by Elle Kennedy
Holy shit, that’s good. I cup her head as she blows me, admiring the way her ass juts in the air as she bends forward to take more of me in her mouth. I reach over and slide my hand underneath the satin of her shorts until my fingers meet her soaked pussy.
And suddenly her mouth on my cock isn’t enough. I’ve got to be inside her.
I lift her up and in three strides have her down on the bed. She claws at my clothes. I tear at hers. We’re hasty, somewhat uncoordinated, and full of need.
I grab the condom from my jeans and am inside her in the next breath. She’s coming three strokes later.
“It’s been a while,” she gasps.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I slow down, trying to prolong the pleasure for as long as humanly possible.
But as usual, Sabrina has other ideas.
“Come on, Tuck. Fuck me hard.”
She digs her nails into my ass and I’m gone.
I hammer into her hard enough to drive her from one side of the bed to the other. She comes again and I finally let go.
I love this girl. Love her to death. The words are on the tip of my tongue and I barely manage to swallow them back. She’s not certain of me yet. I need to bide my time, but as long as I’m in the game, I’m not worried about the outcome.
“Gonna take care of the condom,” I murmur, and she nods sleepily.
When I get out of the bathroom, she’s tucked under the covers, fast asleep.
Smiling, I crawl in next to her, propping myself up on an elbow to stare at her beautiful face. Her thick lashes lay on her cheeks, and there’s a satisfied smile on her lips. To the outside world, Sabrina James puts on a good show of being tough and impervious to it all, but in reality, she’s vulnerable and sweet and precious.
I slide an arm under her neck, and even in slumber she turns into me, her legs twining with mine. We sleep wrapped up in each other. Two halves of a bigger, better whole.
*
The sound of retching wakes me up. Someone is puking her guts out in the bathroom. I glance at the clock—it’s not even six.
I stumble out of the bed, naked and not quite fully awake yet.
In the bathroom, I find Sabrina on her knees, bent over and heaving into the toilet.
I’m instantly alert. I grab a towel off the rack and wrap it around her shoulders. “What do you need?” I ask in a gentle voice.
She shakes her head wordlessly and then slumps against my legs. I reach down to smooth her hair away from her head, worry spiking in my blood. What the fuck should I do?
Without moving her, I reach behind me and fill a glass with water, then drop down on my haunches and offer her the glass.
“Thanks.” She accepts the glass with a trembling hand.
I stroke her back as she takes a timid sip. “Take your time.”
In my head, I’m already dialing up doctors and wheeling her into the emergency room, but I’ve got to frame it right or I know she’ll object. Before I can even broach the subject with her, she lurches forward and throws up the water she just drank.
I wait until she settles down again before lifting her into my arms and carrying her back to bed. “I’m taking you to a doctor,” I announce.
“No.” She grabs my wrist, but her grip is limp. “I’ll be fine in a few hours. I just overdid it this week.” Tears stain her face. “God, that was gross. I’m sorry.”
“Fuck, baby, who cares?” I hold her against my chest as I clear the sheets away for her.
Once I have her tucked in, I leave to get a washcloth and another glass of water. On my way back to the bed, I snag the trashcan and place it on the floor next to her.
I hate how miserable she looks, and my nurturing side kicks in as I lay the washcloth across her forehead. “You’ve been throwing up like this every day for how long?”
“I don’t know. A while. I caught a bug. Nana had it first and she’s finally gotten over it. I just need to wait it out. I’ll feel better in a few hours.”
“You got a fever? Should I get you some aspirin?” I press the back of my hand against her face. It doesn’t feel flushed.
“No fever,” she mumbles. “Just queasy and tired.”
An alarm bell rings in my head.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I run through her symptoms. The sickness in the morning, tapering off in the afternoons, the really tender breasts, her feelings of fatigue. No signs of fever. The fact that she’s never once had her period, or at least mentioned it, in the two-odd months we’ve been screwing.
“Are you pregnant?” I blurt out.
