by Teagan Kade
“Come,” he says, “come all over my fat fucking cock.”
“I’m going to—” I come, my pussy and ass convulsing together. I feel wet release around his fingers as my body is wracked over and over with the most intense sensation I’ve ever experienced.
“Fuck,” he collapses over my body, his cock wedged as far into my ass as it will go as he releases, his hot cum spewing deep into my body.
He jerks a final time, his cock twitching in my ass before he slides it out slick, huffing and panting behind me.
With a final spattering of contractions, I’m done, collapsing onto my knees on the carpet, head lowered as I try to regain my breath. My heart rate is out of control.
On shaky legs, I try to stand again.
He helps me up.
I wipe away the drool running from the corner of my mouth. “I’m a mess.”
“A hot mess,” he corrects. “But you enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?”
“If that’s what you mean by scoring, sign me up for more game time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CARTER
It’s late when I finish up at the rink the following night, working with the fresh memory of what happened here yesterday. I thought showing that side of myself would drive her away, but she lapped it up, begged me for more.
I’m exhausted, but my cock doesn’t share the same sentiment, tenting up my pants thinking about Wren’s tight body and haunting eyes, the way her pussy and ass gripped and milked me dry. All those nights spent with my dick in hand and now I have the real thing. I don’t deserve it.
I park the Zamboni and stand at the glass looking into the rink. Even at this late hour it’s calling to me. There’s genuine hope now, hope I might be able to make my way back into the NHL. Coach Williams said himself I was close, to come down tomorrow for training. That is my time to shine, to show everyone Crusher White is back in business, that my time spent inside wasn’t in vain, that I’m physically and mentally prepared to kick ass.
I head into the locker room and gear up, putting on my skates, and heading out onto the ice. It’s slick as a motherfucking mirror, polished to icy perfection.
I’m tired, but I go harder than I should. I work on puck control first before shifting into straight shooting and stickhandling drills. An hour in, I decide to finish up with sprints.
I hear the ice sluicing below as I jet for the other end of the rink, pulling up just before the barrier and skating back with all the speed I can muster.
By the third revolution there’s a whisper of pain in my knee, but I push it aside, decide to carry on.
By the fifth revolution it’s less of a whisper and more of a roar, but still I ignore it, thinking I can power through it.
My arrogance is my undoing.
I’m halfway down the rink when it gives way completely.
It’s hard to describe that kind of pain to someone who’s never experienced it—a deep, stabbing butter knife twisting into your cartilage, bringing you down whether you like it or not.
And I go down—hard.
I’m not wearing a helmet, my head impacts so hard I immediately feel blood spilling from my forehead over the ice, a rosy bloom of it.
I slide and roll, my knee crashing into the ice again and fresh pain lighting up my entire body.
I scream out and release my stick, hands gripping my knee but failing to contain the intense agony.
Stay calm.
I come to a stop on my back. I stare up at the corrugated roof above, the rink lights blaring down.
I breathe across the ice, blood running down into my eye.
I hold my knee, but by doing so I’m only making it worse. I realize I’m doing it because I want to hold it together, to hold the torn remnants of my dream alive.
Forget it. It’s over.
And with that thought the lights above diminish into a pinprick until all is black and quiet.
*
Someone’s slapping my face.
I open my eyes and try to draw focus, thinking it’s Wren, my savior.
But it’s Steve. His face is hashed with worry. He slaps my face again, his voice growing louder in the fog of my head. “Carter?” He looks down my body. “Jesus.”
He wipes my eye. I wince, notice there’s blood on his hand.
It starts to come back to me, and with it comes the pain.
He’s on his cell when I pass out again.
*
I wake up in a white room, which means I’m in one of only two places—a hospital, or a mental institution. As my eyes start to adjust, I’m wishing it was the institution.
A blonde-haired doctor stands beside my bed. “Welcome back, Mr. White.”
It’s déjà fucking vu.
The pain starts to flare. My mouth is dry, my tongue sandpaper. “I fucked it up again, didn’t I?”
The doctor nods. “If you’re referring to your knee, I’m afraid so.”
“How bad?”
“Specifically, you—”
I put my hand up. “Save me the specifics. When can I get back on the ice?”
The doctor looks to the other side of the room where Steve is waiting. “I’m afraid your hockey days are over, Mr. White.”
I slam my head back against the pillow. “Don’t even start with that shit again.”
“The damage,” says the doctor, “is extensive. It was a time bomb waiting to happen, really. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
Worse? What could be worse?
“Fuck that,” I yell, thrashing in the bed, thrashing until the pain becomes too much.
Steve comes over, tapping the doctor on the shoulder. “Do you mind if we have a moment, Doc?”
The doctor smiles and leaves, thankful to get away.
Steve closes the door before sitting on the bed.
“Where’s Wren?” I ask, scanning the room for her. Everything is pressing down on me. It’s hard to breathe.
