Lighting the Lamp (Chicago Velocity Book 1)

by Abby Burch

  The minute he walked out my door to catch his plane back to Toronto, I texted Brenna. I had forced myself not to think about her for the last three days, because I didn't want to give my father anything more that he could use against me.

  But the moment he was gone, she invaded my thoughts. I was so pent up and I needed some kind of release, and I'm so glad she was willing to come over tonight so I could sink myself into her.

  I wasn't expecting to break down right after climaxing, though.

  Brenna holds me in her arms, grounding me. Using the deep breathing techniques I've been taught by various trainers over the years, I regain my composure. The techniques help keep your anger in check during a game, but I also use them occasionally in off-the-ice situations.

  I go to roll off of Brenna, but I'm still inside her, although my dick is now mostly limp. I carefully pull out of her and swing my legs off the side of the bed to dispose of the condom in the can next to my nightstand. She hasn't said anything yet, but I can feel in the air that she's wondering why I called her here just to fuck her and then cry.

  “I know I owe you some kind of explanation,” I say, still sitting with my back to her. “But I'm not really sure where to start.”

  I feel her arms wrap around me from behind. “You don't owe me anything, Ryan.” She presses her face into my back. “If you want to talk about it, then of course I'll be here to listen, but all I need is to make sure you're okay.”

  “I'll be okay,” I tell her, placing my hands over her arms. I'm already starting to feel much better than I did a few hours ago. It's amazing that something as simple as her presence – her touch – can bring me so much comfort and peace. “Brenna?”

  “What?”

  “Let's do something fun tonight.”

  She unwinds herself and sits up behind me. I turn to look at her and find her staring at me like I've grown another head. I clear my throat and try to reign in my thoughts. “I need to get out of the house and get my mind off of things.”

  She runs her hands over my shoulders. She's still pretty tense, and undoubtedly my sudden 180 has given her whiplash. To her credit, she tries to roll with my out-of-nowhere mood swing. “Um, sure. What did you have in mind?”

  “I don't have a plan. I was hoping you'd come up with something.”

  Brenna slides to the edge of the bed next to me and watches me, a bemused smirk on her beautiful face. “Seriously? You want to do something but you have nothing in mind?”

  “Well, you know this area better than I do...” I trail off, standing from the bed and picking up my clothes from the floor.

  She's grinning. “You aren't going to be able to use that excuse for forever, you know.”

  I laugh as I pull on a fresh pair of boxer-briefs. “Yeah, yeah, I know. So what's the plan for tonight?”

  “You're seriously making me decide?” she glares at me playfully from the bed where she's sitting, still completely naked. I toss her shirt at her. “I'm going to pick something random and silly just to spite you,” she says.

  “Go for it,” I reply, leaning down and kissing her softly.

  “I'm pretty sure the last time I played mini-putt, I was like, eight,” I say.

  Brenna flips her hair over her shoulder, squinting her eyes at me. “You told me to pick something to do, and I told you that I was going to choose something random. So here you go.” She sticks her tongue out at me, and I stick my tongue out back at her before we both burst into laughter.

  The teenage kid at the ticket counter looks like he'd rather be anywhere else on a Friday night. I can't say I blame him. “Two, please,” I tell him, pulling out my wallet and handing him the money. He hands Brenna and I each a neon-colored golf ball and a freakishly tiny golf club.

  I follow Brenna across the lot to Hole #1. She changed into a pair of tiny denim shorts and a light blue tank top before we left the house. I noticed she had packed a few different outfits, along with toiletries, in her duffel bag. Normally that would piss me off, because girls don't get to stay with me for that long – but I keep reminding myself that Brenna isn't a puck bunny.

  “So since you're a pro hockey player, you should be a natural at mini-putt,” Brenna says, grinning at me. “However, what you don't realize is that I totally kick ass at mini-putt.”

  “Oh really?” I smirk at her. “We’ll see who is kicking who’s ass by the end of this.”

  Brenna lines up her shot toward a giant plaster elephant with a tunnel for the ball between its feet. She carefully knocks the ball and it rolls through the tunnel and into the hole on the other side.

