The locker room is an eerie silent as Conor stands.
Even more quiet than during Coach’s pregame speeches, because Conor’s are a rarer occurrence. No one’s wrapping their stick or pulling on their game jersey.
We’re all seated with our attention squarely aimed at our captain.
My knee bounces, impatient energy pinballing through me.
In ten minutes, I’ll be out on the ice. In two hours, I’ll know if we’re playing in the final.
Today will either be my last hockey game—ever—or the final step before getting the chance to end my career as a champion.
No pressure.
It’s not just up to me. We’ve won every game this season as a team, the same way we lost one.
But I can feel the burning desire to fight.
Not physically, although I’m usually happy to drop gloves.
I want this win. Want it for me, not just for Conor or for Hunter or for any of the other seniors on the team. Or for Coach Keller.
I want University of Worthington—our opponent today—to be worried every time I’m on the ice. The guys are expecting me to play well today, after my consistent contributions recently. But I want to exceed those expectations, not just meet them.
“You good?” Hunter asks in a low voice from his spot beside me.
I glance over, the grin coming automatically. “I’m great.”
His eyes widen slightly, like he was expecting a less enthusiastic answer. Then Hunter matches my grin with one of his own. Nods.
Conor clears his throat once he reaches the center of the locker room. “I wasn’t sure we’d get this far, to be honest,” he tells us. “We all know games can be unpredictable, and wanting a win is never enough. We’ve got a better record than Worthington. We’re focused, we’re ready, we’re prepared. I see a group of guys that I wouldn’t want to play against. We’ve been the underdogs for years, and now we’re the team everyone is worried about. I’ve never played with a more supportive team. The way you’ve all stepped up this season…” He shakes his head. “If we lose, I want you guys to know it’s been an honor being your captain. No matter what that scoreboard says at the end of the game, you’re all winners.”
I love Hart, but his motivational speeches need some work. Usually he just reminds us which players to worry about and then ends it with a “Hit the ice!”
So I stand. “Save the I love losers speech, Hart. You’re never going to need it. Because we’re going to make Worthington wish Pendelton had beat them. Right, boys?”
There are rumbles of agreement through the locker room.
“They’re going to pray they lost in the quarterfinals, because that would have been better than having to face us. Right, boys?”
Louder agreement, this time.
“We’re going to embarrass them. Fucking humiliate them. Make them look like a team Hart’s PeeWee kids could beat. Right, boys?”
The cheers bounce off the walls, mixed with some laughter. Robby bangs his stick against his metal locker. Jack Williams wolf whistles.
“You think you’re tired? Sore? I have a bruise the size of Washington on my ribs. I can’t remember the last time some part of my body didn’t hurt. Suck it the fuck up. You’re playing for a school that hasn’t won a hockey championship since before cell phones were invented. We don’t get to sit back. To wait until the last period to wake up or to think there’s another season if we lose. You think getting this far was hard? Getting this far again will be harder. You wanna skate around for another year looking at that old, sad banner hanging from the ceiling? I’ll be gone, off doing something amazing.” All the guys laugh. “Most of you won’t be. And all I’ve heard since November is what an amazing season we’re having. Bullshit. This is an average season for us.”
I glance at Coach Keller. He’s leaning against the doorway, holding one of his binders. His expression is impassive, like usual, no indication of what he’s thinking. But he doesn’t look disapproving, so I keep going.
“We’re capable of more than they think. They’re worried about how many goals we’re going to score? Don’t even let them touch the puck. Let Willis enjoy a mini-vacation between the pipes. Whether we win tonight is up to all of you. Not Worthington. They think they’re here to play us. We’re here to play them. One day, those guys will tell their grandkids about the semifinal game they lost to a Hall of Famer.” I glance at Hart. “That cover it, Captain?”
Conor is staring at me, shocked.
I’ve never interrupted one of his speeches before.
Partly because they were better than today’s. Mostly because I wasn’t paying close attention. I was texting or eating a snack.
“Guess so,” I say, when Hart says nothing. There are a few snickers. “Let’s fucking go, boys!”
The entire team clambers to their feet, the hum of energy in the air similar to a live wire exposed to water. Dangerous and electric.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” Hunter asks me as we walk down the hallway.
“What?”
“Your little speech.”
“What the fuck was little about it?”
Hunter rolls his eyes. “It was good.”
“What was good?”
“Your big speech, Phillips. If we win this, it’ll be because of you.”
I glance at him, shocked.
Hunter looks serious.