“She doesn’t know yet, but I’ll go and get her right away, okay? In the meantime, you have to relax, listen to the doctor.”
I shake my head. “Fuck him. Fuck them all. I’ll play again.”
Steve exhales. “I wish I could sugarcoat this, friend, glitter it up, but it’s a turd of a thing. You’re done—plain and simple. You have to accept that. Accept it and move on.”
My temples start to beat. “I won’t. I can’t.”
“Then you’re a fucking idiot, because that knee ain’t going to magically make itself new. I know you were looking forward to getting back into the game, seeing your name in lights again. Hell, I wish I was still playing sometimes, but life is a bitch, Crusher. You’ve got to take the hands you’re dealt and take the loss like a man if and when it arises.”
“I don’t need clichés.”
Steve nods. “You’re right, but if you’re not going to think about yourself, at least consider your girl. You told me yourself. She’s been through enough. She doesn’t care you’re not going to be a big NHL star again. She’ll probably be thankful for it.”
“I know what you’re trying to do, Steve, and I thank you for helping me out back there at the rink, but this, whatever it is, I’m going to deal with it. I’m going to deal with it in my own way.”
He nods one more time, taking his keys out of his pocket and standing. “Whatever you say, Crusher. Whatever you say.”
*
I sit in front of the fire three days later, who knows how much metal in my knee. I feel like a fucking invalid, a waste of space.
Wren flitters around me, making me soup and coffee, trying to sound upbeat even though we both know what this really is. My dreams are gone.
You still have her.
I want to believe it’s enough, but I can’t be sure any more.
Days pass slowly. I ignore all calls.
I pop painkillers instead. Back after my first injury, I’d mix these little blue boys with whatever I had on hand—vodka, gin, coke, but without any of that on hand I swallow th
em down dry.
I see the concern mounting on Wren’s face, but the last thing I want is a nurse.
By day seven things have healed enough for me to get back behind the wheel. I stop by The Dirty Duck first, following it up with a trip to the liquor store around the corner, stashing the booze around the house while Wren is in the tub.
We haven’t had sex in almost a week. I know she wants to, maybe I do too. It’s not like I was incapable; the doctor said I could, but I always play it off, pretend to be sleeping or in too much pain.
And that’s the problem. The pain’s far deeper than the knee itself this time.
Because you’re a fucking coward. Because you are weak.
It’s managed to wrap itself around the very thing that had been carrying me along, squeezing the life from it.
But there’s a bigger problem.
This pain. I’m starting to remember it.
I’m starting to remember why I liked it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WREN
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about Carter. I’ve been finding bottles of liquor around the house—some full, most not. He’s doing his best to hide it, to show me nothing’s wrong, but I know how deep this has cut him, for all that hope to be stripped away so suddenly. He hasn’t been going to his doctor’s appointments, busy popping painkillers like they’re going out of fashion, and I’m powerless to stop him. We’re moving away from each other and I’m absolutely terrified about what that means.
My cell buzzes on the bedside table.
I dread any calls these days, don’t even know where Carter is tonight, though I could guess.
I swing myself out of bed and answer it without looking at the screen hoping it’s Carter, but another male voice comes down the line. “Wren, I’m glad I got you. I have good news.”
I swing myself out of bed, walking into the main room.
It’s the lawyer. “Oh?” I reply.
“Look,” he says, huffing. “Most of your mutual assets with David you won’t get back. They’ve been seized by the state. His undue dealings extended, well, quite far. However…”
And here it comes, the nail in the coffin.
“Although you were signatories on your accounts, I was able to show a pattern of saving on your behalf.”
Hope flowers, starts to expand inside me. “What does that mean?”
His voice lifts. “Long story short, I was able to get a sum in the region of fifty-thousand dollars unfrozen. You’ll have to open a new account, there’s some paperwork, and while I know it’s far from what you had, it’s a start.”
Finally, things are turning around. He’s right. It’s not much compared to what I’ve come from, but at this point in time I’ll take whatever I can get. “No, thank you, so much. That’s great news.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he says. “Take care.”
“You too.”
My cell buzzes again, ‘Carter’ on the screen.
“Carter,” I answer, “I have—”
“It’s Louie, ma’am,” comes the voice.
“From the bar?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A sickening pull twists up my insides. “Where’s Carter?”
A pause. “He’s not in a good way. I’m bringing him home now, but I thought I’d give you a heads up.”
My voice is weak. “Thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m watching the window when I see lights slice through the trees.
Carter’s Jeep rolls up to the front. The passenger door opens. Carter half gets out, half falls out, but he hasn’t undone his seatbelt, hanging there mumbling and shouting, clearly wasted.
I run over, unclicking the seatbelt. He drops to the ground, muttering something about Tommy.
I try to lift him up, but it’s like trying to shift an elephant.
Louie comes around and takes an arm, the two of us able to lift him together.
Carter reeks of booze, his jacket stained and heavy with it.
Getting him up the stairs is an effort. I nod my head towards the bathroom. “Help me get him into the tub.”
