Stick Your Landing (All In #3)

14. Zach

14

Zach

The sound of moans pulls me from a restless sleep.

Sunshine blinds me when I open my eyes to search for the source of the noise. I worry it’s coming from my laptop, but my closed computer sits on the chair. It’s not coming from this room which means…

My head snaps to the wall I share with Finley. These are moans in real life, coming from her .

The realization makes my cock harden painfully, turning morning wood I’d ignore into a situation I can’t help but acknowledge. Especially as the sound ratchets higher.

For all of a split second, I wonder if this is an invitation. She’s been around less the last few days, since our moment in the kitchen. I had been seconds from kissing her when Gemma and her friends walked in and Finley pulled away.

“That feels so, so good,” she moans.

My stomach cramps. Finley isn’t alone . She’s with some other fucking person while I lay here getting hard, listening to her soft, melodic moans. Fuck .

I hop out of bed, needing to put space between me and the dagger to my heart next door. She doesn’t owe me anything, but she could’ve gone to their place and not rub it in my face. Or maybe that’s the point—she knows how much I like her and wants to officially close the door.

I sigh deeply, scrubbing a hand over my face.

In the kitchen, I focus on making coffee and cooking scrambled eggs the way Finley taught me last week.

She strolls into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, slipping a sweatshirt over her tank top. “Smells delicious. My cooking lessons are paying off.”

“Uh-huh,” I mutter, flipping the eggs with a spatula.

“Need any help?”

“I’m good.” I could suffocate on the thick tension in the room, but Finley doesn’t notice. She scrolls through her phone, lying flat on the countertop. How can she be so casual ? I clear my throat. “I don’t know if I made enough for your guest.”

Finley looks up at me, brow wrinkled in confusion. “My guest?”

“Um, yeah.” I stare at my feet, shuffling in place. “I heard you… just now.”

A flush creeps across her cheeks. “ Just now or…?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

“Oh.” She sighs as her gaze darts away from me. “I thought you were at the arena this morning.”

I shrug. “Didn’t feel well. Told them I’d come in this afternoon.”

“Right.” She clears her throat. “Sorry. I’ll be quieter next time.”

Next time? Is she fucking kidding me? I’d sleep on a bed of needles to avoid listening to her have sex with someone who isn’t me.

“So are they”—my gaze flicks to the ceiling—”going to want breakfast?”

“No, they don’t eat food.” She arches an eyebrow, like she’s letting me in on a secret I should find amusing. But I don’t understand her hint, unless…

“Wait—are you telling me vampires are real? Because I’ve always thought—”

“Oh my God, no,” Finley shouts through laughter. She wipes away the tears gathering in her eyes. “Zach, I’m trying to tell you there’s no one else here. Only my vibrator . I’d never bring another guy here.”

“Oh” is my brilliant response.

She drums her fingers on the granite. “Best investment I ever made.”

“I could tell.” I wince, realizing I should’ve kept that to myself.

“I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.”

“I wasn’t… I’m not…” I scramble to respond.

At least not for the reason she thinks. I’ll never be able to forget the sound of Finley’s moans. I worry my mind will drift there at inopportune moments, when I definitely shouldn’t think of her coming undone on the other side of the wall. I wish this conversation would end because it’s physically affecting me.

Finley scrutinizes me, nose wrinkled, unsure what to make of my answer. “You’re not?”

“Nope,” I say, popping the P. “It’s good it wasn’t my concussion or—”

“You thought hearing a moaning woman could be a symptom of your concussion?” Finley’s lips quirk into a smile. “Now that would be a medical marvel. Imagine telling that symptom to your doctor.”

I’d prefer it over my original fear of Finley hooking up with someone else. But I keep it to myself. She evaded the conversation about my feelings for her before, so there’s no point revisiting it and getting hurt all over again.

“We need a sign,” Finley says. “You know, in case either of us needs alone time.”

My eyes shoot to the ceiling, a long, deep breath escaping my lips to float above my head. I’m going to make an ass of myself in front of the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.

“Like a secret knock,” she adds.

“You don’t need to be quiet on my account.”

Finley leans her elbows on the counter, her face falling into her open palms. “No?”

“It’s your house.” I shrug helplessly, unsure how to dig myself out of this hole. She’s smiling at me like she’s amused, so I do the only thing I can—pivot both literally and conversationally. “You good with eggs and hash browns?”

“Mm-hmm.” She hums her agreement as I turn back to the stovetop and prepare her breakfast plate.

FINLEY

I eagerly take Zach up on his suggestion to watch TV as we eat breakfast, anything to escape the uncomfortable silence.