Her eyelids snap open. “What?”
“Pregnant.” I tick off her symptoms on each of my fingers, ending with the lack of period.
“No. I’m not. I just had my period…” She pauses and thinks. Her face goes white. “Close to three months ago,” she whispers. “But…I’ve always had light periods, even on the pill. And I’ve been spotting the last couple of months. I thought…”
I get to my feet and hunt down my clothes.
“Where are you going?” she whimpers.
“To buy a pregnancy test.” Or five. I swipe a package of crackers from the minibar and toss them toward her. “Try to eat, okay? I’ll be right back.”
She’s still protesting as I leave the room.
There’s a twenty-four-hour pharmacy eight blocks away. I sprint toward it like I’m trying to qualify for the Olympics, unconcerned that I totally forgot my coat at the hotel.
Inside the pharmacy, I find three different tests. I buy them all.
The clerk gives me a sympathetic look and opens his mouth to say something stupid. The death glare on my face has him clamping his lips together.
When I get back, Sabrina is sitting on the edge of the bed eating the crackers. I feel like the tests are superfluous at this point. She could be a commercial for pregnant chicks.
I’m surprisingly calm as I open each box. “Here you go. Three different ones.”
“We’ve been safe,” she says, her tone faraway as if she’s talking to herself rather than me. “I’m on the pill.”
“Except that first time.”
She grimaces. “It was just the tip.”
An involuntary laugh comes out. “Then peeing on the sticks only gives us peace of mind, right?”
She finishes her cracker in silence. I don’t know whether to sit beside her or on the loveseat. I opt for the couch to give her space. Sometimes Sabrina can be hard to read. Right now, I have zero idea what’s going through her head.
Slowly, she gets up and approaches the small cardboard boxes stacked on the desk as if they contain venomous snakes. But eventually she gets there, gathers the boxes in her arms, and disappears into the bathroom.
I don’t stand at the door with a cup against the wall, even though I’m tempted as fuck to do it. Instead, I turn on the television and watch a couple ladies try to sell me a velour tracksuit in various types of animal print—only $69.99.
I watch this mind-numbing display for ten eternal minutes before the bathroom door opens. Sabrina’s face is about the same shade of white as the hotel robe she’s wearing.
“Positive?” I ask unnecessarily.
She holds up an empty box. “You need to go buy ten more of these.”
I pat the sofa cushion next to me. “I’m not buying any more. Come and sit down.”
Like a belligerent child, she stomps over. Then she drops down next to me and covers her face with her hands. “I can’t have a baby, Tucker. I can’t.”
A sick feeling curdles in my stomach. It’s a weird mix of relief and disappointment. The words I love you—the ones I wanted to say earlier when I was buried inside her—are stuck in my throat. I can’t say them now.
“You do whatever you need to,” I whisper into her hair. “I’ve got you.”
It’s all I feel like I can say at this point, and I know it’s not enough.
19
Tucker
I always thought that if I knocked some
one up, I’d be able to talk to my friends about it. But I’ve known for nearly a week that my girlfriend is pregnant, and I haven’t said a single word to anyone.
Actually, no one even knows I have a girlfriend.
For that matter, neither do I.
Ever since Sabrina peed on three sticks and got three positive results, she’s been avoiding seeing me in person. We’ve texted every day, but she insists she’s too busy to meet up because she wants to get a leg up on the new semester. I’ve been trying to give her the space she clearly needs, but my patience is running thin.
We need to sit down and discuss this. I mean, we’re talking about a possible baby. A baby. Jesus. I’m freaking out here. I’m the guy who’s unshakable, the guy who can take any lickin’ and kick on tickin’, but the only thing ticking right now is my heart—at double time.
I don’t know how the hell to handle this. Sabrina said she couldn’t have a kid, and I plan to support whatever she decides, but I want her to include me, damn it. It rips me apart to think of her going through this alone.
She needs me.
“You making something to eat or just staring at the stove for funsies?”
