“But?” I prompt when he stays silent.
“But you should know, I’m used to getting what I want.”
The implication that he wantsmeis almost enough to make my lonely heart—and my very interested dick—cave.
“Of that, I have no doubt,” I tell him. “But not this time. We both stand to lose a lot if anyone were to find out about this. So please,pleaseaccept that tonight was a one-off.”
“Maybe for you, but I’ll be getting off again and again to thoughts of your moans, the way that hickey looks on your neck, the look of drunken bliss on your face when you come, knowing it was me that drew it out of you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Vox. Have mercy on me.”
“I spent a lot of years being mad at you. I think I just found the best way to even the score.”
I don’t like the sound of that one bit.
Chapter 11
Vox
The next forty-eight hours pass in a blur. I’ve managed to put all thoughts of Connor on the back burner and focus on what he’s actually telling me as a coach until he accompanies Ren and me up to the starting gates the morning of the time-trials. As he gets us tucked in, several other boarders are leaning around their fences to get a look at Connor, and the whispering starts immediately.
It distracts the hell out of me and worsens my only child syndrome.
I know he can hear them. They aren’t exactly being discreet. Hell, even the other coaches are sneaking glances at the legend who resurfaced without a word.
Finally, Connor grabs my face in his gloved hands, standing on the outside of my gate, startling me. The start clock says we still have two minutes, so he can be here for another sixty seconds.
“Vox,” he says sternly, dipping his head to catch my eyes.
“Uh, yeah?” I ask, trying to cut my eyes to the guy on my right as another ‘No way! Itishim,’ rings out.
“Focus,” Connor demands, bringing my attention back to him.
“They’re all looking at you,” I say, stupid with jealousy.
He gives me a heartbreaking smile and says exactly what I need to hear. “ButI’mlooking atyou.” Before my mind can run away withthatstatement, he’s quick to add. “Youand Renner are my athletes. I’m here foryou.” He lets go of my face and taps my helmet. “So don’t get distracted now and fuck it all up. Remember what we talked about? You need to solidify your starting rank, so find the fall line, and find it first. Ride it hard with all gas, no brakes. This ride is aboutfeel. The rest of the season is about strategy, safety, and the long game. Understood?” He holds out his fist for me to tap.
“Understood.” I touch my gloved knuckles to his, feeling the familiar buzz humming under my skin that’s been ever-present since our rutting session two nights ago.
For the time trials, the athletes go down the course one at a time. Because I ended last season with the best record, my time trial is first, giving the other racers the time to beat. I hate going first because you can learn so much from watching others go down ahead of you, and in this sport, any advantage is helpful. I also hate it because the gates are crowded with everyone milling around waiting for their turn.
Thankfully, Connor had Renner and me out here yesterday morning, but they closed the course by ten to get it ready for today, so we only got a couple of runs in,andwe had to share it with the others doing their timed runs today as well.
Connor’s minty-cool breath floats across my face as he leans in so his mouth is at my ear.
“It’s windy today. Don’t forget about the snowdrift that sat to the left of the first ramp. Wind’s moving east to west, so there’s a good chance there’s going to be a powder build-up on the other side when you come down. Take advantage of it. Assoon as you’re airborne, push your board back down. Get to the bottom as fast as you c?—”
Connor is interrupted when the announcer’s voice rings out over the loudspeaker.
“Sixty seconds to go.”
“You’ve got this,” Connor says as he walks away.
Standing so close toTheConnor Lang and hearing him give me coaching advice still feels weird, even though we’ve been working together for several weeks now. But hearing him give me a pre-race pep talk? Oddly surreal despite grinding on him on my living room floor. In my head, there are two Connor Langs. One is the boarder, the coach, myidol.The other is this ridiculously hot, easy-going enigma of a man that I want to pick apart just to watch him come undone.
“Athlete, take your mark,” the announcer says, and I grip the poles on either edge of the gate, preparing to launch myself through them at the sound of the buzzer.
When the loud horn goes off, everything fades away.
