Sighing into his soft kiss and his strong embrace, I wrapped my arms around him and lost myself in him. My ex’s voice still tried to pour cold water over us, but it evaporated in the heat of Tanner’s body against mine. I pushed that voice out of my mind and let a new one speak up. The one that belonged to the man who could’ve had anyone he wanted, and who somehow wanted me.

  It was a good minute or two before we came up for air, and I was startled all over again to meet those dark eyes. On some level, I was still a little starstruck. On every level, I was overwhelmed, disbelieving I was this close to someone who was so beautiful, and I didn’t just mean physically.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “For being so damn insecure.”

  Tanner shrugged. “You had someone drip poison in your ear for… how long?”

  I swallowed. “Five years.”

  “That’s a long time. I think that would stick with anyone, you know?”

  I nodded mutely.

  “He’s not here, though,” Tanner said softly. “I am. And I think you want me as much as I want you.”

  “I definitely want you.”

  “Right. So let’s give this a chance.” He stroked my cheek as a subtle smile curled his lips. “For all either of us know, I’ll annoy the hell out of you, and you’ll break up with me.”

  I managed a quiet laugh as I reeled him in closer. “Somehow I don’t foresee that happening.”

  “You never know.” The smile turned to the cutest attempt at a wicked grin. “I do have a few exes of my own, you know.”

  “Their loss,” I murmured, and claimed his lips. They were still curved into a grin but quickly softened into a kiss.

  When I broke that kiss, I was out of breath, and I marveled at the fact that he was too.

  “So…” He licked his lips. “Give this a chance? See what happens?”

  I nodded and drew him back in, because there was no way in hell I was passing up a chance to see where this could go.

  Even if we inevitably ended in disaster…

  Even if someone else inevitably came along and turned his head…

  I couldn’t resist enjoying the ride while it lasted.

  Chapter 18

  Tanner

  There was no keeping us apart after that.

  I mean, there was. Hockey season was a harsh mistress, and apparently so was the school year. Some nights, I was too exhausted or sore for anything. Others, he was buried under an avalanche of papers and tests that needed grading.

  But as much as humanly possible—as much as our schedules cooperated—we were together. Any time bodies were on the same page, we were in bed, screwing like we needed to make up for four years’ worth of lost time. It didn’t feel like lost time to me, but I wasn’t going to argue with having as much sex with Isaiah as both of us could handle.

  In between, we watched movies and hockey games, and it turned out Isaiah was an amazing cook. He lived with three roommates, so we kept things to my condo, and it didn’t take him long to make himself right at home in my kitchen. I fucking loved it. He was way better at cooking than I was, and one of my favorite things in the world was chilling half-dressed on my couch, my body aching deliciously from amazing sex, while we indulged in whatever Isaiah had whipped up for us that night.

  It just didn’t get any better than this.

  Tonight, unfortunately, was one of those times when the mind was horny but the body was weak. I’d taken a hard hit during last night’s game, and my back and hip were still making me pay for it. Even slow, gentle sex was off the table tonight. I offered to blow Isaiah or something, but he insisted that it wouldn’t kill us to spend one evening with our clothes on.

  Eh, he was probably right.

  And it turned out that while my back was beyond bitchy tonight, it could be appeased by lying across my couch with my head in Isaiah’s lap. There was a hockey game later—Boston was playing in Seattle—which we’d watch when it came on. In the meantime, we’d eaten dinner, and now we were happily shitposting together.

  As I was typing out a response to some self-righteous douchecanoe, Isaiah snickered.

  I craned my neck to look up at him. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He pressed his lips together, but I didn’t buy it.

  “Uh-huh. Sure it’s nothing.” I quickly pulled up his profile and tapped on his recent posts. He’d been arguing with an incredibly reasonable and rational individual who legitimately thought the solution to everything was restoring voting to what the Founding Fathers had originally set up: restricting it to white landowning males.

  This champion of suffrage told Isaiah, Women are emotional while men are logical. Women making political decisions is how we got in this mess.

  Isaiah had responded with four screencaps of the guy absolutely losing his mind and cussing people out over various things, and he’d captioned it, Men aren’t emotional? This you?

  The response to that, Whatever. Your just virtue signaling.

  Virtue signaling? Isaiah wrote back. So you admit that my stance is the virtuous one, but your only means of critique is to claim I’m just pretending to be virtuous in order to look good. Yet you won’t even rise to the level of pretending to be a decent human being. While I applaud your honesty, your commitment to bigotry, stereotypes, and ad hominem arguments suggests perhaps you aren’t someone whose opinion I should value.

  Oh, fuck you. Your just a beta male who wants women running everything. Go fuck yourself.

  And there was the reply that had made Isaiah snicker: I’m sorry. I can’t continue this discussion while you’re this emotional.

  I snorted and held up my fist. He bumped his against it as we both chuckled.

  Then, “Aww.” He sounded melodramatically crestfallen. “He blocked me!”

  “You poor thing,” I said through my laughter. “How will you ever cope?”

  “I’ll take it out on a random troll.”

