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“Holy shit,” I murmured, burying my face against his chest as another peal of laughter rocked through me.
Cally hooked his arm around my right shoulder and tugged me closer. I felt the ghost of a kiss press into my temple before he said, “I thought your mom was going to have a heart attack when you told her.”
When I got my breathing back under control, I pulled back and wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. “Me too,” I admitted. “But she’s right—we need an actual plan.”
“Yeah,” he hummed, tugging the hem of his sweatshirt down over a strip of exposed skin.
“That’s on inside out,” I pointed out, lightly flicking the spot on his chest where, instead of the embroidered Marauder’s logo across his chest, was its paper backing.
Cally looked down and huffed out a quiet laugh. “So it is.”
He glanced up at me and smiled, touching his neck just beneath his ear. “And your hickey’s showing.”
“I forgot you even gave that to me,” I said, flipping the collar of my shirt up to hide it.
“You were pretty out of it,” he said. “I almost stopped at one point.”
“No,” I drawled.
He nodded. “Yup.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t. Last night was …” I felt the line of my mouth soften, my eyelids slowly blinking as I recalled the way my body had responded to him. “It was perfect, Cal.”
Not even a month ago, the idea of taking Cally’s dick gave me heart palpitations. I’d been willing to try because I wanted to please him, but I hadn’t anticipated enjoying it the way he did.
Honestly, I’d kind of viewed the idea of getting fucked the way I did our training—I didn’t like running or eating egg white omelets, but I tolerated both because they made my body stronger, my endurance better. I’d figured letting Cally fuck me would make our relationship stronger, our connection better. If I’d known back then that my ass was a one-way ticket to transcendence, I’d have been riding his dick every chance I got.
Cally slouched down in his seat, his hand dropping into the gap between our hips to lace his fingers through mine. “I meant everything I said.”
“Me too.” I let my body rest against his as he drew our linked fingers into his lap, his thumb tracing over the back of my hand.
“Hey,” I cautioned. “Someone might see.”
“Then let ‘em see,” he said as the bus’s engine roared to life beneath us and we pulled out into traffic.
THIRTY-FIVE
CALLY
We were three games into a long West Coast road trip, having somehow eked out three wins in a row. For the Marauders, that was the equivalent of a hot streak, and the loud, loose mood on the ice reflected it.
“You’ve got five minutes to catch your breath, hydrate, and get ready for the next round of drills,” Petras called out, his voice hoarse from two hours of shouting.
Nielson, who hated high-pressure breakout drills since they exposed his weak stick handling skills, groaned loudly as Petras skated over to the bench to converse with Dr. Tyng, leaving us to our own devices.
While some of the guys used this time to coast around the ice, sipping from their water bottles, or practice their wrist shots, Mikey decided to use his five minutes to execute a surprisingly graceful single Axel.
Then he managed to do it a second time, gliding forward and launching himself off his forward outside edge, completing the full rotation and a half with his arms tucked as tightly to his chest as his pads allowed. He landed on his back outside edge, wobbling slightly, then extended his arms and came to a stop, dropping into a low, sweeping bow.
Petrov and Stocks pounded their sticks against the ice in approval.
“Where the fuck did you learn that?” Koffee hollered in his thick South Boston accent.
“Used to date a figure skater back in Minnesota,” he told them, gliding backward, his mouth split into a wide grin. “She bet me a month of blowies I couldn’t do it, so you know I learned how.”
Before, talk of Mikey’s sexcapades would have had me seeing green, but I knew all about that figure skater now and how she couldn’t hold a candle to my skills—either on the ice or on Mikey’s dick.
“You learned that in a month?” Kowalczyk asked, incredulous.
