My father has called four times today.
I’ve ignored all of them, despite having absolutely nothing to do apart from my PT homework exercises. Between those and staring at the ceiling thinking about Ella’s lips, I’ve been very busy.
Too busy to talk to that guy, anyway.
I managed to get myself to and from the fridge for meals, and even ordered in some non-meatball food I plan to share with Ella when she gets home from work. I don’t want to stop thinking about her tongue on me last night, the look in her eyes as she wrapped that mouth around my dick.
I’ve just situated myself back on the couch after tipping the delivery guy and setting food on the counter when a few things happen at once. First, my phone rings again, the word DAD flashing across the screen. Then the apartment door opens, and even though it’s dark outside, the condo fills with light as Ella walks in with a smile on her face.
So yeah, I’m not talking to my dad right now, while I could be looking at her instead. I don’t even fucking care about the consequences anymore. I silence the phone and toss it on the rug as Ella sinks onto the couch, kicking off her clogs with a groan.
“Long day?” I shift my weight so my body is angled toward hers. The phone buzzes again.
“It was intense. Multi-car crash on the parkway. Do you have to take that?” She gestures at my phone with one hand and starts rubbing her foot with the other.
I stare at her hands, kneading the flesh of her sole. “It’s my dad just calling to reiterate his bullshit.”
She arches a brow. “He’s delusional.”
I nod. Ella knows my dad rides me hard. Wouldn’t take me to a specialist for my shoulder in high school, so I needed that first surgery the summer before freshman year. “Just because he played with a torn rotator cuff and a broken hand doesn’t mean that’s my formula for longevity in the league.”
Ella winces. “It’s such a shitty thing to pressure you about anyway. Your medical staff wouldn’t clear you, would they?”
I shake my head. “Try telling Howie Houser, senior, that things have changed since his glory days.”
Her nose wrinkles adorably. “Glory days? Didn’t he get suspended for a cheap shot that almost broke someone’s neck?”
I nod. She’s not the only one walking in a hockey player’s shadow. Coaches and league officials all remember my old man. Other players, once they put it together, treat me like I’m going to act the same way. I confess, “Everyone treats me with caution, like I’m going to be violent.”
"You're nothing like him." She drops a hand to my arm and squeezes for emphasis.
"You don't know that."
"Bernard." Her fingers thread through mine. "You are nothing like a man who hits people from behind."
My throat tightens. I look at our hands — mine huge, scarred across the knuckles from a decade of blocked shots, hers smaller, a little chapped from work, strong. We fit together in a way that makes me feel invincible. I cough and point at the counter, trying to defuse the situation. “I got us food from Nicky’s Thai.”
Her face lights up even brighter, and she’s on her feet in a flash, gathering bags. The aroma of garlic and ginger wafts toward me, and my mouth waters as she pulls out containers and wooden chopsticks. “What’s all in here?”
Ella rushed through a shower while the fried spring rolls cooled, and then we dug into a feast on the couch. We’ve just finished demolishing pad Thai, rice curry, and mango salad when my phone rings again. I kick it with my good foot, and it skitters across the floor, under the television.
She stares at it. “Feel better?”
I grunt. “Not really.”
"I know that ache," she says, placing our empty containers on the floor before settling back into the cushions. "The parent thing. Feeling like no matter what you accomplish, it's never the right accomplishment."
"Your parents had a script for you, too?”
"My parents had a script for Jason. I wasn't even in the cast." She shrugs. "Different flavor of the same thing. You're seen as the wrong version of yourself. I'm not seen at all."
I look at her. She looks at me. The apartment is dark except for the TV glow and the lamp she always leaves on, the one by the curtains, and her face is half-lit and half-shadow, and I think: she doesn't need lessons.
She's never needed lessons. This woman cracks me open, and she does it without trying, without technique, without any of the bullshit I've been pretending to teach her.
Ella Rujkowski is better at intimacy than anyone I've ever been with. She just doesn't know it. She thinks she's inexperienced. She thinks she needs training. But the things she does…I've never had this with anyone else.
She runs her fingers through my hair. Slow, the way she learned I like, nails dragging gently across my scalp. My eyes close. The tension in my shoulders loosens. Her nail traces the scar in my eyebrow, and I feel my body respond — not just arousal, though that's there, instant and undeniable — but something deeper. A release. A surrender.
