When he doesn't answer, I figure he's gotten carried away with the fantasy, that he's breathing hard and stroking his cock in the dark. I wait a minute, then text again.
Yoga4Lyfe
I have to go to sleep. Goodnight, StatMan.
I put my phone down, the dirty talk swirling in my brain. Could this guy really make me come more than once? My experience with Enzo taught me to feel lucky if I managed to come at all. Maybe I'd just never had this with the right person.
A tingle of excitement runs up my spine. Then my phone lights up.
StatMan12
Goodnight, Yoga Girl.
I stare at the message for a long moment. Sure, he probably has a ton of girls that he talks dirty to. But right this second, I don't care. I want to feel special.
Desired.
I set my phone on the nightstand and pull the covers up. I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
Chapter Four
Silas
Do you think about that when you're alone in the dark?
Yes. That's all I think about these days.
I shake my head and refocus. It's game day. I shouldn't have stayed up texting Scout last night. But I would've missed that conversation… and damn, was it ever worth it.
I'm tired today, but I'm not sorry.
"Huxley!"
I jerk up from my thoughts as I huddle on the bench in the locker room. Coach Ryan's giving me an intense look that's just short of anger.
"Pay attention." He points and snaps at Coach Cross, who's been talking for a while now. The older, dark haired man arches a brow.
"Can I go on, Silas? No running stats or doing Sudoku while I finish."
He knows me too well. Usually, those are my go-tos for when I’m bored. Now I’m too busy imagining a naked Scout. God, I can’t think about that right now. I refuse to get hard in the locker room like I’m a fucking teenager.
"Sorry," I mumble. "I'm paying attention."
Coach Cross sends me a heated look, but he turns to the rest of the locker room. "As I was saying. Tonight, no dumb penalties against Chicago. Stay out of the box. Play your lane."
He taps the board once with his marker and looks right at me. I nod. I mean it when I nod.
The locker room hums around me while I go through my rituals. I tape my sticks the exact same way I always do. Heel to toe. No gaps in the spiral. Laces pulled tight until my fingers ache. Finger tape snug but not cutting off circulation. My right shoulder aches under the pad, a steady pulse that asks for attention and gets none.
The Chicago Flames come in loud during warmups. They always do. Their captain glides past our line with a grin that shows too many missing teeth. One of their wingers drifts close and taps my shin pad with his stick.
"Old school, Huxley. All meat, no mind."
“Fuck off,” I growl.
His chirps are just noise. I refuse to make room in my already crowded brain for that bit of static. I skate my lines and keep my eyes on the ice instead of giving him the satisfaction of a response. I count the turns from the half wall to the blue line. Ten in rhythm. My lungs feel clean. The ice feels good under my blades.
For just a second, I think tonight might actually go our way.
