by Teagan Kade
Not anymore.
I move past the drawers in the bedroom, my hand running over the polished wood. There’s barely anything in here, which is another anomaly considering the stuff Carter used to own. I imagine he didn’t have much in prison, emerging now as something of a minimalist. I like that, the idea everything you own should be precious, have meaning. I was like that once upon a time, but with David I was swept up into the world of consumerism, constantly trying to keep up with New York’s finest Joneses, never enough couture in the wardrobe or copies of The Robb Report on the kitchen counter.
One day David arrived home with a brand-new Ferrari—in garish red, of course. It wasn’t the fact he’d bought it that annoyed me. After all, he was (I thought) making plenty of money. It was the fact he never discussed it with me, even brought it up. Such was our relationship, my role nothing more than the required arm candy.
I open the top drawer beside the bed. I shouldn’t, but I figure Carter and I shared enough last night to make it somewhat less immoral.
I don’t know what I expect to find—giant dildos, a murder weapon—but there’s only one thing inside. I take it out, holding it between my fingers close to my face.
It’s a tiny four-inch photo of Carter and me at Westminster Park. We must have been seventeen, maybe eighteen. I’d gotten this Fuji Instax camera for my birthday, a kind of modern Polaroid that spits out photos on demand. This was the first photo I took with it.
In it, Carter has his arm around me. I’m pulling my mouth wide, sticking my tongue out. We look like we’ve having a lot of fun, a natural couple, but as I look closer I see something else. In the background, faintly, stands David. He’s watching on with an expression that’s at first hard to place but on closer observation becomes obvious.
Jealousy.
Even back then?
I never noticed it. Was I really that ignorant of what was going on?
Probably.
To think Carter has kept this photo all these years… I imagine it pinned to his cell wall, maybe stuffed inside his pillow. He probably looked at it, thinking about me, Wilson in his hand…
Oh, yes. I’m sure he ‘thought’ about it long and hard.
I put the photo back where I found it and head into the kitchen for a snack.
My cell rings. I answer, thinking it’s Carter, but a voice I do not recognize comes on the line.
“Mrs. White? Mrs. Wren White?”
I hold the cell away, looking at the screen. The number reads ‘unknown’. The calls from the media have been constant, but I’ve been able to ignore them until now. I should hang up, but instead I reply, “Yes.”
“My name’s Matt Leroux. I work for The American. I was hoping for a comment from you on—”
“Sorry,” I spit out, cutting him off and hanging up, placing the cell down as if it’s suddenly become a biohazard.
They’re just going to keep calling, babe.
The door opens, Carter spilling inside with an armful of groceries. I help him move them to the counter.
He looks at me quizzically. “Everything good?”
I nod to the cell. “Another reporter.”
“Oh,” he says, taking hold of me. “They’ll go away eventually, move onto whichever reality star is locked up for a DUI or found banging the pool boy this week.”
I squeeze his butt. “I think you’d make a pretty good pool boy.”
He kisses my forehead, the hard lines of his face belying how soft his lips are. “With my big stick and sun-kissed body? Didn’t you get enough of that during our little skinny dip last night?”
“Ha!” I hoot. “It was hardly skinny dipping given the decided lack of water. Mud dipping? Is that a thing?”
“Only if you’re from Mississippi.”
His hand runs up my neck, into my hair. “I can tell you one thing I’d like to dip into right about now.”
“The extra tub of Nutella I just made you drive twelve miles for?”
He gives a little start, fingers lightly tugging on my hair, forcing my head back. “If I had it my way, I wouldn’t be using it on a sandwich?”
“A crepe?” I joke. “A croissant? Oui oui!”
He spins me around until I’m facing the bedroom, a tap on the ass sending me forwards. “Shut up and take your clothes off.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
CARTER
It’s quiet save for the hum of the Zamboni as I drive around the rink, the ice a silver mirror. I savor the smell, the atmosphere. But within it I’m thinking about Wren and the perfection of her body, its own sweet scent and warm, wet places. I never dreamed it was possible to be this happy, this fulfilled, and there’s not a pill or bleached blonde in sight.
I come around for the final pass and spot someone standing in the shadows beside the rink. I finish up and garage the Zamboni, journeying around the rink to meet my mystery guest.
A familiar face steps into the light.
I stop short. “Coach Williams?”
The cap-wearing head coach of the Vancouver Canucks nods. “You’re looking good, White.”
I come forward to shake his hand. “For a con.”
Coach Williams takes my hand and waves off the suggestion. “Don’t talk yourself down, son. Everyone makes mistakes. It was a helluva mistake, granted, but I’ve never thought it right to judge a man on his past actions.”
“You’re looking pretty good yourself, Coach.”
He takes off his Canucks cap, running his hand through his hair. “Well, there’s more salt than pepper up here now, I piss four times a night, but I’m still kicking ass.”
I lean against the glass. “So I’ve heard. The Canucks killed it last season.”
He smiles with pride. “It’s a great team, a real nice mix of boys we’ve got, but I miss your slapshot, son. You used to get so much stick on the damn puck I’m amazed it never caught fire.”
