I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Who knows what goes on in that guy's head?”
It's a weak deflection, but Trembley just shrugs, his attention drifting back to the ice as the game gets underway. I try to focus on the play, on the clash of bodies and the spray of ice, but my mind keeps circling back to last night, to the heat of Jackson's skin against mine, the ragged sound of his breath in my ear.
My thumb lightly grazes over the bruise on my forearm as I shift in my seat, my jeans suddenly feeling too tight. I can still feel the ghost of his hands on me, the bruising grip of his fingers, the hot slide of his tongue.
It's like he's branded me, left some indelible mark I can't scrub away no matter how hard I try.
And believe me, I've tried.
I spent an hour in the shower after he left, the water scalding hot, my hand working between my legs, chasing the high of his touch. But even as I shuddered through my release, biting down on my fist to muffle my cries, it wasn't enough. It was like an itch I couldn't scratch, a hunger that gnawed at my bones.
I'm jolted out of my spiraling thoughts by a roar from the crowd. The Titans’ goalie goes into a front split, blocking the puck, then catches the rebound.
“Novotny is on fire. We need to figure out a weakness. Seems he’s been working on not committing too hard to the right side anymore,” Raiyne says.
We could always capitalize on the Titans’ goalie committing to the right side, but so far he’s balanced, making him harder to beat.
Viktor Novotny is awesome. Even got drafted to the Islanders during the second round. Not sure why he hasn’t signed yet. Unless it has to do with his behavior. The motherfucker is as unhinged as they come.
And proud of it.
My eyes snap back to Jackson as he cuts through Cornell's defense like a hot knife through butter, his skates flashing as he dekes left, then right, leaving his opponents grasping at air. He passes the puck to Walsh with a flick of his wrist and Walsh one-times it toward the net.
The Cornell goalie makes the initial save, but he can't control the rebound. The puck bounces off his pads and straight onto Jackson's waiting stick.
Jackson doesn't hesitate. With a quick snap of his wrists, he buries the puck in the back of the net, the red goal light flashing as the crowd erupts in cheers.
I want to cheer too, want to celebrate the sheer artistry of the play, but I can’t. So, I settle for watching the fierce joy on Jackson's face as he rounds the net, his teammates crashing into him in celebration.
He's magnetic, incandescent, and it makes something clench deep in my chest, something that feels an awful lot like longing.
God, I'm so fucked.
The game wears on, the two teams trading blows like heavyweight boxers. The Titans are dominating, their skill and cohesion evident in every play, but Cornell refuses to go down without a fight. The hitting is fierce, bordering on dirty, and the ref's whistle seems to be glued to his lips as he calls penalty after penalty.
“One of the d-men should take Reed out. Little trip close to the boards, make him think twice about dangling like that.”
Not sure which of my teammates said it, but my fingers dig into my thighs hard enough to bruise, and it takes everything I have to not spin around and deck someone.
It's irrational, this sudden surge of protectiveness. Jackson's more than capable of taking care of himself. But that doesn't stop the snarl that builds in my throat, the harsh “Fuck off” that spills from my lips before I can bite it back.
Raiyne blinks at me, his brows furrowing. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just didn’t sleep well.”
It's not a lie, exactly. I slept for shit, tossing and turning until the sheets were tangled around my legs because every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jackson's face, felt the weight of his body on mine.
Raiyne's expression softens. “Heard you talking to your mom when I passed by. Wanted to make sure you got away after the prank. Didn't want to eavesdrop, so I left, but is everything okay with her?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat, my chest tightening with a complicated mixture of love and guilt and gratitude. Raiyne’s a good friend, the best, and I hate lying to him. But I'm not ready to talk about this thing with Jackson.
“Yeah, she's doing all right,” I manage, my voice rough. “Having a few good days, which makes it easier to be up here, you know?”
It's the truth, mostly. Mom's health is as stable as it ever is, her good days outnumbering her bad ones for a change. But I called her because I needed to hear her voice, needed her steady reassurance and unconditional love. I needed to know that even if everything else in my life is shifting beneath my feet, she'll still be there to catch me if I fall.
And she was.
She listened patiently, all too happy to hear about what was going on with Jackson—more so than I’m comfortable with. The woman even teased and asked when I was bringing him by to meet her, referring to Jackson as myboyfriend.