“It’s the whole team. I’m not—”
“Conor can’t carry the whole team, Aidan. You just launched them all out there. If we win this, it’ll be because of you. If Hart’s slapshot was enough to win that trophy, we’d be chasing our fourth championship.”
He steps onto the ice and skates away before I can respond.
I follow, slower than usual, as I turn his words around in my head. I know I’ve been contributing more, yeah. Taking responsibility instead of shirking it. But Conor’s the captain. I’m the guy on the team underclassmen text if they’re wondering where a party on campus is or to ask for a spare condom. I’m the team mascot, the party animal.
“Phillips!”
I finish my first lap around our end of the ice, then skate over to the bench.
Coach Keller is standing with his arms crossed. Coach Zimmerman is at the opposite end of the bench, rearranging a few extra sticks.
“That was quite a speech,” he tells me. Nothing in his expression indicates if quite is a good or a bad thing.
“Sorry for not keeping it, uh, clean,” I say.
Technically, Holt’s athletic program has an anti-profanity policy. Not a well-enforced one, and Coach has never reprimanded us for language during practice. But I’ve never heard him swear, and most of the guys make an effort to clean it up whenever we know he’s in earshot. I lost track of how many f-bombs I dropped earlier.
“I’m proud of you, Phillips,” he says.
It’s a sucker punch to my stomach.
I stare at Coach, certain I heard wrong. “Uh, what?”
“Sixteen seasons, and I remember every player I’ve coached. As soon as I met Hart, I knew he’d have an impact. You? Never occurred to me until your sophomore year. Our last game of the season. Hart sat in the locker room for two hours after the rest of the team left. Remember where you went?”
I shake my head.
“Old friend of mine was at Gaffney’s. Texted me, saying a bunch of my players were there drinking.”
I remember it now. Or parts of it, before I got wasted and went home with some random girl. That was a tough loss.
“Hart was the logical choice as captain. But you were on my short list, ever since I saw that message. And you reminded me why, just now. You’re a leader, Aidan. One people follow because they want to, not because they’re supposed to. Stop underestimating that. Letting people underestimate you. Believe you have two games left, but play like this is your last one.”
I’ve never noticed before, but Coach’s eyes are the same warm brown as Rylan’s, the color of melted chocolate.
She’s here, somewhere. Maybe.
We haven’t talked since I dropped her off after our snowy trip to the Sound. I’m supposed to meet her for our rescheduled tutoring session tomorrow, and have no clue what to expect.
I force myself to focus. To nod. “Yes, sir.”
Coach nods back.
And then I turn around to finish my warm-up.
We won.
Conor’s on his phone, and I’m certain he’s texting Harlow.
For the first time, there’s someone I feel like talking to who isn’t in the locker room.
And she already messaged me.
RYLAN: Congrats!!! 🙂
Suddenly, simply texting her doesn’t seem like enough. I want to see her. Touch her.
I rush through showering and changing, same as the other guys. We’re all exhausted yet jubilant. No one will be partying tonight, not knowing that there’s an actual championship on the line now. Our spot is guaranteed, it’s no longer a hypothetical goal. No one wants to be the weak link who messes it all up, and getting drunk isn’t going to help.
Most of the team is headed straight to bed. I’m certain Conor is going over to Harlow’s. And I avoid looking in Hunter’s direction as I grab my gear, glad we drove here separately earlier.
There aren’t any other cars parked on her street, but it’s late enough hopefully no one will notice my truck. Or call a tow truck, since I have no clue if you’re allowed to park on the street overnight here.
I pull out my phone and respond to her text.
AIDAN: Thanks.
AIDAN: You up?
RYLAN: Why does this seem like a booty call?
AIDAN: Because it’s a booty call.
AIDAN: Wanna fuck? sounded worse.
RYLAN: Window is unlocked.
AIDAN: Be there in two minutes.
She doesn’t reply.
I probably should have given her more warning, rather than rushing here as quickly as I could. I climb out of my truck, lock it, and then head toward the brown house four doors down. The wind is chilly, but my skin feels impervious to the cold after skating for the past couple of hours. My system is still flooded with adrenaline and the high of winning.
And there’s a fresh rush of excitement when I slide open Rylan’s window. It was pure dumb luck I guessed right last time, and I was fully prepared to dive into the bushes if some other girl had come to the window. This time, it’s much easier to find the flat rock in the flowerbed and use it as leverage to swing one leg through and then pull the rest of my body up. I close the window behind me quickly, not wanting to let all the heat in her room out.
The lamp sitting on her desk is on, casting a subtle golden glow.
