The hockey player's face was right there, impossible to push away, and I was thinking about his hands. I wondered what they would feel like gripping my shoulders, my back, my hips. Whether he'd be loud or whether I'd have to work to pull sounds out of him.
I braced my free hand against the tile and stroked faster, thumbing over the head on each upstroke. The water drummed against my back, and the steam made everything hazy, and I stopped trying to control where my thoughts went.
I thought about shoving him against the boards, pinning his wrists above his head, watching his cocky grin falter when he realized I wasn't going to be gentle. I thought about my mouth on his neck, biting down just hard enough to bruise while he squirmed against me. I thought about dropping to my knees and sucking him until his legs shook, until he was begging me to let him come.
I thought about bending him over the bench in the locker room, one hand on the back of his neck, holding him still. Pushing into him slowly and relentlessly while he bit his fist to keep quiet. Making him take every inch until he forgot how to be cocky, until the only word he knew was my name.
My grip tightened and my hips jerked into my fist. I was close, too close, and I couldn't stop thinking about what he'd look like when he finally fell apart underneath me.
My orgasm hit like a sucker punch, pulling a sound out of me I didn't recognize. I came with my forehead pressed against the tile, reaching for a name I didn't have because I'd never bothered to ask, and somehow that made it worse.
The water ran cold before I moved.
I stood under the spray until the water turned cold, then forced myself out. My reflection in the foggy mirror looked like a stranger, flushed and hollow-eyed. I wiped the condensation away and met my own gaze.
This didn't mean anything. It was just stress and proximity and the fact that I hadn't been with anyone in over a year. The hockey player was convenient; that was all. A face my brain had latched onto because it was new and because he'd looked at me like I was worth looking at.
I dried off and pulled on sweats and ate my pre-portioned dinner standing at the kitchen counter, not tasting any of it. Wonton wound between my ankles, hoping for scraps he wasn't going to get. The chicken was dry, and the rice was bland, and the asparagus had that slightly sulfurous taste of vegetables that had been steamed too long. I ate every bite anyway and washed the container for recycling.
Then I sat down on the couch with my laptop and a bag of ice wrapped around my ankle.
I told myself I was just checking email. I told myself I was going to review tomorrow's schedule and go to bed early, and forget about the hockey player entirely.
I pulled up the Rio Rancho Ristras website instead.
The roster page loaded slowly on my Wi-Fi, headshots appearing one by one. I scrolled past forwards and defensemen and goalies until I found the red hair.
Robert Piper. Forward. Five foot six.
I said the name out loud, testing the shape of it in my mouth. Robert. It didn't fit him. Too formal, too buttoned-up for someone who walked onto ice in sneakers and called triple axels "spinny things."
His Instagram was private, but there were clips on the team's page. I watched him take a pass at center ice and snap it into the upper corner of the net. I watched him get checked hard into the boards and bounce back up grinning. I watched a post-game interview where he pushed his hair out of his eyes and laughed at something the reporter said, unguarded and easy in a way I'd never been in front of a camera.
He was good. Better than good. He played like he was having fun out there, like hockey was a gift instead of an obligation.
I closed the laptop before I could watch another clip.
Wonton jumped onto the couch and settled against my thigh, purring. Outside, the last light was fading from the Sandias, the peaks turning from pink to purple to black. I sat there in the dark with the ice numbing my ankle and Robert Piper's name sitting heavy in my chest.
I picked up my phone and changed my alarm from four-thirty to four-fifteen.
If he thought he was going to show up and catch me off guard again, he was wrong. Tomorrow I'd be warmed up and running clean entries before he walked through the door. I'd be composed. Professional. Completely in control.
Robert Piper.
I said it one more time, quiet in the dark apartment, and the wanting didn't fade. If anything, it sharpened, hooking somewhere beneath my ribs and pulling tight.
Practice was a shitshow.
Coach had us running contact drills, and my hip had other ideas. Third rotation, I went in for a check on Santos and my left leg buckled at the wrong moment. One second I was upright, the next I was on my ass with Santos on top of me and the ice cold through my jersey.
"Shit, Pipes, you okay?" Santos rolled off me and offered a hand.
"Yeah." I grabbed it and let him haul me up, skating a slow circle, testing the joint. "Just lost my edge."
Coach pulled me to the bench. The team doc did his thing, pressing on the joint, asking the same questions he always asked. I downplayed how bad it hurt because I didn’t want to get benched for the game on Friday and he cleared me.
I stuck to passing drills for the rest of practice, and by the time we wrapped I was tired but not wrecked. Progress.
