by Cindi Madsen
“I skipped out on school activities to go home, make dinner, and watch documentary after documentary,” I said. “But I don’t regret it, because it made us close, and then it didn’t seem so bad that my mama wasn’t around to tell me my outfit wasn’t flattering, or that I was gaining weight and needed to cut back on the snacks. Even when I worked hard to lose a few pounds, or did my hair the way she wanted, she just found another thing to pick at in her never-ending pursuit to make me her perfect daughter. I still hear her in my head sometimes—like whenever my bun’s too tight, or I don’t have makeup done, or when I put on my boring pantsuits.”
Hudson squeezed my hand. “Baby, you want to wear those boring pantsuits, you wear them.”
There he went, saying something that might be insulting if he hadn’t said it in the sweetest way. “You wouldn’t be embarrassed to hold my hand in public?”
“Not even a little.”
I leaned in and kissed his cheek. Lyla had been right about my feelings coming along for the ride—I think they’d claimed the driver’s seat. I wanted to take care of Hudson and be his person, even though I knew that wasn’t part of the no-strings-attached plan I was trying to cling to.
Hudson reached up and twisted one of the strands that had spilled out of my bun around his finger. Then he slowly leaned in and covered my lips with his. He kissed me long and hard, but he didn’t pull me on top of him like he had the other night. I got the feeling he was waiting for me—trying to honor my wish to go slow—but I didn’t want to go slow right now.
I wanted him, more than I’d wanted anything in a long time. I curled my fingers around the hem of his shirt and tugged it up, over his head. With my palm on the center of his chest, I pushed him back until he hit the armrest. I ran my hand over his pecs, down his abs. I loved the way his skin twitched under my touch, the flexing muscles rippling his skin.
His dark gaze fixed on my fingertips, watching every inch I traversed with laser-sharp focus. I loved the contrast between the tattoo sleeves and the un-inked skin of his torso. Then there was the smattering of dark hair that disappeared into his jeans.
I dragged my finger across the skin just above his waistband and he groaned, his muscles bunching tighter. I was power drunk again, but on a completely different kind of power. Need pulsed deep inside me, quickly turning into a consuming, aching desire. I leaned over him and kissed his lips, his jaw, his neck.
He wrapped his arms around me, tugging me firmly against him. I moaned as my center slid over the hard length straining against the zipper of his jeans. Now I was the one feeling the rippling sensation, as the wave of pleasure made every muscle clench. Before I could even dream of catching my breath, Hudson captured my lips and thrust his tongue in to meet mine.
Cool air hit my skin as he hooked his thumbs on the back of my sweater and dragged it up, up, up.
We broke apart long enough for him to pull it over my head. Enough of my hair came out of my bun as the fabric dragged across it that the elastic band holding it in place slid free.
Hudson pushed up onto his elbows and took me in, his eyes moving from my navel, to my lacy black bra, to my face. He cupped my cheek and dragged his thumb across my bottom lip. “You’re so fucking beautiful. All that talk about your mom and how she kept pushing you to be perfect… You are perfect.”
With him looking at me like I was, I believed it. Up until my make-under, I’d always been fairly confident about my looks, but I’d also obsessed about the little things I wanted to change, or the ten pounds I really should lose, or how I only felt pretty when I was all done up.
With him looking at me like that, though, I felt beautiful.
Hudson ran his hands up my sides, and his fingers looked so big spread across my skin, like he was trying to touch every inch he could. He gave me the same treatment I’d given him, tracing the curves and lines of my body. I held my breath as he cupped my breasts over my bra. He kissed my shoulder and then brushed his thumbs across the thin lace, right over my hard nipples, and the sensation of textured lace and his warm skin made it impossible to hold back a whimper.
His arousal twitched under me, and I rolled my hips, eliciting a groan from both of us. My scalp tingled as Hudson pushed his fingers through my hair. Then he curved a hand around the back of my head and tugged my mouth to his.
I leaned over him again, relishing the feel of skin against skin, and bit lightly on his bottom lip. Every nerve ending fired, and pressure built deep within in me, radiating outward.
The vibration I felt against my hip threw me off for a second—that was new. Then I caught the muffled ringing and realized it was Hudson’s phone. He reached for it and muttered something about getting it out of the way.
Then he swore. He looked from the phone to me, then back to the phone and swore some more.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I didn’t realize how long I’ve been here.” He ran a hand through his hair. “We spent all our extra time on my stupid sob story and now… Shit. That’s my alarm that goes off so that I make it to practice on time.”
I sucked in a few lungfuls of oxygen, working to catch my breath. “But isn’t your ankle still hurt? You can’t even practice right now.” Did my voice sound desperate? Of course it did. I was half-naked and on top of an also half-naked hockey player. I was keyed up and turned on and horny as hell.
“Yes, but hockey above all. Injured, dying—doesn’t matter. If you miss practice, you might as well not bother showing up ever again.” He grimaced and then ran his hand through his hair again and blew out a long breath. “Better write that in your notes, Reporter Girl.”
“You’re seriously going to leave?”
