Page 79 of Tripped Up

He swallows loudly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For believing in me. For encouraging me.” He cups my cheek. “I lo⁠—”

Wyatt stops, cutting himself off.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “I really value you,” he finally says. “I’m very glad you’re in my life.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

* * *

The arena is already packed by the time I get there. The players are still on the ice for warm-up, so as I hurry to what’s become my seat behind the bench, I try to swallow my nerves. I’ve been wearing a generic Austin Aces sweatshirt for each game, but I always, always wear Mitch’s jersey. First with Seattle, then Calgary, and now in New Orleans, he sends me a jersey and I wear it the one or two times a year I get to see him.

But I’ve never been dating a player on the opposing team before.

Wyatt hasn’t offered to give me his jersey. If it were any other guy, I’d wonder if there were doubts as to our relationship, but the way he interacts with me around his teammates, not hiding or ashamed of me, I think he’s waiting for me to make the first move. He’s giving me space to decide if I’m in this, like he promised, but I think it’s pretty well established that we’re together by now.

Next game. Once Mitch is gone and I don’t have to split my allegiance, I’ll ask Wyatt for a jersey. I want to proclaim to the world that I’m his.

Tonight, though, I want them both to win. Technically, that can’t happen; one team will walk away the victor. As much as I want Mitch to do well, I want Wyatt to win. All the time. Every game. I’ll gladly comfort him after a loss and I’ll cheer with him for each win, but I’d rather there be more good times than bad.

On the ice, the players are skating in circles to get their legs going, stick handling or trying to shoot on Rempel. The guy in the navy-and-gold Whitney jersey—my guy—has his back to me as he stretches and warms up his hips. I feel no guilt whatsoever as I check him out, his ass on display as he flexes his adductor. Fuck, I wonder what it will be like when he finally fucks me, my fingers digging into his rock-hard ass as he pounds into me.

Heat flares through me, and I fan my face. I can’t help it; my boyfriend is fucking hot. We’re still fooling around, but I think—I think I’m ready. He stood his ground with Mitch, putting our relationship first. If I can’t trust him after that, I don’t think I ever will.

I want to trust him. I need to trust him. Otherwise, what are we doing? Why should I keep dating someone I can’t rely on not to break my heart?

Wyatt gets to his feet, skating in a circle around his half of the rink. His eyes rove over the crowd, taking it all in. I do the same before every performance, that little holy fuck, this is really happening surprising me every single time.

Our eyes lock, and I grin at him, waving happily.

Wyatt stops in his tracks, another player nearly slamming into him.

Oh, no. Is something wrong? He’s motionless, his face hard.

Should I not be here?

A murderous look crosses over his face before he skates to the gate door.

“What are you wearing?” he yells.

People are staring now, trying to figure out who he’s talking to, but there’s no doubt in my mind this is between us. Because of me.

My stomach sinks. I turn my back, showing the Mitchell nameplate on my back.

“Take it off,” he shouts, his face red.

I open my mouth.

“Take his fucking name off your back,” Wyatt yells.

Before I can blink, he’s stripping off his own jersey and balling it up into his fist.

A stilted cheer ripples through the crowd. He doesn’t wear a guard under his shirt, just his pads, and his muscular chest and abs are on display for fifty thousand people as my boyfriend glares at me.