“I’m good, thanks,” I say, not wanting to stay here a minute longer than necessary. I’m ready to bolt for the door, but I can’t leave just yet.
“You sure? My treat. I could use a little caffeine, so I’m getting in line anyway. And you seem stressed. I’ll be quick, and I’m sure Theo will work his magic and make you something good.”
“Blue,” I say, drawing his attention away from the menu board and back to me. “Listen, you can’t?—”
“I totally can, and I owe you for taking care of Hazel this morning. The line’s not long at all. I’ll be back in five.”
Before he can turn away, I reach for his arm. The contact is electric, and I think he feels it too, because he stops in his tracks and I know it’s not because of my strength. My fingers stay locked on his bicep—well, what they can cover of it. Good Lord, the man is ripped. I know how big he is. I mean, I’m intimately familiar with his measurements because I manage the uniforms, and I proofread the stats and bios that are printed in the program. But knowing that the circumference of his bicep and feeling it are two very different things. My job as an equipment manager requires me to do all sorts of things, so this isn’t the first time I’ve laid hands on a hockey player. I’ve replaced blades and stitched jerseys mid-game. But this is the first time I’ve ever touched Blue, and feels different than helping a guy with his skates or checking the fit of his pads.
At least, it feels that way to me, and that’s just ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. Like Blue said, I’m stressed, and that’s obviously taking a toll on me. There’s no way I’m actually attracted to Blue Halliday. I’m probably sleep-deprived. That’s got to be it. But right now, I need to pull my shit together.
“Wait. I don’t need coffee,” I say. “Thank you, but I’m fine. What I do need is for you to promise—to swear on your beloved cat or your mother or the souls of great defensemen long departed—that you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. What you saw was private. It wasn’t meant for anyone else’s eyes, and certainly not yours.”
“Liza—” he starts, but this is too important, so I cut him off. When I think about how vulnerable I was in that journal, how honest? God, I want to melt into a puddle right here on the floor. I freaking admitted that I have trouble getting myself to orgasm. That’s not the kind of information I want to share with the general population, and it’s definitely not anything I want Blue to know. That’s out of my control now, but I’ll do just about anything to keep it from spreading.
“You can't tell the guys,” I insist. “You can’t tellanyone. I’m not ashamed, but it’s just not something I want the whole freaking hockey team to know. And it’s a paid study. If word gets out, and it gets back to the coordinators, that could compromise my?—
Now it’s his turn to interrupt me. “Liza, I won't tell anyone. Not even Wagner. I was never going to. This is your business, not mine. I know you think I’m an asshole, a clown. And you might have a point, but I’m not mean. I joke around, but I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”
There’s a sincerity in his eyes I’ve never seen before, but even if I can’t fully trust it, I have no other option than to take his word for it. If Blue Halliday fucks me over and spreads my business around campus, I’ll just have to deal with it the way I’ve always dealt with any bullshit I encounter: I’ll hold my head up high and pretend I’m just fine. Fake it til you make it has been my motto since I was a kid, and it hasn’t let me down yet.
I do my best to calm down as I nod my understanding. Besides, if he does screw me over, he’ll live to regret it. I’m in charge of the man’s uniform, his stick, and his gear. I’d never do anything to jeopardize the team, of course, but that doesn’t mean I can’t order his compression shorts a size too small.
7
Blue
Today’s practice nearly killed me. I’m doing my best to rally and recover, but if this is the end for me, at least I’ve had a good run. I haven’t quite decided what my tombstone should say, but the frontrunner so far is:Here lies Blue. He died of blue balls.
It’s not the most eloquent thing I’ve ever written, but I’m hanging on by a thread here, and I’m doing my best. Besides, it’s true. We ran all the same drills as usual, but sporting a hard-on while wearing a cup is a special kind of torture—the kind I can thank Liza and her laptop full of porn for.
It’s been a little over twenty-four hours since I found that treasure trove of fantasies and I haven’t recovered yet. To be clear, it’s not the images on her screen that have me so worked up. It’s the idea of Liza looking at them. It’s the idea of Liza lying in her bed with her hand between her legs, trying like hell to bring herself to climax. It’s the idea that Liz can’t quite get there, that what she needs is just out of reach.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it—not during practice, not in the locker room, not on the walk home. Not even while I grabbed a quick snack downstairs.
As I step under the hot spray of the shower, I let myself imagine what I’d do if I found Liza in that predicament. It’s all kinds of wrong, but for just a few minutes, I’m going to let myself give in to the images that have been floating around my brain and threatening to drive me crazy.
Would I stand in the doorway, my hand on my cock, and my jaw on the floor as I watch her gasp and moan? The idea is hot as hell. Liza doesn’t let her guard down for anybody, but especially not for me, so the thought of catching her in such a vulnerable position, in such an intimate act, scrambles my brain in the very best way.
Would I let her see the effect she has on me? Would I tell her all the filthy ways I want to watch her unravel? Would I sit in the chair across from her bed, whispering words of encouragement, talking dirty and watching her writhe with pleasure? Would I crawl in beside her and line our bodies up so I’m cradling her close to me, looking on as she teases herself? Would I skim my hand against her smooth, soft skin? Feel the curve of her waist, the fullness of her hips? Would I let my attention linger on her breasts, touch them, squeeze them, kiss them?
The answer is yes.
In my personal fantasy reel, that’s exactly what’s happening. We’re tangled up in each other as my hand drifts lazily over her body, because this is my fantasy, and if I’ve got Liza in bed with me, you can bet I’m going to take my time. I can practically feel her taste on my lips as I let myself kiss and suck and bite every inch of her skin. I’d start with her shoulders and work my way down, driving her out of her mind with each slow, seductive kiss.
I can imagine our bodies melting together so that when I finally slip my hand between her legs and trace her seam, she’s fucking begging for release. Beautiful Liza. Competent, capable, kick-ass Liza surrendering to my touch. It’s so hot I swear my vision blurs as I stroke my shaft and think about all the ways Ican make Liza feel good. Just the thought of watching her let go and give in to pleasure has me teetering on the edge.
Gliding my thumb over the tip of my dick, I picture Liza working herself over, touching and teasing herself until her body finally crests over the edge.
And that's what does it. That’s what sends my own release coursing through my body. I shout in ecstasy and relief as jets of cum hit the tile wall of the shower. My orgasm feels endless, relentless, damn near punishing. I ride it out, my breathing labored as the water runs cold. I lather up my body, rinsing away all evidence of my trip down forbidden fantasy lane.
A few minutes later, I flop down on my bed, debating between taking a nap or hitting the books. The semester has just started, but classes are in full swing, so I know I need to power through my post-orgasm exhaustion and take a look at the reading my professor assigned yesterday. Before I can reach for my laptop, though, I hear a pitiful meow at the edge of the bed. When I pat my chest, I expect Hazel to curl up for a snuggle session like she always does, but my girl doesn’t budge. She just perches there, right on the edge of the mattress and meows.
I study her for a second, and maybe I’m losing my mind, but my cat looks tired. And yes, I know the average house cat sleeps at least twelve hours a day, but my sweet little princess isn’t taking a catnap. She looks lethargic, and that’s not like her. Leaning forward, I stroke her fur and scratch under her chin. She’s happy for the attention, but she’s not rolling over begging for belly rubs like she usually would.
Something’s not right. I don’t know if she ate something she shouldn’t have or what, but I hate to see her suffer. Swiping my phone off its charger on my nightstand, I tap out a text to my stepmom.
Blue: What vet did you take Hazel to?
