Did Carmen drape a heated blanket over me when I fell asleep? A weighted blanket? A heated weighted blanket?
I turn my head slightly—my heart does a backflip in my chest.
Carmen is sleeping on me.
I fell asleep leaning on a big pillow against the armrest of the couch. And, apparently, Carmen fell asleep leaning againstme.
A cocoon of happiness wraps around me. Now that I realize the warmth against my side is from Carmen’s body, the heat reaches deep through me and threads around my heart.
My eyes find a digital clock on a shelf next to the TV. Shit. My first class is in half an hour.
It’s a Chemistry class that I’m taking to fulfill my science requirement. The professor is a real hard-ass, and the class has an insane pace. No doubt, plenty of new topics will be introduced today. Skipping just one class will put my grade in peril.
But every iota of me, from my toenails to the ends of my eyebrows, revolts against moving from where I am. I feel like I could stay right here until I starve to death, and love every second of it.
But my damn better judgment and sense of responsibility nudge me incessantly. I’m team captain, and I can’t let myself be seen neglecting my studies. Like Coach always says, keeping up our grades and taking our classes seriously are just as important as sticking to our diets and going to practice.
Not that we stuck to our diets last night … but I can’t allow myself to pile one irresponsible decision on top of another.
It takes more effort than doing a rep of my maximum bench press, but I manage to gently shake my shoulder that Carmen’s glossy hair is feathered across.
She makes a throaty sound that goes straight to my cock. I adjust my legs to hide my erection.
“Carmen,” I whisper, “we should get up.”
She snuggles against me for about two seconds, and I swear, I could live in those two seconds for all eternity. Then I feel her body going taut. Realization dawns on her, and she pulls away with a quickness that makes disappointment sink into my chest like sharp claws.
Embarrassment colors her face. “What time is it?” she asks.
“About seven-forty.”
Her eyes go big. The rich gloss of their brown has an almost-maroon tint. “Seven-forty? I was asleep for … eight and a half hours?”
My brain makes the connection. I know she’s expressed that a good night’s sleep is hard for her to come by.
“Feeling decent?” I ask.
Her eyes tick down to her body, like she’s assessing herself. “I feel … great.”
Warmth expands through me. I smile. “Same here.”
Two nights later,we’re in New Hampshire for an away game.
I feel on top of the fucking world.
Not just because my skates are slicing against the ice. Not just because I’m controlling the puck. Not just because I dekedpast a New Hampshire player and find myself in position to score.
Before the game, Carmen sent me a good luck text.
I’ve felt lighter than air ever since. Indestructible. And I know it’s the reason I’m playing one of the best games of my life.
I send the puck careening off the blade of my stick. The swell of confidence humming through me is such that I don’t even feel anxiety as it sails to the goal. I know it’s going in.
The boos of the New Hampshire crowd prove me right.
At this point, not even a miracle could pull New Hampshire out of its 4-0 deficit.
My teammates swarm me, peppering me with congratulations, pats on my helmet, and triumphant bodychecks.