He sat partway up, stared right into my breasts, and groaned—but not in the sexy groaning way. In the I’m-miserable-but-I’m-leaving-anyway way. He pushed himself up fully, put his hand on the side of my face, and kissed me, a way too quick press of lips. “What I’ve got in mind is going to take a lot longer than the five minutes I have. There’s hell to pay if I’m late, and I’m supposed to meet with the physical therapist—I’m hoping he’ll clear me so I can get back on the ice.”
I stuck out my lips to make it clear that I was not onboard with any of that.
“Let me make it up to you? Tomorrow night after practice, I’ll take you out. Then we’ll go back to my place”—he skimmed his fingertips across my collarbone, which wasn’t helping with my current turned on and frustrated state—“and I’ll devote hours to you and this hot body, I swear.”
Here I was, ready to forget my rules—and I could tell he was more than ready to help me break them—and yet he was leaving anyway.
“Please,” he said, curling his hand around my shoulder. “I’m trying to not screw this up here.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
He let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you.”
We scrambled to find our clothes, he gave me one more kiss, and then he was gone.
I stared at the closed door, still in shock from going from about to have sex to standing alone in my apartment.
I was starting to see the tiniest bit what athletes meant when they talked about how much of their lives they devoted to the game.
Did they deserve extra perks?
Well, I wasn’t sure they didn’t not deserve it. Which made it feel like I suddenly didn’t know anything anymore.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Whitney
Just as I was about to stop staring at the door, the knob turned and the door cracked open. My heart leaped in my chest. Hudson must’ve decided to forget practice, consequences be damned.
Instead, Lyla walked through, and I realized that had Hudson and I continued taking things where they were going, my roommate would’ve witnessed way more of me and Hudson than any of us wanted.
“So, judging from Hudson’s crumpled appearance, my hypothesis is that he was making out with a certain roommate of mine before rushing off to practice.” Lyla dropped her backpack on th
e floor and unwound the scarf around her neck. “Not that I’m judging. I’m just wondering if I should ask for details, or remind you of your objective. Basically I want to know how to best be your friend right now.”
“Well, I’m about to explode with details, but I also have a really important question I need to ask, so maybe you could listen first and then we can go from there?”
Bless her, she didn’t hesitate, just moved over to me and gave me her full attention.
“Would Beck leave for a practice when there was an imminent possibility of sex?” I bit my thumbnail, hoping the answer wouldn’t hurt me.
“He would leave for practice even if there was a tornado headed straight for the arena.”
“Oh good.” I put my hand over my heart. “I was a bit paranoid that I wasn’t…exciting enough.” Hudson had told me I was beautiful—that I was perfect. I’d believed him in the moment, so I wasn’t sure why doubt had to rise up and make me question everything.
Probably because I always got wrapped up in a guy’s nice words and then my judgment became more and more cloudy until I was somehow surprised when the storm came.
“So? Details?” Lyla asked.
“Oh yes. Wait, we’re going to need ice cream for this.” I rushed to the freezer, grabbed the nearest carton—rocky road—and two spoons, and carried it back to the couch. Whether we were miserable or celebrating, Lyla and I dealt the same way. Ice cream.
I popped open the lid, dug out a spoonful, and between bites I told Lyla about running into Hudson on campus, the hour he’d spent explaining the ins and outs of hockey, making out on the couch, and then the stupid alarm. “But he promised he’d make up for it tomorrow. Said he’d take me out and everything.”
Lyla pressed her lips together and tapped her spoon against them.
“What?” I asked, even though I was sure I didn’t want to know.
“That sounds like more than sex.”
“Remember, there was no sex,” I said. It was pretty much all I could remember right now.
She tilted her head and gave me that intense Lyla look. “You know what I mean. It sounds more like hang outs that lead to relationships. It sounds like being upset when he doesn’t call.”
“You don’t think he’ll call?” Whoa. That came out way more high-pitched than I’d meant it to, but honestly, it matched the panicky sensation echoing through my chest.
Lyla leaned forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. “No, I think he will. I’m not saying he won’t, even after. I’m saying there are strings being attached all over the place.”
“Okay, so maybe there are a few. But because of my job, it’s not like we could officially date right now anyway.”
“I’m glad you brought up your job, actually, because it begs another question.”
For someone who loved questions and digging, I realized I didn’t like it when I wasn’t the one digging.
“Isn’t it a conflict of interest? To be hanging out”—she didn’t actually use air quotes, but her voice made it clear she’d meant to put them there—“with a hockey player while writing an article that talks about how unfair it is that they get so many perks? What are you going to do about that story?”
My next bite of ice cream was to combat misery. “I don’t know, okay. I’ve caused this big stir online, and apparently people are talking about it on campus, so obviously there’s a lot of interest in this kind of story. And my editor’s counting on me to write it—there’s a spot just waiting for me to take it and make it mine. It’s what I’ve always wanted, and it’d be great career-wise. But now that I’ve been around the guys…I don’t know if I can write it the way she wants me to.”
I stared into the chocolate ice cream like it might hold the answers—all I saw was a chocolate covered almond, so I settled for popping it into my mouth. “Does it make me a bad journalist if I can’t fully separate myself?”
