by Abby Burch
“Shhhhh!” An older couple a few tables away from us is staring. “Thank you for loudly announcing to the entire restaurant that I got laid last night.”
Carly laughs, running a hand absently through her long, dark hair. “I'm sorry, Bren. I'm just so excited for you! My baby girl is getting back out there, and boinking one of the hottest players in the entire NHL.”
“Oh my god, Carly. Nobody calls it ‘boinking.’” I roll my eyes at her.
“Whatever,” she says, tossing a potato chip in her mouth. “So how was it? It must have been good if you stayed the night.”
I twist a lock of my hair around my finger, thinking back on last night's multiple orgasms... and the bonus one this morning, too. The sex was absolutely phenomenal – mind-blowing, in fact. “Yeah, it was pretty great,” I admit, blushing. It's by far the best I've ever had, but I'm not ready to tell Carly that.
Carly squeals and the couple stares at us again. She shoots them a dirty look, as if they are the ones disturbing her and not the other way around. “So what does this mean? Are you dating?”
“I don't think so,” I say, staring at a painting of Lake Michigan hanging on the wall. “He just moved here and doesn't know anyone yet. I'm sure that he sees me as easy tail right now, and as soon as he gets settled, he’ll lose my number.”
“Oh come on, Bren, you're selling yourself short!” Carly grabs my cheeks and pinches them both. “You're a catch, girl! Any guy would be the luckiest guy on earth to have you as their girlfriend!”
I bat Carly’s hands away, laughing. “Okay, okay, Miss Motivation. I'm still not getting my hopes up. Besides, he said he won't be able to see me for a couple days because his father will be in town, so we'll see if he calls me this weekend or not. If he does, cool. If not, then we never talk about him or this two-night-stand ever again. Okay?”
“If you insist,” Carly replies, stuffing a chip in her mouth. “I'm calling it now though – you're going to fall in love with that man.”
I throw one of my chips at her, hopeful and terrified that she might be right.
"So have you started looking for a new roommate yet?" Carly asks out of nowhere.
I choke on a piece of bread and chug some of my water to push it down. "Uh, not yet."
"Bren! You need to start looking, and soon! The wedding is only a few months away!"
I nod in agreement and hastily change the subject. It feels like I’ve barely seen Carly since I met Ryan, and I know I’ll have to get used to seeing her less. Soon she’ll be married and living with John and I’ll be… up a creek, unable to afford to live on my own.
But I can’t think about those things right now. It’ll all work itself out in the end.
I hope.
11. Ryan
I practiced hard today. I should have been worn out after last night with Brenna, but knowing that when I got home my father would be there fueled my aggression, and I channeled it into my drills.
My judgmental, freeloading, waste of space creator decided he wanted to stop by for a couple days to "wish me luck" with my new team.
More like he wanted to come and fuck with my head.
My father wanted my brother Sam, who was four years older than me, to be a big-time hockey star. Sam was perfect both on and off the ice, but he was a rink rat through and through. The scouts were all over him from a young age, and everyone knew Sam would do big things in hockey. I played too, but Sam was truly a star and destined for greatness.
I loved and admired everything about my older brother. He was my confidante, my hero, and my best friend.
But at sixteen years old, while drinking with friends and skating on our private lake way too late into the springtime, Sam fell through the ice.
He drowned, and our lives were turned upside-down.
My mom immediately checked out. Overnight, she went from trophy housewife to a silent stranger occupying our house, drifting through each day with vacant eyes.
My father, on the other hand, became angry. Aggressive. Violent. Sam's body wasn't even in the ground before my father began to increase my practices. First it was just the frequency. He said I needed to get into better shape because, heading into puberty, I wasn't as lean as Sam had been.
Then the practices began to increase in brutality. I would be woken up at three in the morning and dragged outside in my pajamas in all seasons to work on my slapshot against the garage door. There were days he would force me to skate around the lake for hours straight without a break. Eventually, he took to shooting a paintball gun at me if I slowed down. He would sit on the end of the dock, a beer in one hand and paintball gun in the other, watching me with an ever-present scowl.
I couldn't be drafted soon enough.
Going to Philly and getting away from the hell I'd been trapped in for six years was such a relief. I hadn't realized how miserable I was until I was away from it all.
I felt awful for leaving my mom behind with that terrible man, but unfortunately, I couldn't save us both.
Now, my father shows up roughly once per year at my door. He uses the opportunity to tell me what I'm door wrong in my life and what I need to work on in my game, because even after getting drafted into the NHL at eighteen, I still wasn't good enough for him.
I wasn't on the first line.
I wasn't one of the top three stars of each game.
I wasn't on every highlight reel.
I wasn't Sam.
As expected, when I walk into my house, I can already tell he's here. It isn't an obvious sign, but rather the sense of foreboding that encompasses me the moment I step over the threshold. I toss my bag down on the floor of the foyer and head into the kitchen, where I find him sitting at the island with three bottles of beer next to him. His beard is unkempt and his clothes are wrinkled and dirty. When he sees me, his blue eyes are dark.
"Son," he addresses me simply.
