by Penny Reid
We’re only halfway through the game, and he’s already lost his socks, watch, and pants. The next logical item is his shirt.
Of course, Alex decides he’s going to lose his boxers instead. He stands, with his eyes on me, and shimmies them down his thighs. They slide to the floor, and he kicks them off to the side with the rest of his discarded clothing.
I prop my chin on my fist and sigh. “Strip Scrabble is my favorite.”
“I thought my cock was your favorite.”
“That, too.”
Alex has a semi. It’s probably because I’m in my bra. I took off the shirt first as a distraction, so he’s getting me back. Every time I look at the board, I get an eyeful of Alex’s growing MC.
I have an awesome word thanks to the blank tile I’ve scored, but Alex’s crappy vag has done nothing to help open the board. “I’m thinking about going apartment hunting next week,” I say as I search for a creative place to put my letters. I’m trying super hard not to focus on his hard-on. It’s a challenge since he keeps absently stroking his monster cock.
“Oh? Why would you need to do that?”
“So you can come to my place, and we won’t have to worry about my mom crashing our party.” Alex has only spent the night at my place once. She barged in while we were making out—mostly naked—on the couch. Since then, I’ve been coming to Alex’s and looking at apartments close to my work.
“What’s wrong with you coming here?”
“Nothing. I just thought it would be nice if it was equitable.” I scour the board one last time. There’s no good place to put my word, and without a double-letter score of some kind, I’ll only manage eight points.
“You should move in here.” He says it nonchalantly, but his eyes are on his tiles and his hand is still wrapped around his mostly hard cock.
My heart does this fluttery thing. I’m not sure whether he’s kidding.
“We’ve been dating for what, like two months? Yeah, I think moving in with you is totally reasonable.” If we’d been dating a few months longer, I’d jump at the opportunity. Things have been so crazy lately. His evasiveness in interviews isn’t canceled out by how much time we spend together, or introducing me to his friends and family.
“It’s close to three months. You don’t want to move in with me?” He’s peeking up at me from under his pretty, long man-lashes, looking hurt.
“It’s not that.” I pick up my tiles and lean across the board. I don’t know how to deal with this, mostly because as irrational as it is, I totally want to move into Alex’s crib and play house with him.
Instead of giving him more of an explanation, I place the letter D on his snuffie, followed by an I, the blank tile, and a K. I smile triumphantly.
“Nice word. Except it doesn’t count if you can’t lay it on the board. Lose the bra.” He gestures to my chest.
I don’t follow Alex’s instructions. Instead, I drop my pants and toss them on the floor. Alex looks unimpressed. I’m wearing frilly underwear, so he shouldn’t be too upset. He stands up—totally hard now—and knocks over the board with his dick, spilling our carefully crafted smutty words all over the floor.
“Hey! I was winning.”
“Hardly.” Alex pushes my chair back and drops to his knees in front of me.
“I was up by fifty points.”
“Why don’t you want to move in with me?” He hooks his fingers behind my knees and parts my legs so he can fit between them.
“What does that have to do with you sabotaging the Strip Scrabble game?”
“Stop avoiding the question. Do you think you’ll get sick of me?” His hands roam up the outside of my legs.
“No. Of course not.”
“Then what?”
“It’s a little premature, don’t you think?” I like the idea, but it’s too soon. We haven’t even dropped the L-bomb, although I’m starting to suspect these fluttery feelings mean that’s exactly where I’m at now.
“Who cares? I’m gone half the time with away games and practice. It’s a big house. There’s lots of space.” He flicks the clasp on my bra. “By the time the season’s over, we’ll have been dating for the better part of four months—maybe even five, depending on how far we make it in the playoffs.”
“I think six months should be the cut-off for moving in.”
“Is that an arbitrary number you’re throwing around?” He traces the delicate lace ruffle on my panties with a fingertip.
I close my eyes, absorbing the sensation for a moment before I work on forming a response. “I read an article about it.” I won’t tell him it was from some silly girl magazine.
“What’s the significance of six months?” He places a wet kiss below my navel.
“By that time all the fairy dust has settled. You’ll know all my weird quirks, and maybe then you’ll decide you can’t live with the way I brush my teeth, or how my hair clogs up your shower drain, or my obsession with Swedish Fish.”
“I like all your weird quirks.” He pulls his shirt over his head.
“I like your naked body,” I say, running my hands over his chest.
“Then you should move in with it.”
“Ask me again after playoffs.”
“I don’t think I can wait until then.”
“They’re only weeks away.” I pull his mouth to mine. All my paranoia seems to have been for nothing. Alex wouldn’t ask me to move in with him if our relationship wasn’t important.
We don’t even attempt to make it to his bedroom. We have sex on the floor. It’s intense and charged, and I want it to stay like this between us. I want to want him with this kind of insatiable need forever. But passion fades eventually, and the warm, soft balm of love is what keeps the fire burning.
Chicago keeps winning games, which should be a positive. Instead of being excited, Alex gets moodier the closer they get to securing a place in the playoffs. Whenever Dick calls—which is frequently—he gets tense and leaves the room. I hate Dick. Alex is always pissy after they talk. He’s also always horny which is the only upside. After the calls, I find myself promptly carried up the stairs and loved into oblivion.