  “That’s the spirit.” I checked the time. We still had about forty-five minutes before the pregame show started. Sometimes we skipped those, because oh my God, some of the commentators were obnoxious. The ones out of Seattle were pretty decent, though. Knowledgeable about the game, actually funny instead of sounding like they were trying too hard, and very opinionated about officiating.

  I’d put them on later. For now, there were trolls to fuck with.

  It was still kind of surreal to be doing this in person with “Ian.” We were exactly who we’d been online all along, and it kind of blew my mind sometimes when he read a post out loud before he posted it, or when he commented on something verbally instead of via DM. He was the same guy, but he was… right here. In my condo. On my couch. Letting me rest my head in his lap.

  I wondered when that novelty would wear off.

  I’d actually admired him for a long time because he was so articulate and self-assured. Not ten feet tall and bulletproof like so many of the jackwagons we argued with, but confident in his assertions and throwing down proof whenever someone questioned him. He’d gracefully back down if someone proved him wrong, and he’d admit when he was wrong, but that honestly didn’t happen very much. He knew his shit, or he didn’t post it.

  Thinking back, it made sense now to realize he was a teacher. He was smarter than I was, that was for sure, and he knew how to explain subjects in such a way that he was clear without belittling people (well, unless they were asking for it). Plus he was passionate as hell about issues relating to education. Passionate in that way that had made me wonder now and then if he had kids himself who he didn’t mention. In fact, I’d guessed a few times he might be a teacher; I just hadn’t asked because we were both trying to respect each other’s anonymity.

  When I considered the sum total of everything I’d known about him and really looked at the subjects that could get him heated, it made perfect sense that he was a teacher in real life.

  In fact…

  Something clicked in my head, and I tensed.

  Isaiah trailed his fingers up my arm. “What?”

  I sat up and turned to him, suppressing a wince when my back protested. “Remember when we were both ripping on that one politician who doesn’t give a shit about school shootings?”

  Isaiah’s expression went slack and he avoided my gaze. “Which time?”

  “Any of them.” I slid my hand over his and clasped it gently. “I always thought you were just passionate about the subject. I didn’t realize…” I swallowed. “I had no idea it was so close to home.”

  As put his phone aside, he shifted a little, and I thought he might’ve been masking a shudder. “It’s terrifying, honestly.”

  “I bet. No wonder you were so vehement about it.”

  He nodded slowly. “It’s, uh… It’s closer to home than I like to think about. And like, it’s so frustrating to argue with these people who think it starts and ends with their Second Amendment rights.” When he met my gaze, I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone so haunted. “They’re not the ones who have to sit through active shooter drills with these kids.”

  “Shit,” I whispered. “Those were terrifying for me as a kid. I can’t imagine what it’s like as a teacher.”

  “I got lucky and only had them in high school.” He wiped a hand over his face, and he sounded absolutely exhausted. “As a teacher, though, I’m responsible for these kids. But I’m in danger too, you know? I’ll do whatever I can to protect them, but it isn’t like I’m not scared shitless of something happening to me, too.”

  I slid closer to him, ignoring the pain in my back because that wasn’t nearly as important as comforting him. Running my hand up his arm, I said, “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. But…” I trailed off, not sure what to say.

  Isaiah wrapped his arm around me, pulling me against him. “We’ve got entire generations coming up with PTSD. It fucks with me, so I can only imagine what it’s doing to them.”

  “Not good things,” I said hollowly. “It’s been like ten years since I went to an American school, and I still have nightmares about it.” Leaning into him, I sighed. “I swear, half the reason I was so glad I got picked up by a major junior team in Canada was that it got me out of US schools.”

  Isaiah stroked my hair. “Really?”

  “Are you kidding? I wanted to play in Canada anyway, but finishing high school in a place where they didn’t do active shooter drills—where there was no goddamned need for them—sounded amazing. And it was.”

  “Says a lot, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “Kids shouldn’t have to think about that.”

  I squeezed his hand. “Neither should teachers.”

  Isaiah shuddered.

  “I’m sorry you have to deal with that,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Unfortunately, it’s the reality of teaching in this day and age.” He laughed bitterly. “Maybe I should follow your example and find a job in Canada.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Moving to a Canadian school made a huge difference for my mental health.”

  He let his head fall back against the couch and exhaled. “I can only imagine.” He stared up at the ceiling, features tight with some unspoken thought. After a moment, he quietly said, “It really fucks with my head. I work with a retired Marine, and I don’t know how the hell he handles it. We all kinda… don’t talk about it, but whenever I see him after one of the drills…” He trailed off again.

  “Wow. Really says something when being a teacher is hard on someone who’s been to war.”

  “Right?” He paused, then admitted, “I even have a hard time when I go to hockey games.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Isaiah swallowed. “The crowds. Outside before the game, because what’s to stop some random psycho from opening fire on a crowd of people waiting outside the doors?”

  It was my turn to shudder. “Ugh. Yeah. That’s why I hate crowds.”

