Chapter 43 MY GIRL 🌶️🌶️

Chapter 43 MY GIRL 🌶️🌶️
SEAN

I shift my weight without even thinking—years of training make every movement precise—and roll us so she's eased back against the bed. I follow her down, never breaking the kiss. The way she fits beneath me makes the room spin a little, like the ice after a perfect goal.
Our mouths fall into a rhythm that keeps changing—one second hungry, the next soft and slow. It's a push and pull, a game without rules. My hands roam deliberately, memorizing her curves, the rise of her ribs as she breathes. Her hands slide over my shoulders, down my back, tracing along the lines carved by endless hours at the rink.
She hooks her leg around me and suddenly we're rolling, her above me now, eyes sparkling with challenge. The surprised laugh that escapes me is real. God, she's incredible. She's not just matching me—she's leading too.
What is left of our clothing comes off in slow, deliberate movements. Nothing rushed. Every piece between us pulled away like it means something. Because it does. With every layer, it's trust.
I pause to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. She's glowing, looking at me like I'm something worth memorizing. My voice comes out rougher than I expect. "You're incredible."
She laughs softly, that teasing edge that kills me. "You're just realizing that now?"
I grin and kiss her again, losing myself in her. My hands find their confidence, tracing her like a map I've studied a thousand times but still keep finding something new in. She arches into my touch and it undoes me.
I press my forehead to the small hollow of her hip, breath warm against skin that still remembers other battles. The scar is a pale ridge against the tan, a map of a moment that once hurt and now only tells a story. Her story. I trail my lips along it slow, like I'm reading a sentence I never want to finish, and the air between us changes—thick, quiet, sacred.
When my mouth rests there, it's not about desire so much as recognition; I taste salt and the faint scent of her, and for a second the scrape of rivalries and the bruise of the rink fall away. Her fingers find my wrist, soft but certain, and I feel something shift under my ribs: love that isn't loud but heavy and real, almost palpable, as if the scar has been a doorway all along and I'm finally learning how to walk through it with her.
I move upward with slow kisses until our lips fuse; when I'm inside her, she's warm, close, and wholly mine.
We find a rhythm that shifts and bends—playful one moment, desperate the next. I trail kisses down her neck just to hear her laugh catch, and she whispers something against my jaw that makes me smile into her skin. It's a mix of teasing, tangled fingers, heat, and laughter.
Somewhere between the breaths and the movement, it hits me: this isn't just physical. We're building something here—steady, intentional, piece by piece.
Normally, everything in my life is measured. On the ice, every shift has a purpose; every pass, every shot, every breath is part of a plan. But with her, nothing's planned—and somehow, it all makes sense anyway.
I pull back just enough to look at her properly. Her cheeks are flushed, hair a little wild, blue eyes soft and sure. She doesn't flinch under my gaze; she meets it, steady.
And something in my chest shifts. Locks into place.
"I'm all in, you know," I hear myself say, the words low, almost rough with honesty. "With you."
Her eyes widen for a heartbeat, then soften in a way that makes my pulse stutter. She reaches up, brushing her fingers along my jaw, and whispers, "I know."
The way she says it—quiet, certain—undoes me more than anything else. I lower my forehead to hers, breathing her in like I can anchor myself here.
This is it. Not the ice, not the roar of a crowd, not the goals or the wins. This. Her. Us.

