By admin Fake Dating My Ex’s Favourite Hockey Player Novel CH 142
The second my apartment door clicks shut behind us, I’m slammed against it. His mouth on mine, one strong hand braced against the wood beside my head, the other at my waist like it’s been waiting years for this. I gasp into the kiss, half–laugh, half–hungry, tugging at the lapel of his jacket like I’m pulling him down into me.
God, finally,
N
The air between us has been nothing but teasing and almosts and interruptions, and now it’s just us. No little nieces, no Claire, no fluorescent office lights. Just heat and his lips on mine.
“Wow,” I murmur against his mouth when we finally break, already breathless. “So you do kiss.”
Aaron smirks the smallest smirk, that quiet little twist of lips that somehow punches me straight in the chest. “You talk too much.”
“Oh, don’t even start. You like it.” I push off the door and back him into the living room, my blazer already hanging somewhere halfway across the floor. His laugh–soft, startled–buzzes against my skin as I tilt up and kiss him again.
He kisses differently than I imagined. Less hesitant. More sure. Like he knows exactly what he wants and it just happens to be me.
When we finally collapse onto the couch, I curl sideways against him, legs tucked up, hair messy, lips swollen. I tilt my head and look at him. “So. This is the part where we learn about each other, right? Deep stuff, tragic backstories, favourite pizza toppings?”
He leans his head back against the couch, still catching his breath. “You first.”
“Okay,” I say, licking my lips. “I don’t want kids.”
That makes his head turn to me. Not in a shocked way, but in a listening way. And I keep going, because if I don’t say it now, when will I?
“I don’t mean it in some deep, wounded trauma way,” I add quickly. “I just don’t. I like them, sure. I like the way they say unhinged things at dinner tables and how everything is a disaster waiting to happen. But the best part about kids is giving them back. Hand them over and go home to your own mess, you know?”
Aaron is quiet for a beat, then: “That’s the best thing you’ve ever said.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He shifts, his hand brushing mine, deliberate, warm. “I don’t want them either.”
“Wait.” I squint at him, dramatic. “You’re telling me the six–foot–something family guy, doting uncle, reliable as hell–you don’t want kids?”
“I love Kenzie,” he says simply. “But being an uncle is enough. I don’t need more.”
For a second, I just stare at him. Then I laugh, this startled, slightly giddy sound I didn’t expect to make. “Wow. Guess we’re both terrible disappointments to our mothers.”
That makes his mouth twitch again, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek. Just that, Gentle. Sweet. Like we’re shifting into something softer.
“Okay, your turn,” I say, recovering with a sip of water. “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Anything. Favourite ice cream flavour. Weird fear. Criminal record.”
He pauses. “I’ve never been stung by a bee.”
I stare at him. “That’s it? That’s your dark confession?”
“You said anything.”
1 roll my eyes and shove at his shoulder, which is like shoving a wall. “Fine. But when you inevitably do get stung, I’m not carrying your dramatic self to the ER.”
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Chapter 143
“You would,” he says, maddeningly sure.
“Ugh. Don’t be so cocky.”
(420)
We end up lying on the couch, tangled. His arm draped under my head, my fingers tracing idle shapes on the back of his hand. I’m still buzzing from the kissing, but it’s different now. Calmer. More real.
“You’re not what I expected,” I murmur after a while.
“Good or bad?”
“Annoyingly good.” I grin, then tilt my head toward the TV. “Confidential Family?”
He gives me the look. The you know I don’t care about TV look. But he reaches for the remote anyway.
The opening credits roll, and I’m already off. “Okay, listen. This episode is everything. Watch for Marissa–she’s the one in the green jacket–because her entire personality is chaos wrapped in eyeliner. And then there’s Dan, who’s basically a golden retriever in human form, but also secretly the smartest in the room. Classic trope, executed perfectly.”
Aaron doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t need to. He just watches, occasionally glancing at me when I get too animated, like he’s cataloguing the exact way I gesture mid–rant.
“You’re not even watching, are you?” I accuse halfway through.
“I’m watching,” he says, deadpan.
“Me or the show?”
He doesn’t answer. Just that ghost of a smile again. And I groan, throwing a pillow at him. “You’re impossible.”
The pillow doesn’t land because he catches it mid–air like some smug goalie and tosses it aside. Then he pulls me closer, right against his chest, and I give in because, honestly, who wouldn’t?
The rest of the episode goes on with my running commentary: who’s secretly in love with who, who’s about to betray the family, why the writers are obviously setting up a redemption arc that’ll break my heart. And Aaron? He just listens. Offers a word here and there —“Mm.” “Right.” “Maybe.” But mostly, he’s just… here. Present.
And I realize something as I’m rambling on about fictional people with messy fictional lives: I like being listened to. I like that he lets me fill the silence without trying to fix it or make it his.
When the credits roll, I shift against him, cheek pressed to his chest. “You know,” I say softly, “this is the part
where you’re supposed to kiss me again.”
He tilts my chin up and does exactly that.
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