Rylan is lying in bed, turned toward me with her hands tucked under one cheek. Her smile is a little shy, and I think she’s blushing, but it’s harder to tell in the dim light. “Hey,” she whispers.
“Hey.” My voice comes out rough, so I clear my throat. “I didn’t realize you’d already gone to bed. I can…”
“Get in bed, Phillips,” she tells me, her voice closer to the way she normally talks to me.
Despite what Hunter thinks, I’m not an idiot, so I listen, stripping off everything. I leave my clothes in a pile on her floor, grab a condom out of my pocket, and walk toward her bed.
Rylan sits up as I approach, and I almost swallow my tongue.
“That’s what you wear to sleep in?” I choke out.
I’m still having fantasies about the pink lace thong she had on in the truck.
This outfit is red silk, so low cut it might as well not be covering her boobs at all. And it’s so short I can see the hem above where the sheets are pooling around her waist. I take a mental picture. If she ever sends me a photo back, this is what I’d request.
I crawl over Rylan, her familiar smell surrounding me. Dip my head down to kiss her, which feels as natural as breathing. Like not kissing her would be the strange thing to do right now.
She kisses me back, winding her arms around the back of my neck and then slipping her fingers into my hair. I grunt as she combs through the damp strands, tugging lightly and then scratching her nails against my scalp.
As hot as the truck and the tub were, I’m dying to fuck her like this.
No steaming water and frozen temperatures to contend with.
No small cab only allowing limited movements.
“I like this,” I murmur, fiddling with a strap on her top before kissing a line down the center of her exposed chest.
“Yeah, I thought you might.” Her laugh is low and breathy, turning into a moan when I tug the silk to the side so I can suck on her nipple.
I’m obsessed with her tits. They’re full and perky and perfect.
“It’s the same color as your truck,” she tells me.
I didn’t think I could get any harder right now. But knowing she put this on with me in mind? Yeah, that has me stiffening even more.
I strip the sheets back so I can see all of her. Slide a hand down to her knee, hiking it up over my hip and spreading her open. She didn’t bother putting on any underwear, which is as sexy as the outfit she’s wearing.
We both groan when my needy erection rubs against her bare pussy.
Rylan’s hands settle on my shoulders, her nails digging into the same spot she massaged before.
This time, I don’t tease her.
I’m too worked up. From the game earlier. From how the main thing I’ve thought about since stepping off the ice was this, watching her bite her bottom lip and lift her hips as if I need an enticement. From seeing the same desperation I’m experiencing written all over her face.
I rip the condom wrapper open, cover myself, and then thrust inside of her.
Wet, tight heat clenches around me as I push deeper, like a slick fist. I move my hand to the inside of her thigh, holding her open and thrusting as deeply as I can. I’m not going to last long. I’m incapable of lasting long with her, it seems.
And then I’m there, all the way inside of her. I exhale through my nose, trying to think about anything except how incredible it feels. I want to savor this, for it to last as long as possible.
Her inner muscles squeeze around me, deliberately. Pleasure zings along my cock in response to the hot friction, steadily spreading throughout the rest of my body.
“Fuck, baby.” I don’t mean to say it. The endearment slips out, just like last time.
My balls are heavy, the base of my spine tingling. Our mouths meet in a messy, enthusiastic kiss as her breasts rub against my chest. Rylan is making those breathy sounds that drive me insane, like she’s too overwhelmed to take normal inhales. Her hands slip down my back until they reach my ass, her nails digging in like she’s trying to physically pull me even deeper inside of her.
I’m barely hanging on. My hand moves between our bodies, finding the swollen bud of her clit right above where I’m pumping into her.
Then, finally, she’s coming.
My steady strokes falter as her pussy constricts around my cock. The edges of my vision blur as my bloodstream swims with endorphins and relief and desire and something more intense than lust. I release with a long grunt, my dick jerking as I fill the condom.
We don’t move for a minute, both breathing heavily. I don’t want to move. I want to stay exactly where I am. The burning urge to fuck her has been sated, but I can still feel my skin buzzing from her proximity.
I have to force myself to roll away from her, grabbing a tissue from the box on her side table to wrap the condom in before tossing it in the trash.
I lie back down, but I’m not sure I should. Everything about tonight was impulsive, and I have no clue what she’s wanting or expecting. She hadn’t texted me since we had sex in my truck on Friday night.
I saw her message and reacted, high off the win and wanting to celebrate.
If she’s wanting to go to sleep, I don’t want to be that guy who can’t take a hint and hangs around until it’s awkward. But I don’t want her to think I showed up here just for sex, that this was just about getting off for me.