〰️〰️〰️

Just when I thought I'd finally ask her to move in with me, I chickened out. It didn't exactly feel like the kind of question you bring up in the middle of... well, that. Definitely not while I was inside my girlfriend. And breakfast wasn't an option either—not with three crazy and loud roommates and their plus-ones turning the kitchen into a circus every morning.
The truth is, it's not about timing. Not really. It's about me.
I've led teams, captained through overtime battles, stared down some of the best players in the league without blinking. But the idea of asking her this—of opening that door, of making it real—hits different. It's not fear in the usual sense. It's... weight. Significance.
Because this isn't just asking her to move in. It's asking her to build something with me.
Part of me worries it's too much, too soon. She still has a year left at BU, her own world, her routines. And me? I'm splitting time between campus and the Bruins rookies base, trying to keep my head straight, trying to prove I belong out there. What if this adds pressure she doesn't need?
But then I think about the way she fits into every corner of my life without even trying. How natural it feels to have her here—on my couch, in my lap, in my arms. She's not just a part of my days; she is my days now.
And that's what makes my chest tighten in the best, scariest way.
I want this. I want her. I want the mess and the quiet and the mornings where it's just us, no noise, no half-packed bags waiting by the door. I want a space that's ours.
I've been holding onto this question, waiting for the "right" moment, but maybe there isn't one. Maybe the moment is just... when I stop running from the fact that I already know my answer.
Now, the blender's roaring, the kitchen smells faintly of kale and apples, and Zach's perched on the counter like he owns the place—because, technically, he does. I'm pouring the sludge-green juice into two glasses when he looks up at me with that irritatingly knowing grin.
"So," he says, drawing out the word, "did you ask her yet?"
I freeze mid-pour, juice sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "Ask her what?" I try, too casually.
Zach snorts. "Don't play dumb, Callahan. The move-in thing. You've been working yourself up about it for days now."
I set the jug down a little too hard, the thud echoing in the quiet. "No. Not yet."
Before he can reply, Rae strolls in like a walking hoodie pile—oversized sweatshirt, even bigger sweatpants, both of which I'd bet money belong to Zach. She doesn't even glance at us as she beelines for the cabinet, pulling out a mug with sleepy precision.
"What's Sean asking Ryan?" she says mid-yawn, like interrupting our conversations is her birthright.
Zach shakes his head in mock despair. "How do you always manage to walk in at the exact moment?"
She shrugs, pouring coffee. "It's a gift." Then she turns to me, fully awake now, eyebrows raised. "Well? Spill."
I grab my glass, stalling with a sip of green sludge that tastes exactly like regret. "It's... nothing."
"Bullshit," Rae says instantly, hopping up onto the counter beside Zach like she's joining the interrogation squad. "You've got that I'm overthinking everything but pretending I'm not face."
Zach gestures at her like see?. "Told you she'd sniff it out in five seconds."
I scrub a hand over my face. "Can you two not tag-team me before I've had breakfast?"
"Nope," Rae says, grinning now. "So, are you asking her to go to a gala? Propose? Move in?" My jaw tightens despite myself, and her eyes widen with gleeful triumph. "Oh my god, it's the move-in thing!"
Zach laughs, clinking his glass against mine. "Told you she'd find out."
I groan. "You two are the worst."
Rae leans forward, all faux-serious. "Or the best. Because clearly, you need the push."
Well shit, she's not wrong.
Rae's already perched on the counter like a gremlin ready to give unsolicited opinions, and Zach's grinning like this is better than his morning workout. "Okay," she says, pointing at me with her coffee mug. "Here's what you do. Don't make it this big, terrifying conversation. Just... bring it up casually. Like, 'Hey, what if we got a place together?' while you're doing something completely mundane. Laundry. Brushing your teeth. Naked. Whatever."
Zach chokes on his juice. "Naked?"
She shrugs. "It works. Catches people off guard."
I stare at her. "You realize this is Ryan we're talking about. She'd short-circuit if I blurted that out while brushing my teeth."
"Okay, fair," Rae concedes. "Then make it romantic. Not too much, though—she'd hate a grand gesture. But like, a quiet moment. A 'you and me against the world' vibe."
Zach rolls his eyes. "Yeah, or—and here's a revolutionary idea—just say what you mean like an adult."
Rae glares at him. "Oh, because you're a pro at adult conversations."
He holds up his hands. "Hey, I didn't say I was good at it. I'm just saying... Ryan's not the kind of girl who needs theatrics. She'd probably appreciate it more if you just told her straight. No fluff, no weird metaphors. Just you, being honest."
It's annoyingly solid advice, and Rae seems almost offended by it.
She sips her coffee. "Ugh. Boring. But... also not wrong."
I lean back against the counter, rubbing the back of my neck. "Great. One of you wants me to go full rom-com, and the other wants me to sound like I'm delivering a business proposal. Super helpful, thanks."
Zach grins. "Somewhere between those two, bud. That's your sweet spot."
Rae's smirk softens. "Honestly? She already looks at you like she knows. You just have to say it."
Her words stick with me more than I expect.
I clear my throat, eager to get the spotlight off me. "Alright, enough about my impending emotional crisis. What about you two?"
Zach freezes mid-sip. Rae's eyes narrow.
I grin, sensing blood in the water. "Yeah. You heard me. What's the plan? Rae, you're practically living here in Zach's clothes. What's next? Matching mailboxes? Couple's taxes?"
"Oh my god! Shut up," Rae mutters, cheeks flushing pink.
Zach leans back, crossing his arms. "He does have a point, though. You've basically annexed my closet."
Rae shoots him a look. "And whose fault is that?"
"Yours," he fires back immediately.
I laugh, watching them bicker, but there's something softer under it now—like neither of them are really denying anything.
I raise my glass in mock salute. "See? I'm not the only one with 'future plans' to figure out."
Zach groans. Rae throws a napkin at me from the counter.
For once, it's nice to not be the only one caught in the crosshairs.