Teaching Tucker (Face-Off Legacy Book 3)

by Jillian Quinn

  She swallowed and then rolled her tongue across her lips. Holding out my hand for her to take, I lifted her up from the bed. Her lips crashed against mine, our tongues working in harmony, our bodies fused together as one.

  When I kissed her, I lost myself. She consumed me to the brink of madness. I couldn’t get enough of her.

  After I peeled my lips from hers, I bent down to suck on her nipple, taking it between my teeth, nibbling on it while massaging her other breast. Her tits were big and firm, and they fit in my hands perfectly. A soft moan escaped her lips when I tugged harder, ripping at her delicate flesh.

  “Turn around,” I told her, my voice coming off like a growl.

  Her eyes lit up with genuine excitement which quickly turned to worry. I had promised to break her, and yet she still hadn’t seen that side of me. But she would. She would feel me everywhere for days after leaving the house.

  My cock was hard again, and all I could think about was burying it inside her. With her back facing me, I pressed my palm to her skin and bent her over the bed. She moved her elbows to the mattress with her ass up in the air. Glancing over her shoulder at me, she watched me roll the condom down my length and let out a painful moan when I thrust into her, filling her at once.

  She screamed from my cock tearing through her inner walls, giving her no time to prepare for my size. I wanted to fuck, rough and hard, until I rubbed her pussy raw.

  I ran my hand over her ass in a circular motion and then gripped her hips firmly enough to leave a mark. She felt amazing, soaking wet and tight. It was like fucking a virgin, and for a split second, I wondered if she was, though I hoped she wasn’t. Taking someone’s virginity was a responsibility, one I didn’t want.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned. “Yes, yes…”

  “That’s it.” I moved one hand to her hair to grip her locks between my fingers, tugging hard enough to force her to look up at me. “Now be a good girl and come for me.”

  And she did. As if my command was enough, she tightened her hold on me. Her pussy milked my cock, squeezing me in a vise as her orgasm rocked through her body. She trembled beneath me, her pleasure hitting her in waves which helped to speed up my own. Not long after she came, I collapsed on top of her, my cock pulsing one last time before I pulled out of her.

  She hit the mattress with a loud sigh and rolled over. “Wow! That was…” Samantha was so out of breath she couldn’t finish her train of thought.

  I dropped to the bed next to her and smirked. “Glad you’re satisfied.”

  “More than satisfied,” she whispered. “I think you actually broke me.”

  Her comment made me laugh. “Hey, I warned you.”

  She closed her eyes for a second, a smile on her lips.

  Being with Samantha was one of the highlights of my sex life too. But I wasn’t about to confess that to her. Her lips, that mouth, her tight pussy, she was perfect as if made for me.

  Samantha moved her hands behind her head and looked at me as if she were trying to extract all my secrets. Something about the way she stared at me sort of freaked me out. And then I felt the need to be as far away from her as possible. Intimacy was fine while I was in the moment, but once I’d come down from my high, I disconnected. I didn’t do commitment.

  She focused on my face giving me a dreamy look that made me wonder if she was planning our wedding. That happened a lot—more times than I could count.

  My relationships lasted a total of one night. Nothing more. I never made promises, apart from making them come and sending them home with a smile on their face.

  “I don’t do relationships,” I confessed to clear the air.

  She pulled her eyes from mine, her smile slowly turning into a frown. Fuck, I didn’t mean to upset her, but I wanted to make it clear. Hockey came first.

  “It’s all good,” she said after a long pause. “Me either.” Samantha sat up and leaned forward to retrieve the sheet from the floor along with her thong. “I’m kinda busy with school, so don’t worry about it. This was fun.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, it was.”

  A small part of me wanted to ask for her number in case I wanted to see her again. But that was the strange thing about how I felt at the moment.

  “I remember her,” I say to Romeo. “Best blow job I’ve ever had.”

  He winks. “You never forget the good ones.”

  “Sam works with Eden, you know… at Broad Street Beans.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “They work a lot of the same shifts.”

  She must have watched me walk into the coffee shop and sent Eden in her place.

  But why?

  We had a good time that night.

  She knew the deal and was okay with nothing more than one night of sex.

  Now, I need to find out why she’s avoiding me.

  Chapter Six

  Sam

  Gripping the grocery bags in my hands, I reach into my pocket for the key to my father’s house. My fingers tremble as I flip through the ring, fumbling with each of them. Nerves rock through my body while I stare up at the row house where I grew up in the Mayfair section of Philadelphia.

  I hate this house.

  No, I despise this house.

  And I hate what awaits me inside.

  Every Saturday I have to confront my father. He’s an embarrassment, a poor excuse of a man, and can barely take care of himself. The bills are only ever paid on time because of me. There’s only ever food in the refrigerator because of me. And he’s the reason I have to work three jobs.

  My father makes enough money working for the gas company that I don’t qualify for grants. But he spends it on beer and cards—the two loves of his life. Though, I did receive a partial scholarship for my grades, and it helps some, but not enough to make my tuition more affordable.