"Sir," I return, curtly, as I pull two bottles of water from the fridge. I set one in front of him even though I know it won't be touched.
He takes a swig from his beer bottle and says, "Nice place you got here. A little small though. Couldn't you have gotten something bigger with your new salary, even after the pay cut?"
Anger flashes white-hot through me, but I quickly push it down. "This is just a rental. I'm going to buy something later in the season."
He grunts in response and takes another pull from the bottle. I walk into the living room and flop down on the couch, turning on ESPN. I have to remind myself that he will only be here for a couple of days, and then he'll be out of my life again for another year or so. I can get through a few days of misery.
I could always tell him no, that he can't visit me, but my conscience won't allow me to do that. I keep hoping that one of these times, he'll come around and be the amazing dad he used to be. That maybe he'll admit that he tried to turn me into his dead son and he'll apologize for it all.
I know it won't happen, yet I still hope for it.
“It's a shame you couldn't have gotten traded to a real good team like Detroit or Toronto,” I hear from behind me. His thick accent is slurred with the booze. “Real fine teams, those are. Of course, you were on a real fine team, but look what happened there. Shame, real shame.”
Just a couple days, Flynn, I tell myself. Just a couple days.
12. Brenna
Friday rolls around, and I haven't heard from Ryan since Tuesday, the morning he dropped me off at work. I try not to let it bother me, but I find myself checking my phone for messages from him way more than I should be. Natalie stops by my office even more than usual, asking about my “mystery boyfriend” and it only makes me more anxious to hear from him.
But I won't chase him. I won't text him first. He said I wouldn't hear from him for a few days, so I do my best to give him space, even though it's eating me alive.
I spent the better part of eight years chasing Ashton and what did that get me? Nothing but disappointment and bitter heartbreak. It's best for all in
volved for me to not chase after Ryan.
As I'm about to leave the office on Friday for a much-needed weekend, my phone dings with an incoming message. My heart skips a beat as Ryan's name finally flashes across the screen.
My father is gone. I need to see you. Can you come over?
Pulling my office door shut and locking it, I lean back against it and type out Yes, but is it cool if I stop at my place to grab a few things first?
Ryan quickly sends back Okay. I hurry to the parking garage, amazed by how hot it is outside for being the end of September. Soon enough, the air will cool and the Windy City will plunge into another winter. I hate winter and I would much rather it be summer weather all the time.
But maybe now that I'm kind-of involved with a hockey player, winter won't be so bad.
I get to my house in record time. I find Carly and John curled up together in the living room, watching Orange is the New Black on Netflix. “Are you guys seriously watching without me again?” I sigh as I kick the front door shut behind me.
“We're only two episodes ahead of you,” Carly says, not taking her eyes off the screen.
“You suck,” I whine. They know I'm only kind-of annoyed that they're watching without me. I head into my bedroom, grab my duffel bag, and toss some clothes in it. I also grab my laptop from atop my dresser and put it in my bag as well. I have a few commission pieces I need to do this weekend, and I don't know how long I'll be at Ryan's, so I decide it's better to be safe than sorry.
I'm in the bathroom putting my toothbrush in the bag when Carly comes in and squeals. Thankfully I'm used to her loud squeals and had braced myself for it. “Did he finally message you?”
“Yes, he did,” I say with a small smile, grabbing my shampoo and conditioner bottles out of the shower.
“I knew he would!” she says, dancing around the bathroom. “Did you pack something sexy to wear? You aren't taking your retainer, are you? Did you shave?”
“Carly, give her a chance to breathe,” John says from the doorway. He leans against the doorframe, chuckling. “What are you two going on about in here?”
“Ryan finally texted Bren,” Carly gushes. She wraps her arms around John's waist. “I'm just so excited for her!”
John looks confused. He cocks his head at me. “Is this one-night-stand guy?”
“Two-night-stand, about to be three!” Carly says before I can get any words out. “And he's Ryan Flynn. THE Ryan Flynn.”
“The winger from Philly who just got traded here?” John asks Carly. She nods so vigorously that John is shifted off-balance and has to change his stance against the doorframe. “Wow, Brenna. Good for you.”
“Thanks, I think,” I say with a laugh, tossing my hairbrush in the bag. “It's just casual at this point, so nothing to write home about.”
“Whatever, Bren,” Carly croons. “You and Ryan are going to fall in love and have a super glamorous life together.”
“You keep saying that and yet I somehow am not listening to you,” I say as I sling the bag over my shoulder and slide around them. “I'm leaving now before you start coming up with names for future children.”
“So you're saying there's a chance?” Carly calls after me. The three of us laughing follows me out the front door.
I park in Ryan's driveway and walk up the path to his door. I stop on the porch, staring up at his gorgeous house in this perfect, peaceful neighborhood. My stomach is doing insane flips. What if he wanted to see me to tell me in person that we're done? He's so kind that I could see him being the type of guy to break it to a girl in person rather than through text or something douchey like that.
Gritting my teeth, I ring the doorbell. A few moments later, he appears at the door, in all his gloriousness. It's amazing how in a matter of only three days I had forgotten how absolutely stunning he is. His hair seems shaggier than I remember, his tattoos brighter against his skin than I recall, his legs longer than my memory serves.
