’t lie. It was hard, and it’s possible I may have shouted at the TV a time or six and been tempted to turn it off. But I want to support you, and one of the ways I can do that is by watching you play—even when you’re not at your best.”

“I thought we were pulling it together. Even with our losses, I felt like we were gelling as a team. Tonight…I have no fucking idea what the fuck that was, but it wasn’t professional hockey. At least not from my point of view. I let everyone down. My team, my fans…myself. You.”

“I don’t know about the others, but you can cross me off that list.” He didn’t let me down, and I won’t be an excuse for him to get a few more hits in while he beats himself up.

“This team is counting on me for a run at the Cup.”

“You’ll need their help to get there.” If I can nudge him towards talking about the team not gelling, that’s probably more productive. I think. I’m no sports psychologist.

“I’m in a position of leadership.”

“Is this loss harder because they put an A on your jersey?”

“Maybe. Yeah, I think it is. Fuck.” His arms tighten around me. “Fucking hell, Sasha. I thought we were clicking. You know? And it turns out, maybe I don’t fucking know anything at all. Because that was a mess.”

“What can you do?”

He scrubs his hand over his face. “We’ll have a team meeting in the morning. Coach won’t pull any punches.”

“Good.”

“We’ll probably have a long practice, too. I’m sorry, that’s going to eat into our time.”

“I’ve got boat loads of work to do. That’s fine.” I play with the buttons on his shirt. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“No.”

I swallow hard. “Do you want—”

“I want you.” Three little words, rough and real.

Straddling him, I unbutton his shirt and he sits up so I can tug it off. He reaches for the hem of my t-shirt and pulls it over my head, then buries his face in my cleavage. I kiss the top of his head and hold him close as he tastes my skin.

His hands are hard and insistent, his touch almost selfish. He gropes me, squeezing my breasts together so he can mouth them at the same time.

I slide my fingers through his hair and give myself to him. He sucks on my flesh, pulling my nipples deep into his mouth, and deep inside, a new and strange fire begins to burn.

We tumble, shoving clothes up and off and away. He’s still damp from his shower, his muscles bulging as he moves against me, and I give myself over to him fully. Pliant and ready to be whatever he needs.

Take it, I say with my body. Take me, however you want me.

It isn't like anything we've done before. This is raw and sweet and kind of scary. But I can't say no to him.

And as we move together, I realize, I don't want to. Not tonight. Not ever.