She dazedly nods.
“Why don’t we clean the ice? Start fresh?”
Fear immediately blitzes through her expression. “You wanna call it a night already?”
“No,” the hand on her leg moves to warmly cup her cheek, “I jus’ don’t wanna go from warmies to the final minute of the game.”
“Okay,” bashfully creeps out.
“Let’s get into our first shift before decidin’ the next, aye?” My thumb gingerly traces her bottom lip. “Can you getnaked for me, baby?” Reluctance is the first response I see, one that pushes me to pre-emptively praise, “Can you let me see how beautiful you are wearin’ nothin’ but that smile that gets me blocker hard?”
“It does not,” she sassily shoots down.
Without hesitation, I relocate her palm to my crotch, pleased – yet again – when a sharp gasp is stolen.
Cockily smirking is attached to my repeated request, “Can you be a good girl and strip for me?”
Shaking more than a rookie fresh out of college at his first official NHL pracky, Gilly takes to her bare feet in front of me, stare stubbornly pinned on them, so much anxiety flowing from her system that I’m tempted to call it game already.
But I won’t.
She needs this.
I can feel it.
I can feel it just like a bass line bubbling just beneath the opening notes of a classic song.
“Look at me,” comes out as I lean back onto my palms. “Look at me like I don’t own you.”
The command has her gaze finding mine.
“Like I’m not here to change you in any way.”
A coyish grin threatens her expression. “You serenading me, Jukes?”
“I’m remindin’ you,” I continue to melodically speak, “to live life the way that you want.” Seeing a puck sized worth of confidence skating through her system convinces me to add, “To say and do and be whoever you fuckin’ please.”
Rather than say another word, I lightly hum the tune that was way ahead of its time.
The tune that I not so secretly hum to myself when the shit in media gets in my head.
Or stats don’t read like I want.
Or I worry that I’m too weird, too throwback to ever find who it is my soul’s been looking for.
Thank fuck, I finally found her.
Maybe her soul needs mine to learn some similar shit.
Gilly lightly begins to sing under her breath, face barely fluctuating to the beat, yet the more she finds her voice, the more her body openly sways to the rhythm.
Our eyes remain locked until her hands gently glide themselves along the curves she’s displaying in her dark red dress. At that point, I followthem.
Map out with my eyes what she is with her fingertips.
Lose myself in the visual strumming occurring each time she brushes her thighs.
Her stomach.