I smile back. “What was it you used to say? Pain goes away, pride lasts forever?”
“I say a lot of stupid shit.” Williams beams. “But yeah, I believe that, and has it? Has your pain gone away?”
I reach down to my knee. “It’s fine, been fine for a long time now, in fact.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I’m not talking about your damn knee, son.” He taps his chest. “This pain.”
I exhale. “Yeah, it has. I’m in a good place, a great place,” I correct.
Coach Williams looks through the glass. “I know. I’ve been watching you.”
I wasn’t expecting this. “Watching me?”
He points above us to the office overlooking the rink with its one-way windows. “Steve called me up one night, told me you working here, training in your off time.”
Fucking Steve. “He did, did he?”
“It’s a long-ass drive out here to Nowheresville, but I was curious.” He jerks his head to the ice. “You’re back in form, Carter. I mean, you look seriously good out there.”
I can’t help the smile deepening. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Are you looking to make a move back into the big league?”
I hadn’t even considered it as a possibility. I address the elephant in the room. “I don’t think the league would take too kindly to the Canucks hiring back a convicted felon.”
Williams lists off his fingers. “Craig MacTavish: got a year for vehicular homicide. Mike Danton: seven-and-a-half. Dany Heatly, Slava Voynov…”
“But these guys were convicted of crimes while in the NHL. They weren’t exactly welcomed back.”
Williams turns his lip up. “A valid point, but I’ve got a lot of pull with the Board these days. I think I could make it happen if you’re willing to show you’ve turned your life around. The NHL loves that fluffy, Hallmark shit deep down.” He sees I’m not convinced. “Look, come down to Rogers Tuesday night, meet the team. We can go from there.”
Coach Williams extends his hand. I shake it again. “Alright, Coach.”
He claps me on the shoulder with his f
ree hand. “That’s the spirit, Crusher.”
*
I’m walking into the crisp night air, walking on a fucking cloud given Coach Williams’s visit. It drops when I spot the same busted-up white Accord I saw the other day. It’s parked in the lot across the road.
Motherfucker.
I cross the street as quick as I can.
The Accord’s lights come on. It starts to back out of the lot, but I’m already at the window, tapping on it with my fist.
It comes down, the camera that was just levelled at me placed on the passenger seat. “Matt fucking Leroux. I feel like Ebenezer Scrooge with all these blasts from the past tonight.”
“Yes,” the infamous reporter nods. “I saw Coach Williams just now. What was he after?”
I shake my head, arm pressed up against the A-frame of the car. “Like I would fucking tell you anything after the shit you published about me back in the day. What I should do is reach across your scrawny ass and smash that camera into a thousand fucking pieces.”
Matt grins. It’s only been two years, but he looks more like a man in his fifties than thirties. “That was local paper stuff, Crusher. You were the only celebrity in Oatville. What the fuck else was I going to write about? The state of Main Street? New management at the General Store?”
“And I suppose you’ve moved up in the world?”
“New York, in fact. I’m writing for The American now.”
“What does a big, fancy paper like The American want with me?”
He shakes his head. “No, not you, Carter. Wren. Wren White.”
I lean in. “What the fuck do you want with her?”
He puts his hands up. “Easy, big fella, but let’s face it. Your brother was something of a high flyer in the Big Apple. People want to know what happened. They want the real story.”
“Wren had nothing to do with it.”
“And how would you know that?”
I reach in for the camera. He picks it up, handing it towards me. “Go ahead. It’s on Wi-Fi, every shot I take instantly streamed back to the office.”
I slam my boot into the side of his car. Another dent’s not going to make a difference. I’ve had just about enough of this asshole. “Leave us the fuck alone or I’ll Wi-Fi that camera right up your ass.”
I stride away furious.
Forget it, I tell myself. Wren’s safe from vultures like Matt Leroux.
But for how long? Comes the quiet reply.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WREN
Three hours in and I realize hiking is a lot like a round of tequila shots—It sounds like a good idea until you’re actually doing it.
The one saving grace is Carter powering on ahead, the greatest view so far his perfect butt squeezed so deliciously into that naturally distressed denim. When he says we should switch up halfway along the track, I complain bitterly until I think of his eyes glued to my ass, the pleasure it will bring him in return.
Is it hard to walk with a giant boner? I wonder.
Boner? my head questions. Girl, that thing’s a telegraph pole, relaying nothing but pleasure down the line.
I’m somewhat relived to reach the summit, the gloomy wash of clouds that have been gathering this morning dissipating into the kind of cobalt perfection I’ve always associated with Canada.
We’re alone on the summit of St. Mark’s, a soft whistling as the breeze moves through the trees below.
Carter stands beside me with his hands on his hips. “Do you remember the last time we were up here?”
“Vaguely. I did it in those purple Chuck Taylors I had and a tank top, right? I don’t even think we brought water, did we?”
“No,” he replies, “but you did bring that silly camera of yours.”
“The Instax?”
“Yeah, the Polaroid thing.”
