Fire and Ice (Sticks & Hearts Book 2)

by Rhonda James

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DEREK

  Holy shit!

  I wasn’t even sure she would respond, given the fact it’s been two weeks since I kissed her sweet lips and whispered goodbye while she lay sleeping.

  We spent an amazing night in that room. Teasing one another. Learning each other’s bodies. What I like. What she likes. We kissed. We cuddled. We fucked no less than four times, and it was well after three before she finally fell asleep in my arms. While she slept peacefully, I kissed her hair and quietly poured out a piece of my heart. I know how every inch of her skin tastes, and believe me when I tell you, my tongue is dying to have another sample. Meeting Laney was one of the greatest moments of my life. And it was over far too quickly. When the airline called and woke me at seven that morning, I didn’t have the heart to wake her.

  To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to say goodbye if I had to face her.

  Don’t ask me why. I spent the last two weeks trying to figure it out, and all I came up with is that I really, really enjoyed being with her.

  I’m not even going to deny it. I like this girl. She’s unlike any girl I’ve ever known. Back in Atlanta, she was so hot and cold I nearly went bat shit crazy trying to read her signals. The funny thing is, if any other girl tried pulling that crap, I’d probably kick her ass to the curb.

  But not Laney.

  Laney is different.

  She gave me just enough that when she pulled away, the ache to have her back was instantaneous. And when she left me standing in the hall outside her hotel room with the most painful set of blue balls I’ve ever encountered, I went back to my room, where the ache only intensified. The taste of her was still on my lips. The faint smell of her lingered on my skin, and I wasn’t about to wash it off. I’d paced the circumference of my suite no less than twenty times before the clock struck midnight and I smiled because it was the next day and my desire for her ran just as deep as it had after taking my first taste of her cherry-red lips.

  I had dreams about those lips. Dreams of seeing them wrapped around the end of my cock. Sliding all the way down to the base of my shaft and retreating just as slowly. Kissing the tip and leaving the faintest trace of lipstick in their wake.

  In those dreams, she never takes her eyes off mine.

  Her brown eyes are the last thing I see before I wake up.

  I want to see them again.

  Her text sits on my phone. Waiting for my reply.

  Even though she’s already seen every inch of me, I don’t want to jump in and start sending naked pictures.

  That feels a little skeevie.

  Instead, I lean back against the seat of my truck while holding the phone at arm’s length and lift the hem of my t-shirt up to expose abs and one pec. I capture the shot and check that it’s clear. Using my photo editor, I draw a red circle around my nipple and write six little words on the photo.

  I think this one misses u.

  Smiling at my own humor, I press send before I have a chance to question if this is actually a good idea.

  It takes only thirty seconds for her to read it.

  Then ten minutes go by without a reply, and I start to regret writing anything on the damn photo. I should have just sent it without saying anything. Admitting that any part of me misses her probably makes me look weak.

  Weak is a word I definitely wouldn’t use to describe me.

  Tired of hanging around the parking lot and feeling desperate, I toss my phone on the passenger seat and drive to the closest place I can grab some caffeine. Opting to skip the drive-thru, I park and go inside, leaving my phone where I left it for fear I won’t be able to resist checking it.

  The line is long once I get inside, so I study the menu for a few minutes before settling on the same order I always place. The guy behind me in line recognizes me from class, and we make small talk for the remainder of the ten-minute wait.

  “Davis?” A blonde behind the counter calls out. When I approach, she smiles happily and holds out my drink for me to take. “Venti Mocha Latte?”

  “That’s me.” I reach for the cup, and my fingers brush against hers. She blushes, which is when I notice something written down the side of my cup. A name and phone number. My eyes dart to hers, and I can’t help smiling.

  She’s cute.

  “Call me sometime,” she chimes, tossing in a flirty wink before turning to address the next customer.

  But not my type.

  Blondes really aren’t my thing. Not that I don’t find them attractive, because I do. I’ve hooked up with my fair share of them at parties or after a game. But those choices were usually influenced by alcohol. Right now, there’s room for only one blonde in my life, and she happens to be dating my best friend. I’m blond, but when I’m picking a girl, I usually find myself drawn to those with dark hair. There’s just something exotic about a dark-haired woman, and the contrast we make when we’re together usually makes heads turn.

  Like when I was dancing with Laney. People passed by us on the dance floor, and they couldn’t help but look twice. I knew we looked hot together. I wonder if she felt the same way?

  The memory of that night reminds me of what may be waiting for me on my phone. When I’m safely ensconced in the cab of my truck, I risk a glance at the screen and nearly drop my coffee when I see the messages I have waiting for me.

  That one was my fave. Maybe next time I’ll give them equal attention.

  Since you’re a fan of nipple shots…

  Below that is a close-up of Laney’s chest. She’s wearing the Iron Man tank. Without a bra. And it must be really cold in her room. Either that, or she fondled her tits before she took that picture. I like that image better. One glance also tells me she’s wearing new jewelry, and I’m curious to see what’s hidden beneath that thin layer of cotton.

  Next time? It’s nice to know I’m not the only one wanting a repeat performance.

  I can’t resist texting back.

