On the drive, Beckett chats about some movie he watched yesterday, but I’m only half listening. My mind is preoccupied with the same damn thing that’s been eating away at it for three days now.
Gigi Graham.
It’s been three days since we kissed.
Or rather, since one kiss from her got my dick so hard I could barely drive home with the damn thing trying to tunnel its way out of my pants and poke the steering wheel.
I honestly thought she’d call me by now.
And I shouldn’t be as disappointed as I am that she hasn’t.
With our first game coming up, practices have taken on a greater sense of urgency. Jensen works us hard this morning. Afterward, we pile into the media room to watch Northeastern game tape. They’ll be our first opponent of the season.
While we wait for Assistant Coach Peretti to arrive, I continue to fixate on Gigi’s silence and apparent decision to pretend that wasn’t the hottest kiss either of us had ever experienced.
I didn’t imagine that heat. We were both so hot for each other we were liable to burst into flames.
I try to push it out of my mind as my teammates blabber around me. As usual, the former Eastwood guys take up most of the second row, while the original Briars comprise the first one.
“All I’m saying is, you can’t prove wormholes don’t exist,” Beckett is contending, even as he texts on his phone with some chick. He’s a solid multitasker when it comes to time travel and sex.
“And you can’t prove they do exist,” Nazzy says in exasperation.
“Naz. Bro. You’re fighting a losing battle,” Shane advises. He’s also texting. He met another cheerleader at a frat party last night. Dude’s plowing through the cheer team like he’s trying to win nationals himself.
“I need to ask a question right now, and I need you all to promise you won’t judge me,” Patrick says nervously.
“Nobody is promising that,” Rand informs him.
“Forget it then.”
Rand chortles. “Right. Like we’re letting you get away with not asking it now.”
“I said forget it.” Patrick stubbornly shakes his head.
“Captain?” someone prompts me.
“Cocaptain,” comes Trager’s snide voice from the front row, but we all ignore him.
“Ask the question,” I mutter to the Kansas Kid.
“So, ah, wormholes.” He hesitates, looking around the group. “Are there worms in them?”
He’s greeted by pure silence. Even Will Larsen has twisted around in his seat to stare at Patrick.
“Theoretical worms?” Patrick corrects. He looks utterly lost. “Am I saying it right?”
Shane takes pity on him. “It’s okay. You’re really handsome.”
He doesn’t realize he’s being insulted until after Shane has already gone back to texting his cheerleader.
“Wait. Fuck you,” Patrick growls.
“There aren’t any worms in them,” Beckett says in a shockingly kind tone. “Basically, wormholes are these warped areas in space that connect two distant points…”
I tune them out again. I already have to deal with this at home. I’m not allowing Beckett Dunne to ruin my life on campus too.
An hour later we’re dismissed, and I cross the quad toward the ancient ivy-covered building that houses all my lectures for the day.
It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it didn’t take long for me to determine that, academically, Briar is much tougher than Eastwood. I’m a business admin major with a minor in history, and already both disciplines are piling a mountain of work on me. I have two papers due next week, and then two more literally a week later. Fucking brutal. Maybe it’s an Ivy thing.
I’m walking out of my final lecture for the day when Gigi’s name pops up on my phone. My pulse quickens.
GISELE:
I know it’s last minute, but do you want to do a session in Munsen tonight?
I don’t think there’s any innuendo there. I believe she’s really asking to run drills. Yet the way my dick hardens and my ass cheeks clench, you’d think she texted me a picture of her pussy with the caption come fuck this.
I type a response as I walk to the parking lot.
ME:
I’m down.
GISELE:
9:15?
ME:
See you there.
The universe approves of us fucking.
This is confirmed when Gigi and I arrive at the rink and discover that the women’s locker rooms are out of service. A white paper taped to the door explains there’d been a flooding issue. The faint odor of sewage reaches my nostrils as we read the sign.
Gigi shrugs and heads for the men’s room, trusty keys in hand. I haven’t been able to stop checking her out since we got here. Black yoga pants cling to her shapely legs and emphasize her ass. The ass I was squeezing a few nights ago. I still remember how sweet it felt in my palms, and my fingers itch to touch her again.
“How was your week?” she asks nonchalantly.
I try not to raise an eyebrow. We’re playing the casual game, I see. Just ignoring the fact that she was ravenously sucking on my tongue the other night. Cool.
“Good. You?”
“Busy,” she admits. “It’s like every year I forget what a heavy workload it is to balance classes and hockey.”
“What’s your major?”
“Sports admin.” She shrugs. “Kinda always thought I’d make a good agent or manager, so I picked a major that could put me on that path. How about you?”
“Business admin. Not sure what I’ll do with it, though.”
When we enter the change area, she slides her jean jacket off her shoulders and drops it on the bench. For a second, I think she’s going to keep undressing—my libido wholeheartedly approves—but then she picks up her garment bag and heads for the adjacent shower area.
“I’ll change in here,” she calls over her shoulder.
Like the other times we’ve been here, we have the whole rink to ourselves and it’s eerily silent. It doesn’t feel like a real hockey arena without the soundtrack of pucks striking the boards and plexiglass. The sharp slap of a puck meeting its target can rattle the walls of a building. It’s my favorite sound in the world.
It’s almost impossible to focus on hockey tonight. Which is a thought I never imagined myself capable of thinking. I’m always focused on hockey. It’s in my blood.
But tonight, my blood is burning for something else.
Gigi seems distracted too, dropping several passes she’d normally make in her sleep.
You never realize what a truly bad idea it is to play any sport while distracted until someone gets hurt.
During our next battle for the puck, Gigi lets out a cry of pain that causes my entire body to tense. I stop in my tracks.
“You okay?” I ask immediately.
She slides her gloves off, wincing as she rotates her wrist. Concern wells up inside me. Shit. If she injured herself…this could fuck up her entire season.
“C’mere.”
I guide her toward the bench, where we sit down. I take her wrist in one hand and examine it with the other. I gently run my fingers over the tendons, watching her face for a reaction.
“Does this hurt?”
“No.” She visibly swallows. “I think it’s fine. Think I just tweaked it when we were against the boards.”