Zach thought I brought a guy here —to my brother’s house, to the room next to his. He consumes so much of my brain space, how can he not tell? We’ve flirted consistently, and if Gemma and her friends hadn’t walked in on us, I think he would’ve kissed me. Since then, he’s been distant. And now he thinks he means so little, I’d flaunt some other guy in his face?

“What do you want to watch?” he asks casually, as if we hadn’t talked about my self-care only ten minutes ago.

He clicks a button on the remote, and the TV comes to life with a show featuring hockey highlights, as if I should expect anything different at my brother’s house. I settle on the couch as close to Zach as I can manage without being in his space. My feet curl under my legs, my plate balancing on my lap.

My heart still pounds with equal parts embarrassment and exhilaration. Zach heard me get off this morning after waking up from a dream about us and thrusting my hips into the pillow I hug while I sleep. Waking up that turned-on, desperate to sate desire, isn’t an everyday occurrence for me… or at least it didn’t used to be.

The timing was perfect because I was home alone—Matt on a road trip, Gemma at the bakery, Zach at the arena. Or he should have been at the arena.

“Whatever you want.” I shrug, still unsure how to act. Apologizing and making jokes hasn’t done anything to dispel the tension. There’s one thing that would, but because of the way I pursued him the first time we met, I refuse to rush him now. He has to choose this and be ready to accept the consequences.

“I’d like to watch you.”

I choke on my OJ. By the time I speak, my voice has fully recovered. “What do you want to watch me do?”

Zach doesn’t look away, and the prolonged eye contact creates a demanding pounding in my core. He chose those words on purpose. He knows what he’s doing. And dammit, I need him to make a move before I lose my mind.

“Gymnastics,” he clarifies, but there’s still a glint in his eye, like he’s fully aware of my thoughts.

I gesture around the room. “Here?”

“Nah.” He holds the remote to me, nodding toward the TV. “Show off for me, Finley.”

Every word out of Zach’s mouth dials up the heat flushing my body. I shift surreptitiously as I reach for the remote, trying to shake off the sensations overwhelming me.

Show off for me . I know exactly how to do that. I choose a video compilation of my silver-medal-winning routines at Worlds the year before I stopped doing gymnastics. Zach’s eyes are glued to the TV, watching me walk to the springboard beside the balance beam, preparing to mount it. I back dive onto the beam in candle position, feet straight in the air, body wrapping around the beam as if it were the bars. That skill took me forever to master, so of course it’s one of my favorites. It also makes me look badass.

The video flips to me preparing for bars.

“You use an excessive amount of chalk,” Zach comments.

“Trust me, there’s no such thing as too much chalk.”

I’m readying for my dismount, swinging around the high bar to build momentum to power the last skill.

“You look so—” Zach starts but I cut him off, not wanting to hear a critique from his lips.

“Thin?” I finish for him.

I can’t ignore the differences between that version of me and the one trying to return to the sport. My body changed a lot in the last two years—two cup sizes bigger, three inches taller, hips wider. All terrible for a gymnast. I don’t judge the weight of people around me, and I know my perception of myself isn’t healthy, but I can’t silence the inner voice.

It’s easier to toss feathers than a sack of potatoes , a coach used to tell me. It’s hard to forget that shit.

“No. I was going to say unhappy,” Zach replies, shifting until his body faces me.

“Oh.”

His gaze burns the side of my face.

“Finley, you look fucking good.” He makes a disgusted sound out of the side of his mouth. “Who put that crap in your head?”

My heart shifts into gear, accelerating from zero to fifty before I can stop it. I can’t hit the brakes, and memories flood my mind—the way I’d hold my breath while coaches moved the weights on the two bars of the scale, the audible sigh they’d let out every time, regardless of the number.

Disappointment became what I associated with my body. I didn’t believe their hyperfocus on my weight was wrong, only that my body would hold me back.

Gaining twenty-five pounds from bipolar medication made it especially difficult to look in the mirror. I didn’t have a gymnastics coach at the time, and internet trolls stopped paying attention to me after I “retired.” They weren’t there to tell me I looked terrible, but I didn’t need their voices any longer. I had my own.

“Finley,” Zach says, a careful edge in his tone.

I focus on Zach’s words instead of the ugly memories. Hearing him state his attraction so plainly warms the dead place inside of me. His voice drowns out the others.

“Old habits die hard,” I explain. “There’s been a lot of strides in the sport, but when I was younger, it was pretty damn toxic. And my coaches weren’t exactly wrong. It’s easier to do certain elements when you’re small and light. I’ve had to change my routines to accommodate changes in my body.”

Zach glances back at the TV where the next video in the queue is playing—me at the Olympic Trials not long before my elite gymnastics career ended. The makeup and glittery leotard fooled so many people, but all they needed to do was look closer. If they had, they’d recognize what I see— a girl barely holding it together, burdened by the heaviness of her limbs, exhausted after self-medicating and pushing herself to the absolute brink for the dream she’d always had.