While the orgasms are stellar as usual, I feel like I’m missing something important.
I notice the pattern and call him on it. “What’s going on with Dick?”
He tenses, staring up at the ceiling. “We’re not seeing eye-to-eye on how to handle some of my endorsements.”
“Which endorsements?”
“The ones for Bachelor of the Year.”
He mentioned this in passing a few weeks ago and hasn’t brought it up since. “What’s the issue?” Silence stretches out so long I prop up on an elbow. “Alex?”
He shifts his gaze from the ceiling to me. “Dick thinks it’s better for me to appear available until it’s over.”
“Available?”
“Unattached.” He swallows.
My stomach bottoms out. “There are pictures of us together everywhere.”
“I know. So does he. It’s stupid.” Alex sighs. “It could help me secure that big endorsement campaign, Violet. I have to start thinking about my career outside of being on the ice.”
I know this. Hockey careers are short. It’s the reason I have my job and also the reason I have to do it well. It doesn’t mean I have to like what he’s telling me, though. “Is this why we’ve been staying in the past few weeks?”
“I’m trying to fly under the radar. I don’t want you caught up in all my crap.”
It’s another evasive answer. I try a different angle. “Does Dick know you’ve asked me to move in with you?”
“No.”
“Don’t you think you should tell him if you’re serious about being with me?”
Alex skims my cheek with his knuckles. “You’re right. I should. I will. I’ll talk to him this week.”
“Promise?”
“Promise, baby.” He holds out his arms. “Come snuggle with me.”
I settle with my ch
eek on his chest. His arms wind tight around me, his heart beating hard beneath the cage of flesh and bone. Our conversation should make me feel better. Instead I worry about what else he might be keeping from me.
Instead of things settling down when Chicago makes the first round of playoff games, Alex is more stressed. Needier. I stay at his place almost every night leading up to the first playoff game.
“I’m going home tonight,” I say while Alex inhales a heaping plate of pasta.
He finishes chewing before he replies. “Why?”
“You need to get a good night’s sleep tonight. I won’t be responsible for messing up your first playoff game because I kept you up with these.” I motion to my rack.
“I sleep best when my head is resting on your delicate pillows of love.”
I roll my eyes. “You can snuggle with them after dinner, but me and the girls are going home at nine.”
“That’s less than two hours from now.” Alex shoves his plate aside, picks me up out of my chair, and slings me over his shoulder. “Dinner’s over.” He takes the stairs at a run.
Two and a half hours later, I’m fully dressed and standing at the front door. I’ve been trying to leave for the past twenty minutes. Alex is having some difficulty letting me go.
I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss the dimple on his left cheek. “I’ll stay tomorrow night.”
“Since we’re into playoffs, I was thinking maybe you’d reconsider moving in.”
I smile. “I thought we were going to talk about it after playoffs were over.”
“No. You said you’d talk about it after playoffs are over, not me. You’ve stayed here the past six nights. You might as well keep staying and make it permanent.”
I can’t understand why he’s pushing now. “So we have Dick’s seal of approval?”
“I don’t need Dick’s seal of anything. Are you considering it?”
“You’re impossible.”
“I prefer the term tenacious.”
“I’ll call you before the game tomorrow.” I wait for him to kiss me for the seventy-fifth time. It takes another ten minutes to get out the door, but I don’t mind.
The following evening, Charlene comes to my place and we all pile into Sidney’s Hummer, excited to be front and center for game one of the playoffs. The stadium is buzzing with exhilaration.
I’m currently staring at the back of Alex’s head while Charlene moans about Darren’s hotness. Charlene and Darren have been out a bunch of times since returning from Toronto. It’s been all over the gossip rags, which is a nice distraction from the less positive attention Alex and I have been receiving. The hockey fanatics are shocked. Darren has never been captured with anyone except his fans. He and Charlene spending time together makes for good publicity. He’s getting a lot more press on and off the ice. Charlene pretends she isn’t fazed at all by the attention; however, it did take her two hours and twelve wardrobe changes to get ready for the game.
“Just look at him.” Charlene sighs as Darren skates across the ice.
“He’s awesome.” It’s what she wants to hear. It’s also true.
“He really is, Violet. He’s got to be the most romantic man I’ve ever met.”
She yammers on and on, but I can’t be mad at her. I’ve definitely done the same thing to her regarding Alex over the past couple of months.
Alex is on his game tonight, as is the rest of the team. No one’s messing around or getting chippy with the opposition. The focus is singular: Get the puck in the net and win the first game of the playoffs. This is a big game; it sets the tone for the series.
These boys are determined and apparently off to an awesome start—the score is two-one in favor of Chicago at the end of the first period. Buck is high on adrenaline, seeing as this is the first time he’s ever made it to the playoffs. He keeps the puck away from the net, preventing goals. That creepy Kirk guy even manages an assist, proving you can be dodgy and an amazing hockey player at the same time. Chicago holds their lead all the way through and run away with the game. The final score is four-one, putting them in a great position moving forward in the series.
