But then the burning ache dulls, and I start to really feel him. I’m stretched around him, so incredibly full. A moan slips past my lips and into his mouth, and I don’t know what this is I’m feeling, where this insatiable appetite has stemmed from, but I’m blinded by it, the intensity too much for me.
I break out of the kiss, searching for oxygen and release. Tip my head back on the pillow when I feel Roman’s fingers against me, building the pleasure. He lowers his head to my throat, traces my skin to the side of my neck in the barest of kisses, right over my pulse, and my hips match his faster rhythm. He’s all the way in, the residual threads of pain and discomfort snapping as I clench around him. I can hear my own breathing, feel my own heart, as I get so lost in him I push away the thought of not being able to stay there.
Roman nudges his nose against my jaw, tipping my face back to his. His lips find mine, and his tongue’s in my mouth. The pad of his thumb drags over that sensitive spot, and my muscles lock and constrict, magnified shoots of pleasure zinging everywhere, knocking me senseless as I grip onto Roman, panting into his mouth. He quickens his pace, pushes in harder, rougher, unleashing that final shred of control he’s been carefully clinging on to.
His muscles tense everywhere, his kiss fervent, wild, and unrestrained over his long, hard thrusts, pushing in as deep as he can. He holds himself there, pulsing inside of me, and then the tension cording his muscles releases, his kiss softening.
I lie still, my orgasm steadily wearing off and my blurry mind reaching some level of focus.
Roman sits up on his knees and carefully pulls off the condom. He’s still hard, and my stomach churns something fierce watching him.
He ties off the end of the condom and tosses it onto the windowsill.
His body’s beautiful, and I can’t stop staring at it. But now the whirlwind’s blown through, I close my legs and bend my knees, hanging onto my modesty.
Roman tugs his boxers back into place, the thick ridge of him pressing into the black fabric, and he lies down beside me, pulling the quilt over us. He lays his arm across my chest and shifts me onto my side, so my back’s to him, then pushes his thigh between mine, our bodies molding into one, and I can’t define one of us from the other.
His hand finds mine, and he brings it to my chest, wedging my arm beneath his. His fingers slot with and close over mine between my breasts. His heartrate starts to settle, a slower, steadier beat against my back, his breathing becoming shallower.
Roman falls asleep first. It takes me longer, and I can’t help getting caught up in how lost I’m going to feel when I wake up.
At first, I’m not sure what wakes me up. Bits and pieces come back to me as I blink away tiredness, and then I hear the heavy footsteps in the hallway outside my bedroom door.
Sleeping-in isn’t a thing around here, and my body’s automatically rewired itself to adjust to its old surroundings. So many years in a vigorous routine where I was always doing something, constantly moving. It could be chores, or hockey. Sitting on your ass doesn’t exist in this house unless you need to take a shit. And I slide right back into old habits, extricating myself from Brooke’s warm body and easing slowly off the bed so I don’t disturb the old springs in the mattress and wake her up.
I pull on sweatpants over my boxers and grab the used condom off the window. Wrapping the rubber in toilet paper from the bathroom, I take it with me into the kitchen and toss it in the trash at the same moment the back door opens, and Joe stomps snow off his boots on the steps.
He glances over me and then walks inside, closing the door.
“I left blankets on the couch for you.”
I scratch the back of my neck, searching for a safe place to look that isn’t my pops. “Yeah, I know…”
“Found something softer and warmer did you?” My pops moves around the kitchen, opening cupboards and pulling out mugs and plates. “I’ve had your Aunt Stephanie on the phone more times than I can count. Your sister’s off the rails.”
My aunt. My sister. Nothing’s changed there. He’s a separate entity to the rest of the family, and he always has been. Once my dad died, the in-laws as good as died with him.
“Why has Steph been calling you?” I light the gas on the stove burner and put a skillet pan on to heat. I could sit at the table and wait on my breakfast, but it’d be one hell of a long time until any food was served to me.
“I asked her that myself.”