  He held me a little closer. “And even on the way out of a game, when I know everyone there has been through metal detectors…” He sighed, shaking his head as he absently stroked my shoulder. “In the back of my mind…”

  “I get that. And I mean, I won’t name names, but I played with someone who refuses to do signings because the one time he went to one, he couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if some lunatic showed up.”

  “I’ve had that same thought,” Isaiah murmured. “I still go to signings, but I won’t pretend they don’t make me nervous.”

  I closed my eyes. “It’s all fucked up, isn’t it?”

  “Seriously fucked up.”

  We sat in silence for a long time. I tried not to dwell on my own memories of active shooter drills, especially how terrifying they’d been when I wasn’t old enough to truly understand what they were. Or why they were. Then how much worse they’d become when I was old enough to understand. Or how my Canadian classmates hadn’t understood when I’d jumped out of my skin after someone dropped a textbook on the floor.

  And Isaiah dealt with that every damn day. With the expectation that if it came down to it, he’d sacrifice himself to protect his kids. How the hell did someone live like that? Sometimes I almost buckled under the pressure that came with playing hockey. Nobody was going to be traumatized or fucking die if I missed a shot or took an ill-timed penalty.

  I’d thought more than once when we’d only known each other online that Ian sounded a whole lot stronger than I could ever be. Apparently I hadn’t known the half of it.

  “Have you ever, um…” I sat up a little and searched his eyes. “Has there ever been a threat at your school?”

  “Not an active shooter, no. An eighth grader was expelled a few years ago for bringing a gun to school, but that was before my time.”

  “Jesus. Good thing someone found it before someone got hurt.”

  “She actually showed it to someone. I guess she brought it to show off. Wanted to be tough, or…” Isaiah shook his head. “I don’t know. Like I said, it was before my time, so I don’t know all the details, but I do remember she was required to get some psychological help after that.” He exhaled, his gaze distant. “I hope it helped.”

  “Do you think it did?”

  “No idea. But if a kid is doing shit like that, something’s not working, you know? Either there’s a family problem, or a psychological one, or…” He waved a hand before letting it drop heavily to his thigh. “It’s not something well-adjusted kids do. So I just hope she has access to whatever resources she needs.”

  That was a tough thing for me to comprehend. I vividly remembered hoping that if someone tried to shoot up my school, they were taken down quickly and permanently. Isaiah was in a position of having to potentially put himself in the line of fire to protect his students, and he still found compassion and concern for a kid who had, with or without violent intentions, brought a firearm to school.

  And it occurred to me that that was exactly the kind of person I’d imagined Ian to be. He’d always been so passionate about things, especially about protecting people who were vulnerable, and he’d had no patience for dismissive attitudes about things like mental illness. I’d wondered a few times if he was a psychologist, or maybe even a physician. A social worker? Confirming my occasional suspicion that he was a teacher hadn’t been a surprise at all. It just made perfect sense.

  More and more, everything about him made sense. The man sitting beside me was, in every way, the same man I’d talked to for the past four years. He hadn’t made himself out to be someone or something he wasn’t. He hadn’t been “virtue signaling” as some people on social media liked to accuse both of us (such a classic and pathetic way to try to shut someone down when they made you look like an ass). He was just… him. Ian was real, and he was sitting right here beside me, in the flesh, as Isaiah.

  And apparently I’d been staring at him for a long moment, because he met my gaze and furrowed his brow. “What?”

  “Oh. Uh.” I shook myself, heat rushing into my face. “Sorry. Just…” Hell. Why not tell him the truth? Heart pounding for some reason, I took his hand again. “It’s just wild, listening to you in person talking exactly like you did online.”

  The furrows deepened.

  I looked down at our hands. “I guess sometimes it still catches me by surprise. Some people are genuine online, but there’s always something different in real life, you now?” Meeting his gaze through my lashes, I whispered, “But you’ve been you from day one.”

  He ran his thumb alongside mine. “Is that a good thing?”

  I couldn’t help the laugh, and I reached up to touch his face. “It’s a very good thing.”

  He was smiling too when our lips met, and we sank into a long, lazy kiss. Not one that would lead to anything—not even if my body would’ve cooperated tonight—just a gentle one that felt a million times better than our conversation had.

  When I broke the kiss, I stroked his cheek with my thumb. “We’ve still got some time before the pregame comes on. Want to put the phones aside and hang out with me while I make something to munch on during the game?”

  The way his face lit up was adorable, and it was also a relief after that tough conversation. “Ooh, you’re going to cook?”

  Chuckling, I rolled my eyes. “Don’t get your hopes up too high.” I squeezed his leg, then gingerly pushed to my feet. “I was just going to throw some fries in the air fryer.”

  Isaiah’s knee popped as he got up, too. “That’s what I eat at games half the time, so… perfect.”

  Fortunately, that was all it took to reclaim the evening’s chill vibe. We left our phones in the living room, and Isaiah showed me how to make an amazing homemade thousand island for dipping sauce.

  “I don’t eat enough of it to justify buying it bottled,” he explained. “It just ends up going bad. But I always have mayo, ketchup, and relish around, so…”