Page 65 of Cut Off
She doesn’t say anything, just lines the veggies up and works through the produce. I focus on the yogurt, stacking the containers in the fridge, but Zoe’s right there next to me,bumping shoulders, her hair brushing against my arm every time she twists to reach for something.
It’s fucking domestic. It’s intimate. I’ve had one-night stands with less sexual tension than this.
We’re nearly done when she goes for the cereal, reaching high for the top shelf. The move hikes her sweater so it exposes a narrow, pale strip of skin above her jeans—the small of her back, smooth and inviting, scattered with freckles.
I stare for a full three seconds. Maybe four. No hiding it, no apology. I want to sink my teeth into that skin and see if she makes the same sounds she does when she laughs. I want to find out if she’ll arch into my mouth.
She catches me. Of course she does. That’s her superpower.
Cereal box in hand, she has a grin on her lips. “You having a medical episode?”
“Enjoying the view.” No point in lying.
She hops down from her tiptoes and leans on the counter. “Do you need a minute alone?”
I throw the last pack of yogurt at her, which she catches, one-handed. Then she stands there, pinning me with that look of hers—brave, curious, open.
“So you’re feeling like you’re letting yourself and your teammates down.” The words come out soft, but they hit hard. “I’m sorry.”
My chest cracks. Maybe it’s her tone, maybe it’s the fact that nobody’s ever bothered to actually care about the mental toll the pressure takes. My defenses go down before I can stop them. “Thank you.”
She smiles.
I say, “The trade. From the Blizzards. It was a shit decision for the Trout.”
“Why?”
“I’m not a defenseman.”
“Yeah, I get that.” She nods. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re becoming one.”
“The Blizzards didn’t want me, Zoe.” The words just come out. “I was on the losing end of my own ultimatum, and the Trout gave me another chance. I’m grateful, but I’m scared.”
Zoe doesn’t cut in. Doesn’t offer a silver lining or a pep talk. She just watches me, eyes warm and steady.
I don’t stop. “I don’t even remember what I liked about the game anymore. I used to—” I cut myself off, jaw clenched. “I want to be a role model to my son, but I don’t know who I am anymore.”
There it is. The big, ugly truth out in the open.
She comes closer. Her hand covers mine on the counter, fingers cool against my skin. Her thumb traces a line over my knuckles, feather-light, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch. I don’t. I just watch her, every muscle in my chest burning, waiting for her to pull away or tell me to get a grip. But she doesn’t. She just searches my face for something neither of us have found a name for.
She whispers, “Sometimes I think life’s just one big detour.”
My lips tick up. “That’s definitely true. And I’m always grateful for where I end up.”
“Me too. In fact, the detours might be the best part.”
I know she’s referring to being here, with me, and I’m out of words.
So is she, and the distance between us has somehow shrunk to a single, electric inch.
As usual with her, I’m fucking terrified to make a move. Hair-trigger tension hangs in the air, like the second before a fight, except it’s not violence I want to unleash.
I lean in—so close I can see a gold fleck in her left iris, so close her breath ghosts over my lips.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t break eye contact. But her hand tightens over mine, and her lips part just enough to make me lose whatever’s left of my composure.
I hover, every muscle in my body wound to the point of snapping. I need her to cave first, close that last inch.
