Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (37)
Then in a moment of what can only be caused by my lack of sleep, I lift my hand and hold it between us on the table. My thumb is inches away from where her lips are parted in shock, and the silent challenge dangles between us. The room is so quiet you can hear the water dripping from the faucet in the kitchen.
She leans forward, and bluff or not, the only thing I know for sure in that moment is I’m truly fucked. Sage takes my thumb in her mouth and seals her lips around it. She hums when her hot tongue touches the syrup and licks it clean before she takes me deeper.
Our eyes lock.
Her pink lips form an O around my thumb, causing all the blood in my body to rush south. My jaw is set tightly to keep a groan from escaping my throat.
Then door hinges creak down the hall, and Sage pulls back, releasing me with a pop just as Aiden and Summer step into the dining room. I drop my hand back to the dining table.
Aiden wordlessly heads to the kitchen, probably to make Summer chai as she slips into the chair beside Sage and exclaims, “Pancakes!”
Summer is particularly interested in getting close to my fake girlfriend. But even as Sage has a full-blown conversation with Summer at the dining table, I can see the way her neck is flushed and how a deeper color flares onto her chest.
I can barely move with how hard I am. For the entirety of breakfast, she doesn’t look at me, not even once, and I can’t seem to take my eyes off her.
Sage 1, Elias 0.
THE THREE-HOUR FLIGHT didn’t go as expected, because I spent the handful of hours fantasizing about maple syrup and a certain pair of lips. The image is bad for my brain, and it doesn’t help that soon I’ll be in a hotel room with some time to kill before the game. Though I’m trying my best not to imagine those lips sucking something else.
It doesn’t help when Socket, our goalie, who’s been on the team for five years, and Owen Hart, our newest right-winger, who are sitting in the section next to Aiden and me, continue to talk about the women they’ve been with while in Toronto. But their conversation doesn’t interest me at all because, unlike Socket, Owen still talks about women like he’s in college. Hearing him go on about things he does with girls doesn’t sit right with me.
“Mind keeping it down? We don’t want to hear about that shit,” I say, interrupting Owen’s useless conversation. That grabs his attention, and Socket winces when he looks at me.
Owen nods, but the smirk on his face is a knowing one, and from the looks of it I’m missing something. Before I can ask him what he finds so funny, Aiden pulls my attention back to the tablet we’re using to help me figure out a better play for my lagging goal. This time he’s identified a play where he can assist, and allow me to let go and break out of the box I’ve built around myself.
It’s still before noon when we land in Tampa. Our game isn’t for another few hours, so we head to our respective hotels. This time I don’t need to worry about naked women waiting in my room and instead fall straight into bed. It’s a foreign feeling not being stressed about what people might be saying about me next, and I owe that to Sage.
My room service order follows shortly after, and when I’ve eaten my pregame meal, I’m checking my gear bag before the bus is set to pick us up.
When we arrive at the Amalie Arena, I’m already in my gear, eager to hit the ice for our pregame skate. Finally on the rink, I knock over the mountain of pucks stacked against the boards and send them sliding across the ice for our warm-up. We glide toward the nets, focusing on our shots and passes, feeling the familiar rhythm of our routine. The sound of blades cutting through the ice fills the air, and with each shot of mine surpassing Socket stationed in front of the net, I’m ready.
Right as the game starts, my mind drifts to the girl who’s been on my mind all day. I wonder whether she’ll watch tonight’s game with Summer at the apartment, or if she’s busy.
“Tonight’s your chance.” Coach Wilson comes up behind me, his gaze on his clipboard.
He’s right. Tampa is the worst-performing team in the Eastern Conference, and I should be able to use that to my advantage tonight. The ultimatum dangling over my head adds to the pressure of today’s game, and I lock in to finally prove everyone wrong. Mostly to shove the goal in Marcus’s smug face.
“I know,” I say, slipping past him to skate to the centerline for the national anthem. When the whistle blows, we’re in full swing. It isn’t long before I’m taking shots at the net.
In the second period, my wrist shot flies past the goalie’s glove, and my heart stops as I watch the puck whiz past him in slow motion. The noise of the crowd fades to a muffled static in my ears. Then it pings off the crossbar, landing on the opposite side of me, and connects to the stick of Tampa’s defender. The tension in my body returns, and the guys bump into me in a silent show of support for the miss.
Blood pounds in my ears and ignites a fire under my skin for the rest of the game. It shoots me forward for each shot to the net, but I only end up assisting every single goal scored tonight, including the tiebreaker from Aiden, which gains a chorus of boos from the crowd when the buzzer goes off, and we win 4–3.
“That was sick!” Socket shouts, bumping into me in the locker room.
I’m fresh out of my postgame shower and still replaying all the shots I missed. Assisting goals for my teammates is all a part of the sport, but I’m tired of it. I can imagine the organization crossing each game off the calendar, waiting until Marcus can sign the papers for my trade and get rid of me for good.