Carter’s looking at me, eyes glazed. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve anything. I try and I try, but…”
“Why don’t you try being quiet,” I suggest, grunting with the effort of dragging him towards the tub.
With a grunt, Louie helps me get Carter into the tub, his legs and arms hanging over the edge, his head whipping from side to side.
I stand with my hands on my hips panting. I address Louie. “What the hell happened?”
Louie stands likewise, both of us watching the drunkard in front of us. “What does it look like?”
“I thought you weren’t serving him alcohol anymore?”
“I wasn’t. Bastard swiped my best bottle of Black Label when I wasn’t looking. I found him in the bathroom like this, cuddling that thing like it was damn baby.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “I’m sorry.”
Carter moans, a line of drool running from his mouth.
“He’ll be okay, but if you ask me, the guy’s got a lot of unresolved issues. I admire you for trying to help him out, maybe more, it’s between you two, but if you want to stick it out you’ve got to know it ain’t going to be easy.”
“I’m not giving up on him,” I protest. “His father did, his brother did, but not me. I’m the one person who believes in him at the moment.”
Louie nods. “Fair enough.” He turns to walk away.
I take his arm. “Thank you, for this.”
He smiles. “Any time.”
“What about the bar?”
He laughs. “Closing the bar for a half an hour’s not going to end the world. Those poor bastards I call regulars might actually have to go back to their wives for once.”
“How will you get back?”
He points outside to the car lights already coming down the driveway. “Like I said, I might actually have to spend some time with the wife for once.”
The car parks, a horn blast ringing out.
I see Louie off from the porch before returning back to the bathroom.
Wife.
Two weeks ago the concept would have seemed so abstract it wouldn’t even bear consideration. But I really thought we were moving towards something here, that I’d found the one component that was missing from my life, the part that finally made sense, made me whole. Now?
You can’t give up on him. Who else does he have?
I tug off his boots and socks, struggling to remove his jacket and shirt. I pull off his jeans and jocks. He snaps awake.
“Come here,” he gestures. “I want to fuck you.”
I nod down at his flaccid cock. “Wilson’s in no condition to be fucking anything right now.”
I turn the cold tap on in full.
That gets his attention.
He starts to flap about. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Sobering you up. What does it look like?”
I turn the hot tap on. “There.” I wait until the tub is full before placing a towel on the vanity. “Soak, sober up, and then we’ll talk.”
*
I wait in the kitchen, make sure the fire’s going. Half an hour later Carter emerges from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s still stumbling a bit, but he looks generally more composed overall.
I hand him a steaming cup of coffee.
He takes it with two shaky hands.
“Careful,” I warn him, “there’s enough caffeine in there to keep the whole of British Columbia awake.”
He sits, sipping at the coffee and breathing out long and deep, his head hung. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“What happened?” I ask.
He remains silent.
“If we are going to make this work, you’ve got to start talking to me, Carter—complete honesty.”
He nods, lifting his eyes to meet mine. “I�
�m fucking useless, Wren. I’ve got people after me, a bung fucking knee…”
“But surely you know getting wasted isn’t the answer.”
“I saw the bottle, couldn’t resist.”
I shift my chair close to his, moving so I’m in-between his knees. “Carter,” I start, “I want to be with you.”
“Really?” he laughs. “An ex-con with no money, no prospects, who works driving a fucking Zamboni? I can’t offer you the kind of life you had with David.”
“Don’t you get it? That stuff doesn’t matter to me. I’ve lived in the Upper End, had everything I wanted, and I was still unhappy. I don’t care if you’re a god-damn janitor. All I need is you.” I take his face in my hands. “Do you understand that, you big, stupid brute?”
His eyes flicker—fire and ice. “You deserve better, Wren. You always have.”
“But I want you. Tell me you don’t want the same.”
“I do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
He shrugs. “I just thought if I could get back into the league…”
“Forget the League,” I tell him. “Forget about this business with Tommy whoever the fuck he is and all that drama. We. Will. Figure. It. Out… Together. You’re not alone anymore.”
“You really mean that?”
I kiss him, the coffee still warm on his lips. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life, but you have to promise me you’re going to stop this self-wallowing bullshit, right here and now, because that I cannot accept.”
“Okay,” he says, placing the coffee mug down and lifting me up from my chair into his lap. “What now?”
“Now,” I say smiling. “We fuck.”
*
I wake up energized, which is kind of funny considering we barely slept at all.
I run my fingers over Carter’s velvety length, tickle his glans, the cherry hood of his cock. He jerks it forwards in response, smiling at me with his hands behind his head.
“Best hangover cure I’ve had.”
I take hold of his member, lightly pumping it with my hand. “Sure as hell beats raw eggs and an aspirin.”
He rolls over on top of me, pushing my thighs apart with his own. “You said you had something to tell me?”
I’d forgotten all about the call with the lawyer.
The tip of his cock taps against my clit.