Garrett’s voice draws me out of my misery. My roommate strolls into the kitchen with Logan on his tail. Both guys make a beeline for the fridge.
“Seriously,” Logan gripes as he peers into the refrigerator. “Feed us, Tuck. There’s nothing edible here.”
Yeah, I haven’t shopped for groceries all week. And when you live in a house full of hockey players, skipping out on the shopping is bad news.
I stare at the empty pot I’d placed on the burner. I didn’t have a menu in mind when I wandered into the kitchen, and with the sad assortment of ingredients we have on hand, there’s not much I can work with.
“I guess I’ll make some pasta,” I say glumly. Carbs at this hour isn’t the smartest idea, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Thanks, Mom.”
I cringe at that word. Mom. He might as well have said Dad. As in, I might be a fucking dad.
I draw a calming breath and fill the pot with water.
Logan beams at me. “Don’t forget to put on your apron.”
I give him the finger on my way to the pantry. “One of you lazy asses make yourself useful and chop some onions,” I mutter.
“On it,” Garrett says.
Logan flops down at the kitchen table and watches us like a jerk as we prepare a late dinner. “Make enough for five,” he tells us. “Dean’s working one-on-one with Hunter tonight. The kid might come back here with him.”
Garrett glances at me in amusement. “Naah, I think we’ll only make enough for four—right, Tuck? If Hunter’s here, he can take Logan’s spot.”
“Awesome idea.”
Our roommate rolls his eyes. “I’ll tell Coach you’re trying to starve me.”
“You do that,” Garrett says graciously.
I set the pot on the burner. While I wait for the water to boil, I scrounge around in the crisper for anything green. I find one pepper and two carrots. Whatever. Might as well chop ’em and throw ’em in the sauce.
We chat about nothing in particular as we prepare dinner. Or rather, they chat. I’m too busy internally freaking out about Sabrina. I guess that’s a testament to my acting skills, because my roommates don’t seem to notice that anything is out of the ordinary.
I’m about to dump two packages of penne in the boiling water when Garrett’s phone rings.
“It’s Coach,” he says, sounding slightly confused.
I set the pasta on the counter instead of in the pot and watch as Garrett takes the call. I don’t know why, but there’s a nervous feeling crawling up my spine. Coach Jensen doesn’t usually phone us off-hours for no reason. Garrett’s team captain, but it’s not like he’s getting nightly calls from the man.
“Hey, Coach. What’s up?” Garrett listens for a moment. His dark eyebrows knit, and then he speaks again. Warily. “I don’t understand. Why did Pat ask you to call me?”
He listens again. For much longer, this time.
Whatever Coach Jensen is telling him, it’s turning Garrett’s complexion to paste. By the time he hangs up, he’s as white as the walls.
“What’s wrong?” Logan demands. He doesn’t miss Garrett’s change in demeanor either.
Garrett shakes his head, looking stunned. “Beau Maxwell died.”
What?
Logan freezes.
I drop the spatula I’m holding. It clatters to the floor, and in the silence of the kitchen, it sounds like an explosion from a war film. We all flinch at the noise.
I don’t pick up the spatula. I just stare at Garrett, stupidly asking, “What?”
“Beau Maxwell died.” He continues to shake his head, over and over again, as if he can’t make sense of the words coming out of his own mouth.
“What do you mean, he died?” Logan growls in outrage. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”
Our team captain braces both hands on the counter. He’s actually shaking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Garrett lose his cool like this.
“Coach just got off the phone with Pat Deluca. Beau’s coach. Pat said Beau died.”
Without a word, I turn off the stove and stumble over to the kitchen table. I sink into the first chair I collide into and rub my fists over my forehead. This isn’t happening.
“How?” Logan snaps. “When?”
He sounds angry, but I can tell it’s all shock. Logan and Beau are close. Not as close as Dean and Beau, but—oh Jesus. Dean. Someone needs to tell Dean.