I wince over the pan at the brutal admission.
“I’m getting too old to play parent. That girl needs a mother, and I told Stephanie that on the phone. No use being her friend and then expecting the girl to respect you.”
Smoke rises from the dry skillet, sizzling as I put the bacon in. Brooke won’t touch this, but there’ll be some cheap brand of sugary cereal in the cupboard. Maybe an overripe apple lying around here somewhere.
“I would have made your bed every morning, fluffed your pillows, and bailed you out of sticky situations you had no business finding your way into. But one day you’ll have no one to rely on but yourself, and I don’t want that day to slap you upside the head when you’re not expecting it.”
I look up from the frying bacon, cutting a sideways glance at my pops as he brews coffee the slow way, in an old machine he’s been using since long before I lived here.
Nothing in this house has changed since I was here, and I know it likely never will. And that’s how I prefer it—everything as it’s always been. There was a destructive shift in the earth when I found out I no longer had parents, and everything fucking changed, including me. But my pops’ refusal to keep up with the modern world means there’s always someplace I can go that’s the same as it was the day my mom and dad went out one night and then never came home.
Even though my pops kept me on my feet all day every day, there’s a stillness here that’s necessary. It’s peaceful and reliable. And maybe that’s what keeps bringing me back.
“Do you miss them?” I hear myself asking the question as my memory collides with who it is I’m directing it at.
Before I can take it back and snap out of the revery, my pops says, “I don’t give myself time to miss them. There’s too much to do. Anyway, you’re still here, aren’t you?”
I give that a minute to work itself through my foggy brain, the smell of crispy, frying bacon not quite waking me up.
“Good morning.”
Brooke’s standing in the kitchen entryway, her brown eyes shadowed and heavy with tiredness. She pushes her fingers through the front of her hair, sweeping it all back. It settles over her shoulder in big waves, and she leans her shoulder against the corner of the wall, her smile sleepy and reserved.
Breakfast is quiet, and Brooke’s the quietest of all. I tell her to use the shower when she argues she can wait until she gets back to her parents’ house, and I put our bags in the truck so we’re ready to go when she’s finished. Hope she doesn’t have plans to wash her hair, because I forgot to mention the hot water runs to ice if you take longer than four minutes in there.
Her hair’s dry though when she walks out of the house and into the crisp snow, tied up on top of her head in a sloppy bun, loose strands blowing around her makeup-free face.
My pops nods in way of goodbye as I get behind the wheel and start the ignition. That’s the most I’ll get out of him.
“Bye. It was nice meeting you.” Brooke’s waving receives the same stiff, curt nod I got.
“He treats everyone that way,” I explain to her as I steer the truck through a fresh layer of snow covering the dirt road leading away from the house. “He likes you, even though you probably couldn’t tell.”
She nods absently, like her mind’s already traveled somewhere else.
“You still want to see Kimberly? Because I can take you home if you’ve changed your mind.”
“No.” She looks at me. “I want to see her. If it’s still okay, I mean.”
“Yeah, it’s okay.”
Damn this
is awkward. I wish I knew how to change it or take it away altogether, but I know jack shit about morning-after small talk with someone I actually like. When it’s run its course, it’s run its course, and I don’t usually want more from the other person than for them to just leave.
But if this is the end of what me and Brooke had going on, I can’t say I’m ready for it. I’m not ready for her to leave yet.
Arriving at Princeton’s arena is a slip through time into the previous century. It’s one of the oldest arenas in D1 college hockey, and the inside is just as dated as the outside. Although, you’d never think there’s an ice rink on the other side of those historic stone walls if you haven’t been told first.
The atmosphere’s a bit different here. Not as rowdy as other campuses. And Princeton are on a losing streak I’m hoping we can take advantage of. If we catch them on good form it’ll be an entirely different story, so I’m ready for anything, and we’ve studied various game tape of Princeton at their best and their worst to eliminate any surprises. I’m relaxed, though. There’s no reason we can’t take this one or come away with a tie, but the latter doesn’t bear thinking about.