  As I push the front door open, my stomach lurches at the smell of cigarettes. The smoky scent fills my nostrils the further I make my way inside. I want to run away screaming. But I force myself to do my daughterly duty. This is my obligation. He’s my responsibility.

  What was once white paint on the walls is now a yellowish brown, the carpets frayed and scorched in various places. My nostrils burn from the thick cloud of smoke in the air.

  “Wake up, Jim,” I yell at my father, who’s passed out drunk on the living room couch with a lit cigarette pressed between his fingers. It’s burning at the ends, the ash so long it’s fallen onto the carpet. “Get. The. Fuck. Up.”

  My anger surges through me, coursing through my veins like poison. He presses every button inside me, turns me into a person I don’t like. I turn into a raging monster every time he’s near. Seeing him unshaven, dirty, and in clothes with stains on them repulses me.

  How is this man my blood?

  How did I come from him?

  After my mom died, he fell apart. I was ten years old when she was diagnosed with cancer. At a time when I needed him most, he abandoned me, forced me to grow up faster. I lost both of my parents the day my mother died. Except this bastard is still alive, still breathing by some miracle.

  I drop the groceries on the coffee table, the cans at the bottom of the bags waking my asshole father from a sound sleep. He blinks a few times, his eyes closing over for a few seconds before he opens them again. I have the same denim blue eyes, though his are bloodshot and glassy. He rubs the sleep from them, rolling onto his side to prop himself up on the arm of the couch.

  “Savannah?” His words are slurred, my mother’s name slipping from his chapped lips.

  “No, it’s me. Your daughter… Samantha.”

  He blinks again, attempting to sit up straight without much luck. Slumping against the arm of the couch, he presses his palm to the side of his face to keep his head up. “Oh, Sam. I wasn’t expecting you.” He tries once more to get up from the couch and fails.

  It’s pathetic.

  He’s pathetic.

  I shake my head in disgust. “It’s Saturday, Jim. Of course, you fo
rgot. Again. Clean yourself up. You look like you’re homeless and smell like you are, too.”

  I haven’t called him Dad in so many years it doesn’t feel natural to me. Every week I hope he’ll be different, that he will wake up from his mental prison and get his act together. But the day has yet to come. After spending over ten years in constant mourning, he’s never shown a sign of change. He doesn’t want to be better. Jim drowns his sorrows in a bottle and surrounds himself with other degenerates.

  My father stares at the stained white t-shirt he’s wearing, gripping the cotton in his hand. He gives it a once-over, realization scrolling across his withered face. Fifty years old, and he looks almost as old as my grandfather. Honestly, they could pass for twins. It’s depressing to see him like this. A mixture of sadness and anger bubbles up inside my chest. I want to cry, scream, and curse him out.

  But what good will it do?

  Nothing gets through to him.

  Staring down at him, I throw my hands on my hips, seething mad, black dots filling my vision. “Did you go to work this week?”

  He scratches the dark stubble on his chin, confused and disoriented. I doubt he has a clue what day it is, which means he can’t remember the last day he worked. I’m sure he’s already out of vacation and sick days. Within the first month or two he earns time off, he’s already run through it.

  Sick to my stomach I turn away, unable to look at him. “There better be enough money in the checking account for me to pay the bills.” My words are like venom stinging my lips. “I can’t work any more hours than I already have this month to support you and your addictions.”

  He doesn’t process a single word I’ve said, a blank stare on his face as he reaches for the pack of Marlboro Red’s on the coffee table in front of him. After he lights a cigarette, he sinks back against the dirty couch we’ve had since I was a child. It’s the same color as the walls, stained from age and smoke. With the cigarette pressed between his lips, Jim glances up at the ceiling, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

  I can’t take it anymore. Desperate to escape this ridiculous excuse for a father, I lift the bags from the table and dart through the living room, dining room, and into the kitchen. My heart races, my ears ringing from the panic attack coming on, rocking me to the core. Gripping the edge of the countertop, I look down, sucking in a deep breath.

  I close my eyes in an attempt to center myself. My pulse quickens to a dangerous pace, my internal struggle all too real. This is what he does to me. What he will continue to do as long as I choose to come here to put up with this shit.

  I deserve better, needing a father capable of loving his only child. He doesn’t even love himself. So, why would he love me? I can’t even recall how he used to be, what he was like when my mother was still alive.

  I often remind myself of the little things like the scent of her perfume or the color of her lipstick. But not a single good thing about Jim registers in my brain. It’s as if all the good memories have been forever replaced with the bad. I wish she were still here. We need her. My mom was the invisible glue I didn’t know back then was holding us together.

  After I compose myself, I put the groceries away and then head back into the living room. He’s still in the same place he was when I left. No surprise there. Still staring up at the ceiling, now with ash on his cheek, the cigarette burnt down to the filter.

  Wow, this is my father. What a role model.

  Hovering over him, I rip the cigarette from his mouth and drop it into the ashtray on the coffee table.

  Where do I begin?

  I have so many things to say and yet no idea where to start.

  “You’re killing yourself, and by making me watch, you’re killing me, too. I can’t take much more of this, Jim. I’ll stop coming here on Saturdays, believe me I will.”