I think of the photo I found in his top drawer. “I kind of wish I’d kept more of those photos.”
He turns to me. “I must confess I kept one—for nostalgia’s sake.”
I feign surprise. “Oh?”
“I had it inside with me.”
“Am I in the photo?”
“You are.”
“You couldn’t have gone with a Playboy centerfold instead like everyone else?”
He laughs. “Oh, you’re so much better than any of those airheads.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
“I was a shameless womanizer once upon a time.”
“And you’re not anymore?”
He smiles. “Little bird, if being with you every night means I’m a taken man, so be it.”
“That’s a funny proposal.”
He laughs again, kicking at the gravel, the breeze picking up and tossing his inky hair about. “When I propose, you’ll know it.”
“I should hope so.”
We stand there quietly admiring the view.
“My old coach came past the rink last night,” says Carter.
“From high school?”
“No. Coach Williams, from the Canucks.”
“He just felt like popping in to say hi?”
“He’d heard I was training, decided to do a bit of sleuthing. In fact, he thinks there’s a shot I could get back into game.”
“Wow. That’s great news.” I genuinely mean it.
“He wants me to go to Vancouver, to Rogers Arena, meet the new team.”
“You should. You said your knee was better.”
He’s shaking his head. “I never thought I’d get a chance again. Even inside, I’d ruled it out… until you.”
“You’re saying I’m your lucky charm?”
“You’re far more than that.”
I’m overcome with an urge to slide my hands down his pants when I hear voices. I look past Carter and sure enough another couple is making their way up the track.
Carter greets them before they continue past us to the left of the summit.
I feel Carter’s lips against my ear. “When we get back to the cabin, I’m going to fuck you until you scream. You’re going to come so hard for me.”
I grab his crotch and squeeze. “We’ve got to make it down first.”
“Going down’s my favorite part,” he smiles.
I roll my eyes. “And there you go with the lines again.”
“It’s no line. It’s the truth.”
We head home and make love. It’s the kitchen counter this time, my cell bleating beside us with yet another ‘Unknown.’
I should be exhausted, spent, but I can’t seem to get enough. Who needs a workout when you’ve got Carter White? I think.
Lying in bed later, I wake in the mood for a midnight snack.
I throw the quilt off, kneeling between his legs, wind howling against the window pane.
You naughty thing, you.
He stirs, but doesn’t wake.
I pull his boxers down, his immense cock springing free, a solid shaft of flesh I have no idea how I’m going to handle.
I take it with one hand, enjoy the way it’s already growing in my fingers.
My lips close over the sensitive head of his cock, but when I try to go deep, I have to pull back, having a somewhat difficult time getting his length into my tiny mouth.
I give a little moan of frustration and try again, using my tongue to coat the velvety line of his shaft, my hot mouth working and my left hand lightly jerking him off.
It’s unreal. I never had this urge with David. I never initiated anything.
I concentrate on just the head of his member. As I wrap my fingers around his shaft tighter and pump him into my mouth, he starts to jerk his hips against me.
I know my technique isn’t the best, my teeth lightly brushing his skin even as I attempt to tuck them away behind my lips, but I don’t think he cares given the way he’s moaning and mewing, eyes still closed.
I’m not going to give up. I open my jaw as wide as it will go, take a breath, and let the bulk of his cock run into the tight compress of
my throat.
I gag almost instantly, eyes wide in alarm as I draw him up, but if anything he looks pleased.
“Try again,” he whispers. “But relax more.”
I take another breath and try again, this time succeeding in keeping his cock planted in my throat, raising my head up and down in his lap as I begin to find a rhythm.
He uses his own hand to guide my actions. It’s comical, the size of him in my grip. My fingers can barely close around him.
His breathing grows more rapid. He places his hand on the top of my head, pushing me up and down.
I can’t believe I’m doing this, that I’ve become such a sudden sex kitten.
He lifts his hips, face pulled tight, my bare breasts swinging lightly to and fro in my flannel PJs, my pussy hot and wet.
I pump his thick shaft harder, sucking with everything I have, determined to bring about his release.
And boy do I get it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CARTER
The meet with the new Canucks goes well the following night. I expected friction, but the team seemed happy enough to have me around, even let me onto the ice for a bit of back-and-forth. Williams looked pleased enough.
I arrive home late, but can’t resist picking up Wren before I head back to the Oatville Ice Palace.
I switch on the rink lights. “Remember this place?”
Wren looks around, hands in her jacket pockets. “Wow, it hasn’t changed a bit. It even smells like sweaty underwear still.”
I grab her from behind, sniffing her neck, her tight ass against my cock. “That smell is beautiful.”
She spins around in my grip, hands on my chest. “You are beautiful.”
I nod to the rink. “You want to?”
“Skate?” she laughs. “I haven’t put on a pair of skates in years.”
I head over to the rental counter, running through the skates racked up. “What were you, an eight, right?”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
“How could I forget? I can’t tell you how many lonely nights I spent dreaming about you inside.”
“I do not want to hear about your spank bank.”
I select a pair of eights, placing them on the counter. “Another time then.”
