Over.
Fuck.
His self-esteem took another hard hit, just as Tate was pulling it to its feet.
He opened his eyes and looked at the angled ceiling of his bedroom. “What the fuck am I missing?”
What didn’t he have that other guys did? What made Faith stick to Grant? Eden stick to Beckett? Mia stick to Rafe? Tate was a good guy. After Lisa, he thought he might have been lame in bed. But last night cleared that up.
He sighed, edging toward resignation, something he’d gotten too good at over the last year. Maybe Olivia was right. Maybe a clean break early was for the best. Not that Tate would know anything about clean breaks. Lisa kept popping up in his life when he least expected it. But he had to admit, the thought of seeing her now didn’t bother him so much. Knowing he wasn’t broken. Knowing he could still attract real, sweet, fun, gorgeous women like Olivia helped heal that particular festering wound even if it was now replaced with a new one.
Tate sat up and swung his legs off the bed, groaning at the protest of all his under-used muscles that had gotten a workout last night. He shuffled to the bathroom to shower. He couldn’t be late to hockey camp if he harped on the kids for coming in late. It was time to get over the first one night stand of his life and focus on the real thing.
But that didn’t keep his mind from wondering to all the things he’d do with Olivia if he had another night with her. Or how amazing it felt to have a woman in his bed again. He let his mind stray toward doing it again, with someone else. Maybe one of the puck bunnies so prevalent at the bars they hit after games or at the hotels where they stayed on the road. Just letting one of them follow him up to his room the way so many of the other guys did. The idea made Tate want to squirm.
Tate loved sex. In fact, he could become borderline obsessed with it if he had all the time in the world to indulge with someone like Olivia. But that was the thing—he loved sex with a woman he connected with. Which, he just realized, why sex with Lisa had been so unfulfilling in those months before he’d discovered she’d been cheating. Because they hadn’t been connected.
He forced his mind back where it belonged, dressed and grabbed his gear. But on the drive to the rink, Tate found himself wondering how long it took to fly to Paris. How much it cost. And how often he’d be willing to make it for a night like last night.
Pulling into the parking lot, he laughed at himself. “Fuckin’ long way to go and a lot of money to spent just to get laid, you idiot.”
Only…it had been the best night of his life.
“Life is short, you know?”
Tate pulled his duffle over his shoulder with Olivia’s words ringing in his head. He certainly wasn’t getting any younger. The money for travel wasn’t an issue. He could fly first class back and forth to France every week for years and never run out. But time was a problem. During the season there was rarely two days in a row when he could get away to make that trip, and the season took up between eight and nine months of his year.
And what in the hell was he doing, thinking about flights to France after one freaking night with the woman? The woman who didn’t want more than one night? This was exactly why he’d never been cut out for one-night stands. Because if he was into a woman enough to sleep with her, he didn’t want to stop at one night.
“Hel-lo.”
Tate startled at his friend’s voice, singing the word. He stopped in his tracks and swiveled toward Beckett who came up on his right. “Shit, man. You scared me.”
“Your head was in the clouds.” Beckett was looking at Tate like he’d grown a second head. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’.” He reached for the door to the practice arena and held it as Beckett entered, then followed. “Man, what a turnout last night. You’d almost think people liked you or something.”
Beckett grinned. “I think they secretly love my daughter and soon-to-be wife most.”
They said hello to the guys behind the desk and passed into the locker room designated for the Rough Riders.
That whole whirlwind romance between Beckett and Eden still made Tate uncomfortable. But he’d warned his friend plenty of times. Tate even pointed out how he himself hadn’t listened to the warnings from friends and family before he’d married Lisa. But Beckett was adamant about tying himself to Eden after only dating her six months.
And Tate had to mentally smack himself for judging Beckett when not five minutes ago Tate had been considering flying to fuckin’ Paris to get laid.
“What in the hell’s gotten into you?” Beckett asked over his shoulder as he continued to his locker. Both men dumped their duffels, grabbed their helmets, skates and sticks and headed toward the ice.
“What do you mean?” Tate followed Beckett into the rink, settled by the familiar, refreshing
whoosh of cold air on his face.
A handful of kids were already on the ice, supervised by a camp coordinator. Tate and Beckett dropped to the
bench, toed off their shoes, pushed into their skates and started lacing.
“I mean that look,” Beckett said, glancing sideways at Tate. “That grin. The extra bounce in your step. From the moment you got out of your car, you’ve had some fuckin’ swagger going.”
“I don’t fuckin’ swagger.”