Walking through the arena that’s more like a converted cathedral, it’s easy to appreciate the authenticity of the building. It’s old-school in a good way. It reminds me of going home to Colebrook, to my pops’ small, outdated house. Nothing’s changed since the old days and, really, what needs to change? I like familiar. When we come here and faceoff against Princeton it’s all about the hockey and nothing else.
“What are we doing for New Year’s?” West’s lacing up yet another new pair of skates. These ones he got for Christmas from his parents.
I wear out my gear down to the last thread. I’m using the same stick for most games that I’ve been using since I was fifteen. And that’s not because my pockets are too tight to fit my hand in. I don’t want new stuff. If it works, don’t replace it.
Leaning against the stall in the visitor locker room, I sip from a bottle of water, half-dressed in my Under Armour, skates, shinpads, socks and pants. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m staying home.”
“But Vogue wants to go out.”
I twist the cap onto the bottle. “How is that my problem?”
“I don’t know if I’m that into her yet.” How West says that with a straight face is a fucking talent.
“How can you not know?”
His idiocy’s attracted the attention of a few of our teammates, who stop what they’re doing to listen in and get a good laugh.
“I’m still finding out.”
“And you need me for that? Shut up, West. You’re lucky she’s put up with you for this long.”
“Who’s this?” Breezy asks, weighing in on the stupidness while combing his fingers through his sandy blond hair like he’s going out into a fashion show and not a hockey game.
“That cheerleader West’s been seeing,” I say. “He can’t make his mind up if she’s worth his valuable time or not.”
“Throw her my way and I’ll let you know,” Breezy says with a creepy smirk.
West’s expression paves over. “Aren’t you dicking your sister?”
Kempy gags. “Breezy. You dirtbag.”
Breezy throws a street puck at West. It bounces off the wood panel cornering his stall and rolls across the floor. “I haven’t got a sister, you cock.” He turns to Kempy. “And you, you fucking gasbag, you’re the one boning the uber cougar.”
“How many times have you been hairy oyster diving now?” Quinny grins from his stall, fastening on his shoulder pads.
Kempy grins back, no shame. “A gentleman never tells.”
West snorts. “Good thing you aren’t one, then.”
The trash talking gets worse, dying down when Coach walks in for our pre-game pep talk and to remind us who and what to look out for. Tonight should be an easy win, but we’ve lost to Princeton before when they’ve shown up out of fucking nowhere and we weren’t ready for it. Every point counts now this late in the season, and we can’t afford to lose a single one.
Four minutes in and the ref sends Princeton’s D-man to the box for high sticking. It’s a disappointing power play, though, and our two shots on net are both denied, and we get nothing off the rebound.
It’s a poor start, and the rest of the first period pretty much goes the same way. I give my head a shake in the locker room before the second and we regroup as a team, hashing out where we’re going wrong, and I throw out a couple plays that if we execute right down to each pass, there’s no reason we can’t turn it around and into a fighting chance.
The puck drops at the start of the second period and Kempy drops a massive hit on Princeton’s center, a cry of uproar spreading through the half-empty stands. The centerman’s knocked off his skates and flops to the ice, and both benches are on their feet ready for a fight that will get every one of us kicked off the ice. But it’s a good, clean hit, and no whistle’s blown.
Off the back of the early excitement, that momentum we’ve been looking for finally starts flowing.
West passes me the puck, and with a clear lane to the goal, I shoot at the net and snipe bar down from center ice.
We faceoff, and Princeton attack our net straight off winning the draw. Their aggressive forechecking leads to a sloppy slapshot that goes high off the glass, and we change lines, sweat stinging my eyes as I step through the door to our bench, reaching for the nearest water bottle.
I watch the game from the boards. Kai Banks, second line centerman, sets up a sweet pass to Breezy, and the puck moves up ice. Pass, pass, pass, but nothing comes out of it, and before long we’re hustling onto the backcheck, chasing the puck low into our zone. Princeton’s forward shoots at our net, but Husky stops the puck with his pad.