Zach’s right. I look sad .

“Your routines are cooler now,” Zach says after watching me double-pike off the balance beam.

I snort, my hand flinging toward the TV. “My routines are nowhere near as difficult as these.”

“Says who?”

“The code of points.” When Zach stares blankly, I explain. “It’s like the rulebook. The judges use it to grade us.”

“Screw them.”

“You know, back then I might have if it would’ve helped.”

Zach’s brows shoot to his hairline.

“Joking. But I had this desperate desire to win at all costs. I think sometimes I hated the sport as much as I loved it. You ever feel like that?”

“Sometimes.” Zach leans back on the couch, shoving his hands behind his head. “I made hockey my entire life, gave up so much for it because I love playing. I enjoy it more than anything else, and sometimes, I resent it for the same reason. Because here I am on the sidelines, thinking about what I’ll do if this is a career-ender. I hate how much I need it, you know?”

I nod, his words speaking to a part of myself I don’t reveal to anyone. Most people haven’t wrapped their life around something, breathing it every waking moment, so they can’t relate.

“I know exactly what you mean.” I clear emotion from my throat, needing a break from this conversation. “Well, I showed you mine.”

Zach scoffs. “You’ve seen me on the ice.” The clip of him getting concussed .

“That doesn’t count,” I protest. “Please?” I flutter my eyelashes, adding a pretty please when I’m met with extended silence.

Zach blows out a breath. “Fine. But for the record, I’m not a total pushover who will give in every time you look at me all cute like that. Because I’m not. I’m agreeing to show you this video because watching some asshole take me out on the ice doesn’t accurately represent my skill.”

I laugh, charmed by his rambling answer. Zach manages to make me laugh, swoon when his smile lights his eyes, and painfully crave him between my legs. A combination I didn’t even think could exist.

“Whatever you say, Calder .”

“How do you know I won that?”

The Calder Memorial Trophy goes to the best rookie of the year, and the man down the couch from me won it two years ago. Handily. Zach ridiculously downplays his skill. He smiles in a way that has my stomach flipping.

“You look me up, High-flyer ?”

Heat kisses my cheeks while I run my hand along my jaw. “Oh, are we giving each other nicknames? I’ve got a few oth—”

Zach’s hand lands on my mouth, muffling my words. My body freezes as awareness sparks, my lips tingling from his touch. He doesn’t pull away, his hand lingering on my face. I run my tongue along the inside of my lips, fighting the temptation to lick his palm, to push him to break the tension between us.

I swallow hard, becoming more affected the longer our eye contact persists. Zach slowly pulls away from me, but his gaze drops to my lips. What would it be like to kiss him? I didn’t let myself experience it two years ago, but dammit, I want to know now.

He reaches tentatively for my face, his thumb tracing my cheek. I wet my lips, willing him to lean forward.

The alarm beeps and the front door swings open behind us.

Zach throws himself to the other end of the couch, snatching the remote as Kennedy’s lilting voice filters through the air. “Briggsy, where are you?”

“In—” Zach clears a croak from his voice and tries again. “In here.”

His eyes drift to the screen as he types his name into the search bar. Hundreds of videos pop up, both games and media interviews. Zach’s a favorite in the podcast circuit because he couldn’t find a canned answer if he tried. The idea of being anything other than his natural endearing self doesn’t cross his mind.

It’s what I like most about him.

“What are you two up to?” Kennedy’s gaze darts between us. It’s the first time I’ve seen her wear anything other than jeans or leggings and a top without Alexei Volkov’s name on it.

“I was showing Finley highlights.”

Kennedy drops onto the couch between us. There’s plenty of room because Zach fused himself to the opposite side from me. She gestures toward the screen. “Let’s see it, then we can hit the road.”

“You have somewhere to be?” I ask.

Zach looks at Kennedy.

“Where would you be without me? Lunch with my dad, remember?”

“Oh right.”

“Finley, you should join us,” Kennedy says.

I wave a hand. “I’ve got homework. And we just ate.”

Kennedy sighs and looks at Zach. “Really?”

“Come on, you know I’ll eat again.”

Zach chooses a five-minute video called Best Briggsy Moments ON ICE , which features him faking out a goalie to score, gliding along the boards arms in the air in celebration. It’s hard to look away from him on the ice with his talent and the infectious energy he brings to the game.

I understand why he questioned my love for gymnastics when his love for hockey looks like this.

“I’m so glad we drafted you, roomie,” Kennedy says with affection and pride.

“Way to show off, Calder. I hope to see you play in person one day.”

Zach sports an adorably self-conscious smile when he replies. “Oh, you will.”