But I can’t forget the sound of her whimpered pleas as I circled her clit and held her up on wobbly legs. Of how soft her skin was beneath my touch, and how easily her body responded to it. I was so consumed by her, building off of not only the charity gala and seeing her in that dress, but also the months of tension between us. I snapped.
Even the most patient man can be tipped over the edge.
But as soon as she said my name as she was about to shatter, it broke me out of my trance. I don’t feel good about the way I left her standing in the shower, on the verge of an orgasm, but I knew if I felt her bow and break beneath my hand, I would’ve stripped her bare and fucked her right in that stall.
And that would’ve beenreallyfucking stupid.
I debated canceling our ice time this morning and avoiding her until I could get a rein on my control again, but theidea of her showing up and sitting alone after what happened yesterday…I just couldn’t do it.
So I skate around the rink, lap after lap, hoping the smooth grind of my blades through the ice will bring some sort of balm to my frayed nerves. But it does nothing.
After I’ve carved deep grooves into the ice with my circles, I grab my stick, dump a bunch of pucks on the ice, and start shooting. One after another I shoot them toward the goal. The slap of my stick against the ice and the whoosh of the net when the pucks sail into it do nothing to bring me the peace I’m desperately seeking. It doesn’t take my mind off of her. Of how she looked at the fundraiser. Of how she looks when she’s in her gear on the ice.
I groan in frustration, and my stick whines beneath my grip, threatening to crack under the pressure. Good. That would feel good. To break it. To smash it and toss it aside. Give me something to fight when my mind seems content to be at war with itself.
Wanting what I can’t have.
What I so stupidly almost cost myself, and her.
I continue to fire shot after shot, so lost in my own head, that I don’t notice Lennon until the sound of her blades cutting through the ice echo around the empty rink. She’s fully suited up with her mask tucked beneath her arm.
I should be the one to say something.
I need to be the adult in this situation and just own up to my mistake.
It doesn’t feel like a mistake.
A dull throb sits in my head. Lennon glances at me, but since I’ve paused my shooting, she skates over to the crease and begins to carve it up. The air in the rink goes still as I watch her. It’s a routine I’ve seen her do a hundred times before, but it feels different today.
I skate toward her, and my breath catches as guilt clogs my throat when she barely makes eye contact with me.
“Morning,” I say when I come to a stop.
“It’s two o’clock. That hardly constitutes morning,” she quips, looking anywhere but my face.
She finishes carving the ice and rests her back against the goal frame. Her hair is in a loose ponytail today, with the chocolate waves cascading down her right shoulder. She fidgets with her glove, and when she finally flicks her eyes to mine, there’s so much apprehension there that I know neither of us can just pretend yesterday didn’t happen.
“Lennon…” I clear my throat. “I was in the wrong yesterday. I took things way too far and took advantage of my position. I’m sorry. If you want to report it, I understand.”
She purses her lips. “I don’t feel taken advantage of. I wanted it just as much as you did.”
“It doesn’t matter. If anyone found out, you’d lose your scholarship, and I’d lose my job. I can afford that loss, but I don’t want you to miss out on finishing your education and playing your last season of hockey because of this.”Because of me.I’m a selfish bastard, but for once, I’m trying to make the right decision.
Even if it’s not the one I want.
“I know,” she quietly admits. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Don’t ever worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will. Doesn’t mean I don’t still care.”
“Lennon…”
She throws her hands up. “I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t help it. And honestly, I’m tired of pretending like I don’t. Aren’t you?”
Absolutely fucking exhausted. I allow her to see the truth of it on my face, even as I tell her, “It doesn’t matter what either of us feels.” Not a confirmation, but not a denial either. “I’m yourcoach, and you’re my athlete. I’m also twelve years older than you. Neither of those facts are going to change.”
“You won’t always be my coach,” she says with a glimmer of hope in her hazel eyes that I don’t want to extinguish, but I know how dangerous hope can be.