“Last night.” Garrett’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Car accident. He was in Wisconsin for his grandmother’s birthday. Coach said the roads were icy. Beau’s dad was driving the car and he swerved to avoid hitting a deer. The car flipped over and flew off the road and…” His words are choked now. “Beau broke his neck and died.”
Oh sweet Jesus.
Horror swirls in my gut like poison. Across from me, Logan is blinking back tears. We’re all just sitting there. Silent. Shocked. I’ve never…had a friend who died before. No relatives, either. My dad passed away when I was too young to really grieve for him. That was a car accident too. God. Why the fuck do we drive cars?
In the back of my mind, there’s a nagging thought that I should be doing something. I swipe a hand over my stinging eyes and force myself to focus.
Sabrina.
Fuck, that’s what I need to do. I need to call Sabrina and tell her the news. She used to date Beau. She cares about him.
Before I can move from my chair, the front door creaks open. The three of us tense up.
Dean’s home.
“Fuck,” Logan whispers.
“I’ll tell him,” Garrett says hoarsely.
Dean’s blond head is lowered as he wanders into the kitchen. He’s engrossed with his phone, his fingers tapping out a text message, probably to Allie. He doesn’t notice us at first, but even when he does, I don’t think he’s registering our expressions.
“What’s up?” he asks in an absentminded tone.
When none of us say a word, Dean frowns and puts the phone away. His gaze lands on Logan, and he stiffens when he sees our friend’s tears.
“What’s going on?” he demands.
Logan wipes his eyes.
I press my lips together.
“Seriously, if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on right this fucking second—”
“Coach called,” Garrett interrupts in a low voice. “He just got off the phone with Patrick Deluca, and, uh…”
Dean looks confused.
Garrett keeps talking, though I wish he wouldn’t. I wish we didn’t have to tell Dean about Beau. I wish we didn’t even know about Beau.
I wish…lots of things. But right now, wishes mean shit.
“I guess Deluca called him because he knows we’re friends with Beau—”
“This is about Maxwell? What about him?”
Logan and
I both stare at our hands.
Garrett has more courage than us, because he doesn’t shy away from Dean’s anxious gaze. “He…ah…died.”
Just like that, Dean falls into a trance. It’s painful to watch, and I have no idea how to draw him out of it. Garrett repeats what he told Logan and me, but it’s obvious our teammate isn’t listening. Dean’s green eyes are glazed, his mouth parted slightly as he sucks in uneven breaths.
It’s only when Garrett says that Beau died on impact that Dean blinks himself back to reality. “Can you tell it to me again?” he croaks. “What happened, I mean.”
“Goddamn it, why?”
“Because I need to hear it again.” Dean is adamant.
We watch as he marches to the cupboards and grabs a bottle of whiskey from the top one. He takes a deep swig right out of the bottle before staggering over to sit beside me.
Garrett starts talking again. Christ. I don’t know if I can hear this awful story again. Dean passes me the whiskey and I take a small sip before passing it to Logan. I can’t get wasted right now. I plan on driving tonight.
Once Garrett is finished, Dean pushes his chair back and stands up. He clutches the Jack Daniel’s bottle in both hands like it’s a security blanket. “Going upstairs,” he mumbles.
“Dean—” I start, but our teammate is already gone.
We hear footsteps climbing the stairs. A thump. A door clicking shut.
Silence falls over the kitchen.
“I have to leave,” I mutter to Garrett and Logan, unsteadily rising to my feet.
Neither of them ask me where I’m going.
*
Sabrina
I stare at Tucker, unable to comprehend what he’s saying. When he texted to say he was coming to Boston to see me tonight, I expected a serious discussion about our unplanned pregnancy. I panicked, told him I was studying, and he all but said tough shit. I think his exact message was: I’m coming. We’re talking.
The entire hour I was waiting for him, I gave myself pep talk after pep talk. I ordered myself to put on my big-girl pants and deal with this pregnancy the way I deal with everything else in my life—head on. I reminded myself that Tuck had said I’ve got you, that he’d support whatever I chose to do.