“I don’t think so,” Lyla said. “I think caring is the mark of a good journalist. But I also think that if you don’t tell Hudson about it, and then it comes out… He’ll probably think you used him. So, if you really like him…?” She looked at me, clearly waiting for me to confirm or deny, although I’m sure we both knew how I felt.
“I do. I told myself I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. The more I get to know him…” My heart squeezed. “I like him. I want to see if it could be more.”
“Then I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell him about the article—before he reads it in the paper. The thing about hockey guys is they’re tough, and they can take hit after hit, but they’re people with real feelings and real hopes and dreams. They’d never admit it, but they can get hurt, and more than just physically.”
Now I worried about the position I’d put Lyla in. All I’d been thinking about was that front page article and getting over stupid Trevor, who was now just a blip on my radar.
But that reminder made me question my judgment all over again. Maybe I was jumping in too fast, ready to abandon everything for a guy who might’ve only been sweet-talking me.
“What would your editor do if you told her you couldn’t write it?” Lyla asked.
All my research. Everything I’d poured into my article. Articles, I remembered with a pang of guilt. Two that would cast Hudson in a bad light, even though I could hold back the “Anatomy of a Player” one easily enough. But I thought of all those people who’d commented on my survey about athletes’ perks, and it seemed unfair their voices wouldn’t be heard, especially the ones who’d worked to remain civil and used facts and statistics to support their side.
“I’d never get a chance at a front page article again,” I said. “Lindsay will be so pissed—she’ll say that after taking a huge chance on me, I wasted her time. She’ll fire me—and that’ll look so bad when future employers check out my work history. How am I going to get a job with a serious news outlet when I can’t even keep a college one?”
I could keep everything strictly factual, without the angry spin I’d first felt. How could anyone be mad about facts?
Would it really make Hudson mad? Would it mean we couldn’t be together?
I thought about the way Hudson talked about the team… They were his family. I didn’t think he’d understand that I was trying to simply show that there were perks to being an athlete.
I abandoned the ice cream because I knew I could eat the whole gallon and it wouldn’t help. I needed to do some soul searching. The problem was, the only thing I could think about was Hudson.
From the way he’d grown up, to his mom, to how understanding he’d been about my mama. To kissing him. His body under mine…
Hudson, Hudson, Hudson.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Whitney
Hudson showed up the next night wearing a button-down and jeans, and basically looking so yummy I had one of those I-can’t-believe-he’s-actually-going-out-with-me moments.
His jaw slackened as he took me in from head to toe. I’d gone all out, with an emergency trip to the hairdresser to freshen my highlights, and an outfit that’d always earned me appreciative looks. The pushup bra worked wonders with the lacy neckline of the shirt, and while the skirt was way too short to provide proper warmth for Boston in early November, I’d paired it with my over-the-knee gray suede boots.
Besides, the heat in Hudson’s eyes warmed me up, despite the cool waft of air coming from the open door, and his reaction made it worth risking a few minutes of cold between buildings and the car.
He leaned in and kissed my cheek, his minty-fresh breath skating across my neck. “Did I say we were going out? Suddenly all I can think about is staying in.”
I tiptoed my fingers up the line of buttons on his shirt, finding it funny he was the more conservative one for once. “Unfortunately for you, I feel like being high maintenance tonight—don’t want to make it too easy for you.”
“In that getup, I’m pretty sure you can be anything you want to be.” He laced his fingers with mine and happines
s danced across my skin and settled in my chest.
On the way to the parking lot, I asked if he’d been cleared for practice, and he excitedly told me he had, he’d just have to wrap the ankle for a while. Once we reached his truck, he opened the passenger door for me. I had to stretch to climb in and I heard Hudson swear under his breath when my skirt hiked up. The intoxicating power I felt with him sang through my veins, and I couldn’t wait to explore it further, after we’d gone to dinner and we were alone again.
“So, where are we going?” I asked when he climbed in and fired up the truck.
“An Italian steakhouse in the Back Bay. I’ve never been there before, but I’ve been told it’s where you take a girl when you’re trying to impress her.”
“You mean when you’re trying to get lucky.”
“Sweetheart, I can get lucky without paying for dinner.”
The lightheartedness seeped out of the conversation on my end. I knew all too well that he didn’t need to do anything for girls to throw themselves at him. I’d seen it after the games, at the pool hall—basically everywhere he went.
“Hey,” he said, wrapping his hand around my thigh. “That was supposed to be a joke. The back and forth thing we do?”
I’d started the teasing, too, but it’d crept too close to the truth, where it felt remarkably less funny.
“I’m taking you out because I like being with you, even when we’re fully clothed and there’s no kissing going on.” He glanced across the cab. “I was serious about trying to impress you.”
I nodded and smiled, but I had to work for it. Maybe this was all a stupid, horrible idea.
The rest of the ride was too quiet, and I knew it was my fault. So after the hostess took down our names and told us it’d be about ten to fifteen minutes, I worked to get our conversation back on track. “I know you had your reasons for leaving, but do you ever miss New York?”