His face gives away no emotion, but his eyes are ablaze. “Come in,” he says, everything about him rigid. I cautiously walk into the house and take off my shoes in the foyer. Ryan disappears into the bedroom, and I hesitantly follow, confused and with no idea what to expect.
He takes my duffel bag from me and tosses it on the floor of his room. The late-day sun is streaming through his windows, and he pulls the curtains shut. He turns to me, still expressionless.
“Are... are you okay?” I ask, taking a step toward him. He's tense. He keeps flexing and loosening one hand, as if he's trying not to punch something. Or someone. “Ryan?”
“No, I'm not okay,” he says. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”
“Oh,” I squeak out. “Umm..”
He tears his shirt over his head and I'm bombarded by those insane washboard abs and broad shoulders. His shorts and boxers are gone in one swoop and his huge cock is already at full attention.
I haven't moved yet because I'm in shock, so he closes the distance between us and grabs at the hem of my shirt, urging it over my head. It falls to the floor and his hands move to my bra, quickly peeling it from my body. In a daze, I tug down my shorts and panties and step out of them so I am completely naked, standing in front of him.
Ryan grabs my face between his large hands. “I need to apologize to you right now. The last three days have been absolute hell. I need to fuck you so badly, but it's going to be rough.”
This doesn't sound like the same Ryan I cuddled with only three short days ago. He sounds detached... almost like he's dead inside. I don't know what transpired over the last three days, but he's hurting, and I hurt for him.
I put my hands over his, running my thumbs across his skin. “That's okay. Whatever you need, I'm here for you.”
He kisses the top of my head, lightly, and for a moment, the Ryan from earlier in the week peeks through.
Then, in an instant, I'm being hauled to the bed, and he's climbing on top of me. His lips meet mine and they're at a fever pitch. His hands are already on my breasts, tugging and rolling my nipples between his nimble fingers. He takes one of my nipples into his mouth and a strangled moan escapes me as he sucks and nibbles.
His hand trails it's way down my side, caressing my hip and gripping my thigh. His other hand slides down the length of my body, stopping near the prize to tickle around my entrance, causing my hips to buck. He slips a digit inside, then another, and presses the pad of his thumb against my clit. I feel like I'm on fire. Every nerve in my body is in overdrive as he rubs slow circles with his thumb, caressing me in the deepest way. He works me like that for a few moments, pulling me close to the brink in such a short amount of time.
I shudder when he withdraws from me, but his cock is soon sheathed in latex and pressed against my opening. We lock eyes for a moment. His eyes are stormy and tortured, full of demons. Maybe I should be afraid, but I'm not. I've worn that same look myself, many, many times before. With my permission granted, he presses in and groans as I take him in to the hilt.
He pulls my legs up, my hips lifting off the bed, and wraps them around his waist. Then he leans forward, gripping the top of the headboard with both hands for leverage, and begins moving in and out of me. He hits me deep and I don't hold back my moans. The pace quickly reaches pounding as he slams in and out of me, fucking me harder and faster than I've ever been fucked before.
“Need you with me,” he grunts in between thrusts.
“I'm with you,” I moan back.
He falls over the edge, shattering into a million pieces before me. His face twists into a mixture of pleasure and despair as he comes. I immediately follow him into orgasm, the force rocketing through me, scorching my entire body from the inside. I rock against him, milking every last wave of pleasure out of the both of us.
Ryan collapses on top of me, and at first I think he's still shuddering from the orgasm, until I realize he's actually crying. I throw my arms around him, holding him as his shoulders heave and he sobs into my neck.
To s
ay I'm stunned would be an understatement. What in the fucking hell happened to Ryan this week?
13. Ryan
My father is the biggest piece of shit I've ever had the displeasure of knowing. I knew that him coming to visit was going to be rough since I was traded due to my slipping performance, but I didn't expect for him to be nearly as shitty and cruel as he was.
I'm twenty-six years old. He shouldn't have this much control over me at this point in my life. I'm a hockey star who has a house and several nice cars and as long as I'm good with my money, I'll be set for life. But every time he blows into town, I'm twelve years old and skating laps around the lake at breakneck speeds again, hoping with every pass around that he won't shoot the paintball gun at me because I'll finally be good enough for him.
I was never good enough then. And I'm still not good enough now.
The entire three days he was here were filled with condescension and judgment. Every move I made was scrutinized. I spent as much time as possible at the private team gym after regular practices so I didn't have to go home and face my father. Even when I finally did come home, he would criticize my workout routine, saying I was working out too much and was going to burn out my shoulders and that's probably why my performance last season was subpar. Those are all his words, not mine. Then he'd criticize my diet, even though I started back on the plan that was customized for me by my personal trainer two weeks ago (minus the pizza I shared with Brenna the other night). All the while, he was bumming on my couch, drinking the entire two-four of beer I had (what Americans call a twenty-four pack) and going through my shit, like always.
Yet I didn't have the heart to kick him out. I can't completely cut him out of my life... because at the end of the day, he's still my father. Unfortunately, he's the only family I have left.