  “Hole in one, baby! That’s right!” she cheers for herself, doing a victory dance in the middle of the green. I cross my arms over my chest, playing angry.

  “My turn.” I set the bright blue ball down on the fake grass and turn to line up my shot. The putter feels like a toy in my hands. I have to bend way down to even get it to reach the ground. “This feels ridiculous. Are the putters always so small?”

  “Yes. And you look ridiculous.” Brenna has her phone out and snaps a pic of me. I hit the ball, a bit too hard and to the left, and miss the hole by a mile. She laughs, showing me the photo she took of me all hunched over with the putter in hand, and it looks absolutely absurd for someone who is 6'2” to be bent over that far to putt.

  I easily sink the ball on the second try and we traipse over to Hole #2. I stare at Brenna's legs while she putts. By Hole #6, she's thoroughly kicking my ass. Golf balls just don't move the same as a hockey puck - at least, that's the excuse I'm going with.

  Catching her hand between holes #11 and #12, I say, “Thank you for getting me out of the house tonight. I needed this more than you even know.”

  “You're welcome, Ryan,” she smiles at me, her beautiful teeth glinting in the setting sun. “I enjoy spending time with you. Especially when I'm destroying you in mini-putt.”

  I move quickly and catch her off-guard, wrapping my arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground and carrying her over my shoulder toward the pond in the middle of the course. The water is green and full of dirt, scraps of paper and cigarette butts. She squeals, semi-fighting to escape my grasp.

  “Ryan! No, Ryan! Please don't do it!” she shrieks, tugging at my arms and laughing so hard that she can barely breathe. I'm laughing too, knowing full well I'd never do it but enjoying torturing her.

  I stand near the edge of the water, holding her while she squirms and squeals and laughs. “I won't do it if you'll say yes to my next question.”

  “Okay, okay, anything!”

  “Will you come to my first pre-season game on Tuesday?”

  Brenna stops squirming and looks at me. “You could have asked me anything and that's what you're asking?”

  I jab my thumb into her ribs, tickling her. “You didn't say yes.”

  “Ryan! Yes, yes! I'll go!” I set her down and she smacks my arm lightly. “I would have said yes without you torturing me. Although I don't know jack shit about hockey, so...”

  “So this weekend I'll teach you everything you need to know, and on Tuesday, I'll have a ticket waiting for you at Will Call.”

  Her smile is a mile wide and of course, that makes me smile, too. “Thank you. I am really excited for my first hockey game!”

  “I'm excited to have you there, cheering me on.” I need her there, more than she knows, and I'm thrilled that she's agreed to go.

  It's amazing how just a few short hours ago, I was in such a dark place, and when I'm around Brenna... everything is light and full of hope. I've almost forgotten about the horrible things my dad said to me.

  Almost.

  14. Brenna

  Ryan has practice the next morning at 6am, so I stay in his bed for a little while after he leaves, soaking it all in. The sun's rays lazily cross the wall as the morning dawns. Birds chirp happily somewhere in the distance. The low hum of moving traffic is nearly absent out here in the suburbs and I realize I had all-but forgotten what the peace and quiet
are actually like since I moved into the city. My entire body is sore from the marathon sex we had after we got home from mini-putt, but it's that wonderfully pleasant kind of sore from feeling so good for so long.

  I've known Ryan for exactly one week and yet it feels like years. No one has made me laugh as hard as he has in far too long. I mean, Carly comes close, but she's my best friend, and as much as I love her, neither of us swing that way.

  He makes me feel happy and safe. Even yesterday afternoon when he was a completely different man than the one I had seen before then, I was never afraid. I was anxious and confused, yes, but not afraid. Probably because he was behaving the exact same way I would if I had to spend three days with my family.

  I eventually crawl out of Ryan's giant, plush bed, pull on my sleep tank and pajama shorts, and decide to explore the house a little. Most of Ryan's belongings are still in boxes, but I've noticed more items appearing here and there each time I'm at his house.