Everyone congregates around the benches for a TV timeout, and West somehow gets into it with two of Princeton’s players. The biggest one, Number 3, has been eying West since we hit the ice, but so far West’s been too quick for him.
Number 3 winks at him, still trying to get under his skin.
West shoves his mouthguard to the side. “Who the fuck are you winking at? You couldn’t finish a check if I painted a fucking bullseye on my jersey. Only reason you stay at home is because no one showed you how to skate. What’s on your feet? Bricks?”
The lumbering D-man grins, revealing a sinister black gap between his teeth where he’s missing a molar.
“If I were you, I’d shut the fuck up,” I say to West.
“Fiona!” Kempy bellows in a heavy, distorted Scottish accent. “Get utta ma swamp!” He’s sitting on the wall with his back to the ice, snickering at his own joke.
Number 3’s beady eyes narrow on him, latching onto another target.
Coach fires Kempy a dirty look, tells us all to shut the hell up, and pulls us in for a quick rundown for the next line change and what he wants to see.
I don’t know if Christmas and the short break has affected everyone’s brains, but it’s a circus in here. My next shot on goal defies physics and rings off the crossbar, smacking Princeton’s winger in the shoulder.
He’s okay, and I drop my head back and laugh to myself in disbelief. It should have gone in, but the way this game’s going, nothing surprises me.
We scrape by 2-1, and on the bus back to the hotel I open a text message from Brooke. It’s a gif of hockey’s worst and funniest missed shots on goal and two laughing emojis, and I think it might be the first time I’ve really smiled all day and felt it somewhere other than just my face.
Saturday’s game, Number 3, Luca Benoit, finishes one of his checks, wipes West out and shuts him up all at once.
West’s hauled off the ice to the medical room. The smelling salts stuffed under his nose aren’t enough to get him playing the rest of the third period, and we tie the game, which is hugely fucking irritating. If there’s one result I hate as much as a loss, it’s a tie.
West’s head’s lodged firmly up his black and bl
ue ass when we get back to our apartment, and the three of us crash, forgetting the game and mentally moving on to the next one. West’s lucky he isn’t concussed, and Coach has threatened he’ll be keeping a close eye on him during next week’s practices to make sure he’s fit to play and not just bullshitting his way into the lineup.
My sleep’s broken some time in the morning. It’s still dark outside, and I drag a hand over my eyes, peeling them open to make out the time on my phone. The numbers blur into something I can read, and it’s 4:35 on a fucking Sunday.
Since no one else bothers their ass to answer it, I swing my legs out of bed and walk out into the pitch-black hallway and through the living room. I part the curtains at the window and look through the gap, squinting through the lack of light. Whoever’s there, I can’t see them.
I unlock and pull open the door, frowning at the woman on the other side.
“Steph?” I rub sleep from my right eye, my eyelid twitching. My first, wild, stray thought is Kimberly’s been found murdered. Because she was somewhere she shouldn’t have been with some guy she shouldn’t have been with.
“Kimberly’s fine,” Steph says, reading my mind, or the look on my face. “Can I come in? It’s cold out here.”
“Yeah, sorry.” I let her inside and turn on a lamp. I’m wearing my boxers, but that doesn’t seem too important. “How come you’re here so late?” Or early. I can barely place a single thought. I’m still waking up.
“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, or in a message, and I was worried you’d find out from someone else and do something rash, like come all the way home.”
“What is it?” I try to keep the urgency out of my voice, but I’m on high alert, and whatever’s coming next, I know it’s nothing I want to hear.
Steph blinks, and a stream of tears follows. She cups her throat with her hand and says, “It’s your grandpa Joe.”
That’s all I hear. My ears ring while she talks, and I hear those words over and over. ‘It’s your Grandpa Joe’.
Grandpa Joe.
Rule #1 Page 30