  Does this mean we’re playing show and tell?

  Her reply comes instantly, as if she’s been awaiting my response.

  It would appear so. Looks as if it’s your turn.

  Her response surprises me, and I find myself looking down the length of my body. For a moment, I’m not sure what to do next. I don’t want to jump straight into sending a dick pic, but then again, she does appear to be throwing down a challenge by engaging me in this way. It would appear my girl has gotten bolder since the last time I saw her.

  And I never back down from a challenge. Especially when the one challenging me possesses the sexiest mouth I’ve ever seen.

  Seen.

  Craved.

  Tasted.

  Felt.

  Still craving…

  I take a quick survey of the parking lot and find no one around. Then I angle the camera in front of me and pull the waistband of my shorts about an inch away from my stomach. The shot is a touch dark, but you can make out enough to leave no doubt what’s lurking behind the dark shadow, so I go ahead and send it.

  “Pervert,” I mumble to myself, then drive away before someone decides I’m a creeper and calls the cops.

  I nearly drive off the road when I check her immediate reply.

  That all u got, Ace?

  I chuckle and speak into the empty cab. “Sweetheart, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

  Pulling into the nearest parking lot, I throw the truck in Park and this time take the shot from a different angle, pulling back not only my shorts, but the waistband of my underwear as well. I check the photo, and there’s no mistaking what I want her to see. I smile to myself and press the button, sending my very first dick pic.

  Now, the only thing to do is wait.

  Wait and pray like hell she doesn’t post it on social media.

  Fuck! How the hell do you un-send a text?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LANEY

  At first, I don’t know whether to freak out or be turned on because—<
br />
  Dayuum!

  But the small voice that lives in the back of my head is shouting out warnings faster than an auctioneer.

  Ew, he sent you a picture of his penis?

  He probably sends these to girls all the time.

  What kind of guy sends pictures like that?

  He probably hooks up with girls all the time.

  Face it, you’ve been added to his long list of conquests.

  Another voice resides in my head. I like to call her my inner slut. She makes an appearance from time to time, or as often as she’s needed.

  Times like this.

  He has a really nice penis.

  Look at the tip. That perfectly defined cap.

  Remember how good it felt when he slipped inside you?

  How full he made you feel?

  How hot it felt as he throbbed inside you, filling the condom with his release?

  Over and over again. Each time seeming better than the last.

  Hers is the voice that makes the best argument; therefore she’s the voice I listen to. #Slutpride is my favorite new hashtag.

  Before I can talk myself out of this, because I know if I think about it too much, I will chicken out, I slip the tank over my head then use it to cover my right breast as I bring my left hand behind my head and lie back against the pillows. The shot includes a small glimpse of my belly piercing, but the main focus is solely on my left breast. The rose-colored areola stands out against my milky white flesh. But the pebbled nipple is the star of this image. With its pink tip and the new jewelry I purchased dangling delicately from the erect nipple. I take one last look to make sure the hockey sticks and puck are facing the camera. Everything appears to be in order.

  So I press send and wait…

  It takes all of ten seconds before regret starts creeping in.

  Another thirty to open my search engine and research how to retract the text, only to learn you can’t.

  By the time a full minute has passed, my panic has turned into full-blown laughter. I’m almost certain anyone sitting in the next dorm probably thinks I’ve lost my mind, and you know what, maybe I have, but damn if it doesn’t feel good to let go and forget your troubles.

  That’s what Derek does to me. He makes me forget the pain by helping me focus on the pleasure.

  It’s in this moment when I decide I need this man in my life.

  I don’t know how things will work out, but I know I need to keep him in my life in some form or fashion. Be it texting. Phone calls. Video chats. Whatever it is. I want to be open to it. Because I’m tired of being sad. And I’m tired of being lonely.

  Maybe it’s time I let myself be…dare I say it?

  Happy.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DEREK

  “Minnesota has pulled off the impossible and came back to win it 5-4 over the Thunder!” The announcer yells into the microphone, yet his voice reflects the same question we’re all asking ourselves.

  WTF just happened?

  Twenty-eight stunned players make their way down the north tunnel, shaking our heads after just witnessing one of the biggest upsets of our season. Not a single word is spoken during the two-minute trek. In fact, the only sound to be heard is the rhythmic succession of fifty-six blades meeting the hard rubber lining the floor of the tunnel. That is, until we step into the room and Cage pounces, as if he already knows we lost.

  “What the fuck happened out there?” He’s dressed in street clothes, his jaw tense, hair sticking up on either side as if he’s been pulling it out while trapped in here, away from the action he’s so used to being part of. It’s then I realize he probably heard the screams of the announcer after that last goal. Either that or the silence of the crowd and our less than enthusiastic approach may have given it away

  “We got our asses handed to us, that’s what happened,” Mike Vickers lashes out vehemently before throwing his helmet in the direction of the showers.

  “We were ahead 4-2 when I got ejected.” He looks to each of us then finally to me for answers, but I don’t have them.

  “Not sure what to tell you. A lot can happen in fifteen minutes. Our defensive line took a brutal beating after your little smackdown with Fairfax. By the way, nice hit.” We give each other a low fist bump to keep the others from seeing us. His face tenses and my gaze shifts to see that his knuckles are bloodied and swollen. “Damn, brother. I’d pay good money to see what’s left of his face.”