  Ryan has a luxurious master bathroom off the bedroom, done in a beautiful light gray tile, complete with a giant whirlpool tub and waterfall shower. Two huge frosted glass window panes allow for plenty of natural light. There are more cabinets in this bathroom than in my entire kitchen.

  I wander into the hallway and crack open the door to one of the other bedrooms. It is filled with cardboard boxes with various labels, but sitting in the middle is a single cardboard box, the flaps wide open. Slowly I walk inside and kneel in front of the box, curiosity getting the best of me.

  On top of the pile is a stack of 4”x6” photographs. The first one is of Ryan and two guys from his team back in Philly in their jerseys, standing on the ice, grinning from ear to ear with their arms over each other's shoulders. Ryan looks incredibly young, so it must have been taken early in his career.

  The next photo looks to have been taken around the same time, and features a fresh-faced Ryan, sitting at a large wooden desk in a fancy office, shaking hands with a very important looking guy in a suit and tie.

  I continue flipping through the photos, many of them of Ryan on the ice at various games, some from press conferences and charity events, and others of him and teammates just hanging out.

  At the bottom of the stack is a photo much older than the others. The edges of it are worn and frayed. In this photo, Ryan only looks to be about ten or eleven, and he's standing with a hockey stick in hand and a massive grin on his face next to a boy who looks like he's about fourteen years old. This other boy is an entire head taller than Ryan, and his hair is lighter in color and longer than Ryan's.

  But his face looks almost exactly like Ryan’s.

  I flip the photo over and written on the back is:

  Ryan and Sam Flynn, 2001.

  Ryan has a brother? Why hasn't he mentioned him at all?

  My cell phone starts ringing from the other room at that moment and I recognize the ringtone as Carly, so I quickly put the photos back in the box and run into the master bedroom. I can't even say hello before Carly starts screaming.

  “Have you been online today!?”

  “Carly? Uh, no? It's like 7:30 in the morning.”

  “Bren. There are photos of you and Ryan everywhere online.”

  My heart stops. I'm pretty sure I didn't hear her correctly. “What?”

  “Yes! Apparently you guys went mini-putting last night?”

  I pace across the room. “Yeah, we did.” My hands are starting to shake.

  “Well, now you're the hot gossip of the hockey world. Everyone is speculating online over who Ryan Flynn's first Chicago puck bunny is.”

  Instantly, my pulse skyrockets and my cheeks flush. “That's what they're saying? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Don't go online, Bren. It's kind of a shitshow right now, but it'll be okay. It'll all blow over in a couple days and no one will even remember or care.”

  “Do any of the articles or whatever know who I actually am?”

  “No, not yet.” Somehow that makes me feel a little bit better. “Seriously Bren, it's no big deal.” I know she's trying to minimize the situation, but it isn't working. “I at least wanted to make sure you knew.”

  “Thanks for letting me know, Carls.” I stop pacing and stare out one of Ryan's bedroom windows. His backyard is bare minus a couple small trees in one corner of the lot. “You're right, it isn't a big deal. It'll die down soon. I should probably text Ryan and let him know, though.”

  “Sure thing,” Carly replies. “I'll keep posting nasty comments on these gossip sites in the meantime.”

  “Carly,” I say sternly.

  “I'm only sort-of kidding, Bren. Anyway, let me know if you need anything. You know, ice cream, shotgun, whatever. I'm your girl.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks. Talk to you later.” I hang up and, flopping back down on his bed, immediately type out a text to Ryan, Call me as soon as you're done at practice. It's urgent.

  I read over it and realize that, maybe to him, this won't be a big deal. After all, he's been photographed with loads of puck bunnies in the past. I don't want to make a mountain out of a molehill, so I retype my message to Hey, FYI – Someone took photos of us last night at mini-putt and put them online. Just thought you should know. It sounds a lot more calm than I'm feeling so I roll with it and hit send.