The high is contagious, my own excitement spiraling as I absorb the state of the fans around me. Interviews are being televised on the big screens after the win, and the entertainment bulldogs are all over the team. The roar of the crowd makes it difficult to hear. Reporters fire questions at Alex.
“Two game suspension earlier in the season . . .”
“Reflects on you as the captain . . .”
“Sexiest bachelor . . .”
It’s disjointed, but the last bit catches my attention. I push forward through the crowd, hoping to hear better.
“It’s an honor to be nominated,” Alex says, running his hand through his sweaty hair.
He seems uncomfortable. A sea of people surround him, and I’m short, so he can’t see me.
Another fragmented question filters through the crowd. Dammit, I wish I could hear what they’re asking.
“. . . rumors about your relationship . . .”
Alex blinks nervously. “I thought we were going to talk about the game, not my personal life.”
Another reporter pipes up. “So the rumors are true?”
The mic crackles with static, but his next statement is foghorn clear. “No comment.” He scans the crowd, and his guilty expression makes my stomach turn.
Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion. I want to kick the shit out of someone. I want to cry. This is the same as a complete denial, which makes me look like a total hockey hooker. I’m pissed.
It’s obvious he lied about talking to Dick, and just last night he asked me to move in with him. Again. None of this makes sense.
His answer feeds the vultures. “. . . The woman you’ve been seen with . . .”
The words just friends drop like a sewage-filled balloon.
Everything else is drowned out by the media’s questions. I’ve heard enough, anyway. If I have to listen to him a second longer, I’ll projectile vomit all over his fucking fans.
I push through the crowd, desperate to escape. I don’t look back. I’m sure I can catch my own humiliation on YouTube later.
I’ve learned an invaluable lesson today: Never trust a hockey player.
Chapter 23
BUTTERSON HAS A MEAN RIGHT HOOK
Alex
I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I hate that I’ve done this for the sake of an endorsement. None of this is worth it if it means I have to hurt someone I care about. And that’s exactly what I’ve done. My remorse is a kick in the nuts.
From my right, Butterson yells, “You asshole!”
I turn in time to see his fist barreling at my face. It connects with my nose; the crunch and pop of cartilage come from inside my head. I deserve it, but it damn well hurts.
“Sonofa—” The warm flow of blood hits my lips and travels down my chin.
I’m so pissed. I’ve been an asshole to Violet, Sunny is talking to Butterson every day, according to my mother, and now he punched me in the face. Thanks to the stupid advice of my dickface agent, I’ve put my pride before Violet. All the fucking evasiveness is pointless now that I’ve screwed my relationship with her. I want to take it out on someone. Butterson is the perfect target since he broke my nose.
He grabs my jersey, intent on punching me again. “I’m going to kick the shit out of you!”
“Bring it on, sisterfucker!” I yell back.
Kirk grabs Butterson while Darren puts me in a choke hold and drags me away. Under a veil of red, I’m aware I’ve lost control.
“Keep your mouth shut, Waters. They’re going to string you up by the fucking laces if you don’t get yourself together.”
Swinging me around, he pushes me into the locker room, away from the media circus.
Despite my fury, I have the wherewithal not to lash out again. The last thing I want—in addition to having destroyed the one relationship
worth pursuing—is to add games to what could become a suspension. One more and I’ll be benched for the playoffs and let down my entire team.
“Son of a bitch!” I clomp around the room. Skates suck for pacing.
Darren tosses his gloves on the bench. “Do you even realize what you did out there ? What would possess you to say something like that to the damn media?”
Butterson storms into the locker room flanked by our teammates. “I’m gonna rip your head off and shit down your throat!”
“I’d like to see you try.” I pull my jersey over my head and rip off my padding, happy to unleash some of the pent up anger currently ruling my body.
“Don’t be an idiot, Waters.” Darren shoves me back.
I’m not thinking clearly. In what can only be considered a reflexive action, I throw a punch at Darren. It only takes a second for him to lay me out, his knee at my throat. I don’t move because attached to his knee is a leg and a foot with a sharp skate at the end.
“What the fuck is wrong with you guys?” Coach yells, getting in the middle. “I’ve never seen a more embarrassing display in all my fucking years in hockey.”
Darren jams his knee into my throat, cutting off my air supply. Then he releases the pressure and stands. I roll to the side, gasping for breath. It takes a minute to regain composure and pull myself up. No one offers to help.
“Butterson, what’s gotten into you? The media is on fire with this shit. You mind telling me why the hell you punched out your own goddamned captain?”
Coach’s face is redder than I’ve ever seen it before. He doesn’t give Buck a chance to answer—it’s tirade time. Coach can go on for hours when he gets into one of his moods. Some of the guys sit down and throw glares my way. This is going to be one of the long ones.
“You’re supposed to be a team. We should be celebrating this win, not hashing out our personal shit in front of the fucking world.” He gives Butterson and me the stink eye. “No one is going to remember we won the first game of the playoffs or how well it was played. All they’re going to talk about is how the newest team member went after the team captain. It might only be a headline for a day or two, but you know who it’s going to stick with? Boston. They’re going to know we have a weak link, and they’ll take advantage of it.”