  I chuck my jersey in the laundry bin and store my gloves above my cubby before sitting down to remove my skates. A couple of the guys clap me on the shoulder and murmur, “Good game” as they head for the showers. Despite losing, I played a great game and managed to score two goals and an assist before all hell broke loose on the ice. I didn’t hear what Fairfax said to set Cage off, but the guys been itching to give Justin an ass kicking ever since finding out he’d laid hands on Cassie while they were dating.

  Rivers drops down on the bench then leans around me to address Cage. “You know Coach will tear into your ass for taking that first swing, but I was cheering you on the whole fucking time, bro.” He raises his hand for their fists to connect, but this time I notice Cage offers the uninjured hand. “How’d it feel when your fist connected with that asshole’s jaw?”

  “Fucking righteous, dude. Asshole deserved what he got, and a helluva lot more, too. He’s just lucky those refs managed to pull me off him before I did much worse.” He winces a bit as he flexes his right hand and holds it close to his chest.

  Judging by the look of his hand, the blood that was left on the ice, and the power I witnessed behind those punches, I’m willing to bet the guy’s mouth looks as if it went through a meat grinder. Hell, he probably even lost a couple teeth in the ordeal. There’s no denying he got what was coming to him, but it sucks we had to lose a key player in the process. Casualties of war, I guess. Regardless, I stand behind him for doing what he felt he had to do.

  Nobody messes with Cassie. Not when she has the four of us watching out for her.

  Masterson steps up to Cage and gestures at the hand he’s nursing. “You better hope that ain’t broken. We play Boston in two weeks and Mitchell can sniff out injuries like a fucking bloodhound.”

  “Broken or not, I’m playing that game,” Cage grimaces.

  “No matter, Mitchell hates your ass. Injury or not, he’s coming after you.” I chuck my pads on the other side of the bench. “You remember what happened last time we played them,” I point out, reminding him of how Coach had gone off on him for letting Mitchell get to him.

  “I remember, and as long as he stays away from my girl, he won’t meet the same fate as Fairfax,” he deadpans.

  Our conversation is cut short at the first sound of the familiar booming voice making its way down the tunnel, and the whole locker room goes deathly quiet once Coach Bishop steps into the room and points directly at our boy, Cage.

  “Your ass. My office. Now!”

  My eyes follow as he makes his way across the room, noting the way his head and shoulders are drawn in, the swagger from moments ago long gone as he goes to face his fate.

  Brantley looks up to Coach Bishop. Practically idolizes him. He’s been a friend to many of his players, but he and Cage have a different relationship. I guess the best way to describe it would be more akin to a father/son relationship. The rest of the guys don’t seem to mind their bond, since it doesn’t result in Cage getting special treatment. He practices just as hard, if not harder, than the rest of us. Coach expects the same from him as he does the other players. And if he gets ejected from a game, he’ll get his ass handed to him, same as everyone else.

  The door to Coach’s office closes, and right away I hear elevated voices, which surprises me, because I was expecting to hear one, but right now it’s clear there are two people yelling. I look to Rivers and Masterson, who’ve just finished removing their gear, and Masterson can sense what I’m thinking.

  “Don’t do it. You’ll only make it wo
rse,” he warns, but as usual I don’t listen, and within seconds, they’re both behind me as we approach the door.

  “We in this together? Brothers?” I check with them.

  “Till the end,” they answer simultaneously.

  I knock once but don’t bother waiting for an invitation. I figure, what’s the point? He’s already going to be pissed.

  “Davis? What the hell—“ He stops abruptly then scowls when he sees I’m not alone. “I should’ve known.”

  He motions for Rivers to close the door, and we remain standing just inside of it. Brantley is sitting across from Coach’s desk, and they both wear matching tense expressions.

  “I don’t even need to ask why you’re in here, but I do want to know why the hell none of you are wearing pants.” He looks at all three of us and actually laughs as we look from one to the other, standing along the wall in nothing but our underwear.

  “We didn’t think, Sir, we just reacted.” I step forward. “Cage may have been the one throwing punches, but that guy’s a douchebag. He got what was coming to him. If he hadn’t hit him, I’m sure I would have.”

  Rivers comes alongside me to show his support. “Fairfax used to date my sister. For two years, that asshole verbally and physically abused her. She left Minnesota to get away from him. I only recently learned of this. But he cornered her on break and I caught him just before he hit her. I beat the shit out of him then, and I can guarantee you I would have done it tonight if Cage hadn’t beat me to it.”

  Coach gives Rivers a sympathetic nod before turning his attention to Jordan.

  “With all due respect, Sir, I heard some of the things he was saying to Brantley. Fucker told him Cassie liked it rough in bed.” He turns abruptly to Cage before continuing. “Sorry, bro.” Cage lifts a shoulder and offers a tight smile. “He said if Brantley ever got tired of her, he’d gladly take her back. I was just about to cross-check him when our boy here shut him up.” Jordan musses Cage’s hair, adding to its already crazy appearance.