  With a sigh, I try to put my phone down and forget about it – but I can't. I need to see the photos for myself. Of course, they aren't difficult to find. “Who is Ryan Flynn's Chicago Mystery Woman?” and “Flynn on the Prowl in New City Weeks After Trade” are only a couple of the headlines I see. Some of the sites speculate that I'm a puck bunny from Wisconsin, upgrading from the minors to the major league. A couple bloggers are convinced that I'm a well-known bunny named Liz from Arizona going incognito in Chicago.

  As mortifying, degrading and frustrating as the situation is, I can't help but notice how absolutely adorable Ryan and I look in the photos. In one shot, I'm bent over, about to putt, and he's standing behind me, his muscled, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, wearing a smirk. In another, he's holding me over the edge of the water and we're both laughing. In one more, we're kissing passionately at Hole #18 after I beat him by almost 20 strokes. His hands are on my lower back, pulling me in close to him, and my arms are wrapped around his neck. We look carefree and happy; such a stark contrast to only a few hours before the photos were taken.

  I think back to the Ryan that opened the door yesterday afternoon. What did his father do to him to have caused such a drastic change in his entire personality? I get weird when I'm forced to spend time with my family, but nowhere near the level Ryan reached.

  Who is this fascinating, mysterious, sexy guy, and what are the secrets that he’s hiding?

  15. Ryan

  “Mother fucker,” I grumble as I scroll through one of the gossip sites that is, unfortunately, posting photos and speculations of me and my “mystery woman.” I saw Brenna's text as soon as I got out of the shower in the locker room after a particularly tough practice. I turn to Nils, who is occupying the locker next to me, and show him the headline. “Who comes up with this shit anyway?”

  “Jealous people?” he says in his thick Swedish accent with a shrug as he towels off from his shower. He and I have been getting paired up in practices lately, and we click pretty well. He's shorter than I am, but he's one of the fastest guys in the entire league right now, and I don't stand a chance of keeping up with his speed. Luckily, my puck handling skills are better than his, so we complement each other well on the ice. "You've been in the league longer than I have. Shouldn't you be used to the gossip by now?”

  “But Brenna isn't a puck bunny,” I grit out. I toss my phone up on the ledge in my locker. “She's cool, man. She's not like those thirsty bitches. She's real.”

  Nils throws his towel in his gym bag and pulls on a pair of boxers. “If you can't handle the media then it won't work out anyway, no?”

  I pause partway through pulling on my shorts and stare at Nils. “I never sai
d I can't handle it.”

  “I believe you,” he says, not looking in my direction. He adjusts the waistband of his athletic shorts. “But can she handle it?”

  I stare at the pale green carpet under my feet. “I don't know. It's too soon to tell for sure, I guess.” Damn him. He might be five years younger than me, but he's a smart dude. “I hope she can handle it. I really like this girl, Nils.”

  “You've got it bad,” he smirks at me. I can only smile in return. Of course, as Nils leaves the locker room and I turn my attention back to my phone, the smile slips away. She sounds calm in her message, but what if she's freaking out? What if she isn't at the house when I go back there?

  I don't think I've ever gotten dressed so fast.

  “Brenna?” I call into the house as I step into the foyer. “Brenna, are you here?”

  “In the kitchen,” she calls back. I breathe a sigh of relief as I toss my bag down and walk toward the sound of her voice.

  She's at the island, spreading mayonnaise on a piece of bread. “Hi, Ryan,” she says softly, hesitant. She sets down the knife and turns to face me, wringing her hands. She looks so beautiful and natural standing in my kitchen, but everything feels... awkward?

  My mind is freaking out. “Hey Brenna,” I try to say as evenly as possible. “Ah- are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I'm okay,” she says with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

  “Hey, it's okay,” I tell her, crossing the kitchen and taking her into my arms. She softens under my embrace. “It's no big deal.”

  “It feels like a big deal,” she sighs against my chest. Then she looks up at me with those chocolate brown eyes and something moves inside me. “I know you're famous and all, but I guess I didn't realize that meant if we went out in public, we'd end up being the hot gossip of the entire league.”

  I squeeze her gently and Brenna buries her face into my shirt. “I'm sorry I didn't warn you. I didn't think about it, to be honest. It's been a long time since I've taken a girl out in public like that before.”