  “Then don’t,” he grunts, with one eye open. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  I tilt my head back and laugh. And it’s a crazy laugh, an evil cackle that comes up from my stomach. “You need more than a babysitter. Someone needs to strap you to a hospital bed for a few weeks to dry you out.”

  He frowns, his eyes shifting to the table where an empty beer rests on its side with a few drops of liquid spilling onto the scratched wood. “I can stop at any time.”

  “Then do it! You’ve been saying this for years. Words mean nothing without actions. If that were true, you would have done it by now. You would have gotten yourself some help.”

  He digs his elbows into his thighs, using them to support his weight. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  “Sorry is just a word,” I growl. “It means nothing to me. I’ve heard it more times than I can count. Make a change. Show me you care. Do something, anything. Just get off the damn couch and stay out of the bar and casino. Pay your bills on time. Go to work. Act like a normal human being. And when you can do all of those things, then we’ll have something to talk about, then your sorry will mean something to me.”

  Only Eden knows about my father. She’s come here on occasion to keep me from having a nervous breakdown. I couldn’t wait to room with Eden when we met at freshman orientation. Even though I can commute to Strick U, I couldn’t live here and stay sane. Plus, living on campus has its perks. Like rolling out of bed in the morning for early classes. It’s also more convenient to get to work.

  Pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers, I sigh. “I have to go. There’s food in the fridge. It should last you another week.”

  He tugs at the ends of his dark hair, fisting it between his fingers. His greasy hair stands at attention, even more of a hot mess than before.

  “Get a shower,” I bark, pointing at the stairs. “At least pretend like you care about your appearance.”

  Every week I find him in the same condition. My life is like the movie Groundhog Day without all the humor. No, this is just sad. He’s the reason I never let anyone new into my life. It’s hard enough being a scholarship kid at a school like Strickland University, let alone the one with a loser father.

  Kids were brutal enough when I was younger. I was teased left and right because of him, sent to school in unwashed clothes with knotted hair and dirty skin. He could have cared less about me. Even when the teachers told him about the harassment, he didn’t bother to change. Because he didn’t love anyone or anything more than the bottle that kept him warm at night.

  My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, sending a vibration down my right thigh. Another notification dings, followed by another. I remove the phone from my pocket and roll my thumb over the screen to read the messages. The Stick Net app opens, and I’m confronted with another man I don’t want to deal with. Tucker Kane.

  PuckMe_69: I bet you thought you had me fooled, Samantha.

  PuckMe_69: You owe me an explanation.

  PuckMe_69: And $50. Or an hour of your time.

  My blood runs cold from his words. Does he remember me? He sure as hell has never acted like it when we see each other on campus. So, I had assumed he’d forgotten me or, at least, he pretended to. And I have no idea how to respond.

  He wants an hour of my time?

  I don’t have fifty dollars that’s for sure. But I don’t want to face him.

  Decisions, decisions…

  Chapter Seven

  Tucker

  “Looking good, Tuck,” Coach calls out from behind me, watching as I slap the puck into the net.

  He comes up beside me and clamps his hand on my right shoulder. “I don’t know what changes you’ve made lately, but whatever it is, keep up the good work. I can already see an improvement.”

  I nod, skating alongside him off the ice. “I’ll be ready for Penn State. So will Trent.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. At least you’ll be ready after your suspension is lifted.” He pats my back, forcing me forward, as we make our way toward the locker room with the rest of my teammates. “Make sure you keep up with your conditioning. No more screwing around until after we win another ch
ampionship. You have a shot at the NHL, but nothing is guaranteed. Not until you sign on the dotted line of a contract, and even then you still have to work your ass off to stay there. I got a phone call this morning… scouts will be at the Penn State game.”

  A smile turns up the corners of my mouth. “I’ll be ready, Coach. No more fucking off.”

  We walk into the locker room, and Coach Bryant continues, “I remember your first tryout for the team. You reminded me so much of your father. But you’re not him. You can be even better if you put in the work.” He smiles. “You’re not the first player I’ve coached who will make it to the NHL, but you’re one of the most promising. Most of the guys who make it can’t hack it.”

  “I won’t be one of them, Coach.”

  “No, you won’t.” His tone is confident, strong. “We just need to get you through this last season without any more disciplinary actions or injuries. Go hit the weight room and grab Trent on your way there.”

  I strip off my gloves and drop them on the floor next to my locker. “You got it.”

  Ten minutes later, I stroll through the doors of the gym with my brother and head into the weight room.

  “I’ll spot you,” I tell Trent.

  He sits down on the weight bench, leaning forward to pick up two dumbbells. We lift in silence for a few minutes taking breaks between sets before he drops the dumbbells on the floor and rests his elbows on his knees, his hair falling onto his face damp with sweat. He wears his longer than I do, somewhat shaggy and always swept over his forehead, where mine is gelled into place. That’s how most people can tell us apart.

  “Did you hear back from the tutor?” he says, still catching his breath.

  “No,” I spit back. “She read my messages but never responded.”

  “You need to find someone else.”

  I smirk. “She’s not getting away that easy. I gave her friend fifty dollars. I want the hour I paid for.”