No one else around me understands that I want to be the best, to win this final achievement before I settle in for the rest of my life at a desk in front of a computer.
No one else except Luke.
“Clearly I don’t,” Mason says simply and rises from the bed. “So this is it then? We’re done?”
I shift on my exhausted legs and sigh. “Yes, this is it.”
“Damn. I really thought I’d be the one to break up with you one day.”
Despite everything, I burst out laughing, and he does the same. His shoulders shake with it, and I approach the bed, standing at the edge. “Fuck you,” I laugh.
“Clearly not,” he jabs back and fishes his keys out of his sweatshirt pocket. “I’ll get out of here, then.” He starts for the door but I stop him.
“Are we still cool?” We’re in the same friend group, and the last thing I want is it to create a rift. Especially now that Grace and Bryant are officially together.
“We’re cool,” he says, a bit detached, but I think that’s just his pride hurting right now.
I walk him to the door, and we say our goodbyes. Once he leaves, I think maybe regret might creep in. That maybe I am making the wrong choice and that even though Mason and I didn’t have a relationship outside of hooking up, maybe it is what I needed.
But there’s not a single ounce of regret coursing through me as I go back into my bedroom and get ready for bed.
I never realized how weighed down Mason made me feel by wanting to be better, to do better, but now that chapter of my life is done, and I feel lighter. And when I think of Luke, and howhe pushes me in and out of the rink because he sees what I’m capable of and wants to tap into it, I feel inspired.
Despite the fact that he was a dick today.
Hot water scalds my skin in the shower as I scrub down from practice. Once my skincare is done and clothes are laid out for my shift at the café tomorrow morning, I crawl into bed. Mason’s scent slightly clings to the sheets, and it smells wrong. So unlike the smell ofLuke’s.
Fuck, he needs to get out of my head. But as I lie here in the dark, waiting for sleep to claim me, those dark eyes and golden-brown hair are all I can see. A replay of his block after block in the net, using his stick like it’s an extension of his own body to masterfully bat away shots like they’re nothing but flies.
Why is that what my mind chooses to focus on and not the way he completely disregarded me today? That’s what I’d rather focus on. Let it fuel some anger and have that overtake the hurt.
But no matter how hard I try to focus on that, other memories keep fighting their way through. Sleep is clearly a losing battle, so I roll over, keeping the covers tucked high up around me as if what I’m doing needs to be kept a secret. It probably should. Because why am I pulling up Luke’s highlight reel online right now? I should be pissed at him. Pushing him to the back of my mind and locking him firmly in the off-limits box because he is.
But none of that stops me.
I click on the first video that comes up and watch as clip after clip of Luke’s greatest moments of his career play one after another. Now that I’ve seen him in live action though, these videos don’t hold a candle to experiencing that firsthand. It’s like only eating a single chocolate chip and hoping that’ll satisfy a sweet tooth.
After an incredible glove save where he completely drops into the splits in order to catch it, the whistle blows and the camerazooms in on him. He pulls his mask up and sprays water all over his face, shaking it off and dropping rain around him. His eyes look slightly crazed but distinctlyalive, so unlike how he often looks now. A hunger to see more of that builds within. There’s a stirring in my gut, and I clench my thighs, moaning softly at the ache between them.
Maybe Mason shouldn’t have left. I could use some relief. As soon as the thought crosses my mind though, I feel like shit because that would’ve been so unfair to him. To use him for his body while I close my eyes and picture another man.
A man I shouldn’t be picturing. Who clearly wants nothing to do with me. Disgusted with myself, I turn my phone off and roll to the opposite side of the bed, away from the temptation to pull the highlight reel back up. But now that my pulse sits between my legs, it’s almost impossible to ignore.
It would be so easy to slip my hand beneath my shorts, close my eyes, and relieve the ache that I’ve ignored. God, I want it. So bad.
I shouldn’t reach into the drawer of my nightstand.
I shouldn’t shimmy my sleep shorts down my legs.
I shouldn’t turn my vibrator on and breathe a sigh of relief that it’s charged.
I shouldn’t be picturing his sharp jawline covered in stubble and the way his arm muscles flex when he runs his hands through his hair while he watches me workout.
I shouldn’t be thinking of my coach as I bring the toy between my thighs and find my clit. My lips clamp shut as I stifle a whimper that is desperate to escape as the vibrations fuel the fire building within.
The buildup is quick and sharp, stealing my breath and locking my limbs. Images of Luke on the ice, in the weightroom, in his office flash one after another, stoking the flame. I can feelthe weight of his stare through the memories ingrained in my head, and it makes the pressure stronger.
It takes barely a few minutes of the buzzing between my legs to send me crashing over the edge. I writhe beneath my sheets, my body coated in a light sheen, and the material clings to me. I ride out the waves with a silent cry, and once the pleasure turns to pain, I pull my vibrator away and stare at the ceiling in a breathless heap.