Rylan turns toward me, her hand landing on my abs. Her fingers skim the ridges. “Any new injuries?” she asks conversationally.
I raise an eyebrow when she glances up at me. “Did I just fuck you like I was wounded?”
She rolls her eyes. “Sorry for caring.”
Immediate regret.
I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I assumed she was teasing. That she thinks I’m a slowpoke who can’t evade hits. A wimp who can’t skate through some pain.
As pathetic as it sounds, I’m not used to someone caring. If I mentioned an injury to my parents, they’d say it was my own fault for not quitting hockey like they suggested. Hunter and Conor get just as banged up as I do. Complaining to either of them usually turns into a competition of who can power through the worst beating.
“I, uh, I’m fine,” I say awkwardly. “Worthington was slow.”
Rylan says nothing, her hand stilling on my stomach.
Fuck. I’m so bad at this. Every time we’ve hooked up, I’ve had no clue what to do after one or both of us finished. I’m accustomed to being buzzed during this part, for there to be a party to return to or some other distraction drawing my attention away. In her dim, empty bedroom, there’s nothing except us.
“How’s your week been?” I ask, clenching my jaw as soon as the question is out. I’ve come up with better small talk around strangers in my classes.
“Pretty good. I got dinner with some people from my algebra class last night. It was fun. Feels like I’m making some friends.”
“That’s great,” I say, burying the urge to ask if the guy from the coffee shop was there.
“You excited?” she asks. “About the final?”
Her fingers start moving again, and it’s incredibly distracting.
“Yeah.”
“Nervous?”
“That too. We came this far, which is an accomplishment. But also…it’s a hell of a long way to come to lose.”
“It’s a hell of a long way to come, no matter what.”
“It is.”
I meant everything I said to the guys earlier. But that’s no guarantee we’ll win the championship.
“I’m rooting for you,” she tells me.
Not for Holt.
For me.
There’s a swell of my warmth in my chest. And lower, when she continues tracing random patterns across my stomach. I pulled the sheets over us when I lay down, but she’s going to notice my erection pretty soon.
I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together.
“You don’t like that?”
“I like it too much.”
It takes a second for my words to register. Then she glances at the tent I’m pitching.
“Seriously? You played a game tonight. And we just had sex.”
I shrug. “I told you I liked the top.”
But it has little to do with what she’s wearing, except that she wore it for me. It’s all her.
“It’s a dress,” she informs me.
“It doesn’t even cover your ass. It’s a top.”
“Doesn’t even cover my ass, huh? Maybe I should just take it off, then.”
I stop breathing when she flings the sheet off of us and rises up on her knees, tugging the red fabric over her head and tossing it away. And as much as I liked—loved—her outfit, it doesn’t compare to seeing her like this. My balls draw up tight. My thighs tense. And my dick is throbbing, rapidly inflating as Rylan lets me look my fill.
My fist finds my aching cock. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips as she watches me stroke myself.
“You’re so good at teasing me,” I tell her. “So good at taking me. It’s all I’ve been thinking about, Rye. Every time I fuck my fist, I pretend it’s your tight pussy I’m filling.”
Rylan swallows, her chest heaving with faster breaths. She’s still on her knees, hand on her thigh, and I can tell she’s toying with the idea of touching herself.
“Do it,” I encourage.
I haven’t forgotten what she said in my truck, and I want to help build up her confidence however I can. It’s not like it’s some hardship on my part.
“I’d rather you did.”
My heart leaps. “Yeah?”
She nods, then lies down on her side with her back facing me. “I’ve never had sex in this position, and I’ve always wanted to try it.”
It feels important, that she’s comfortable admitting that to me. It’s fuel, to the protective, possessive urges that keep flaring up around her. And I hate how I have to answer. “I only brought the one condom.”
“There are some in the drawer.”
I roll over and reach toward the table beside her bed. Something unclenches in my chest when I see the box is still sealed.
“You must not have been a Boy Scout,” Rylan comments, glancing over her shoulder as I open the box and grab a condom out. “You’re always unprepared.”
I snort, sheathing my penis and then scooching behind her. “You thought I was a Boy Scout before that?”
“Nah.” She grins. “I would’ve been shocked.”
I slap her ass lightly and she moans, grinding back against me with no barrier between our bodies. It’s so easy to find her entrance and notch the head of my cock, so right to wrap her hair around my fist before I start to thrust because I know she likes it.
And fuck if this—talking to her, touching her, just being near her—doesn’t feel more important than winning the game earlier did.
