Condom math
MUNSEN IS A SMALL TOWN NEAR HASTINGS. FROM WHAT I’VE HEARD, it’s kind of a shithole. Yet when we pull up to the rink, it’s housed in a brand-new sprawling building with walls of gleaming windows. A complete contrast to the rest of the gritty, industrial-looking town.
Beckett notices too. He whistles softly from the passenger side of my Jeep, which, thanks to Owen, I was able to get fixed. I’ll pay him back, though. I don’t do handouts.
Gigi’s white SUV is the only other vehicle in the parking lot when we pull in. It’s 9:00 p.m. and the building just closed to the public according to the hours posted online.
“You sure she doesn’t mind I’m here?” asks Beckett, running a hand through his blond hair.
“I texted her earlier to confirm. All good.”
“Texting with our cocaptain’s ex-girlfriend. Look at you, living on the edge over here.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I’m not scared of Colson.”
We hop out of the Jeep.
“You got to admit, a bite of forbidden fruit always tastes sweeter.”
“I’m not looking to bang her. I said I’d help her behind the net. She said she’d talk me up to her dad. Win-win.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure that’s all it is.”
“Dude, this was your idea.”
“Actually, it was Lindley’s idea.”
“Whatever. You cosigned it.”
Gigi is opening her trunk now. She’s in jeans and a tight white tank top, her dark hair arranged in a long braid down her back. She leans into the trunk and heaves out her hockey bag and a backpack. We do the same from the back of the Jeep.
“Hi,” she says at our approach. She casts a slightly wary look in Beckett’s direction.
He’s unfazed, flashing that obnoxious Australian grin of his. The one that utilizes maximum dimples. “Looking good, Graham.”
“Thanks.”
“What? Not going to return the compliment?”
She snorts.
“Wow, that hurts,” he says, slapping a hand over his heart in mock agony.
“Yeah, like you need me to stroke your ego.”
“My ego? No. But other things…” He trails off suggestively. And where it would’ve sounded slimy coming from any other dude, somehow Beckett pulls it off.
Gigi giggles, confirming my suspicions that Beckett Dunne can do and say no wrong when it comes to women.
Her laughter fades when our eyes lock. She bites her lip and I wonder if she’s thinking about the weekend. I know I am. For days I’ve been trying to make sense of the mountain of sexual tension that suddenly rose between us when we were hiding from the boosters.
When I almost kissed her.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one. Yes, she’s hot. I spent the whole night trying not to stare at her bare tanned legs. And don’t get me started on the rest of her body. Tight and sculpted. Hot enough to scald my blood.
Until the gala, though, I wasn’t thinking too hard about banging her.
Now I kind of am.
“Anyway.” She clears her throat. She has her bags over one shoulder, and a leather purse on the other. She slides a hand into the latter and pulls out a key ring. “Let’s go in.”
I raise a brow. “You got a key to this place?”
“I know a guy.”
“What guy?” Beckett asks curiously.
“My uncle. He grew up here.”
At the entrance, there’s a small gold plaque screwed onto the outer wall that reads:
IN RECOGNITION OF JOHN LOGAN
FOR HIS GENEROUS DONATION TO BETTER
THE TOWN OF MUNSEN, MASSACHUSETTS
“Your uncle John Logan,” I mumble incredulously.
“I mean, not by blood, but he’s my dad’s best friend. My brother and I grew up calling him Uncle Logan.”
I try not to dwell on the realization that our childhoods were so drastically disparate, we may as well have been raised on two different planets. But a pang of bitterness rises nonetheless. For all she wishes her family name didn’t follow her around, the truth is, it does. It opens doors for her that I could never dream of opening for myself.
My mind flashes to the fancy, well-kept neighborhood we drove through Saturday night on our way to the country club. Again, a whole other planet from where I lived as a child. First the small two-bedroom Phoenix apartment where I lived with my parents before my mother died. Then the run-down foster homes with overgrown yards and sagging chain-link fences. It’s almost impossible to envision the idyllic upbringing Gigi must’ve had.
“Damn, I want to be you when I grow up,” Beckett remarks.
“Anyway, I told Logan I needed a private place to practice, and he offered up this rink. I grabbed the keys from him earlier.”
“Nice perks you got there from Daddy,” I can’t help but crack.
“Hey, Daddy is the reason we’re here, isn’t he? So I can talk you up to him?” She offers a saccharine smile. “So I’ve either got a famous dad who can benefit you and you don’t complain about it, or I don’t and you’re shit out of luck. Can’t have it both ways, prom king.”
She has a point.
“Locker rooms are down here,” she says, leading us to the end of a fluorescent-lit corridor.
Her jeans are practically painted on, and I can’t help checking out her tight, perky ass. Beckett’s looking too. He catches me doing it and gives me a knowing grin. I scowl at him.
We reach the men’s change rooms, which are locked. Gigi stops and fumbles with her key ring. “Hold on. I’m not sure which one it is.”
As she bends forward to stick the first key in the lock, her purse slides off her shoulder and down her arm. She attempts to catch it before it falls, but to no avail. The bag tumbles to the shiny floor, its contents spilling out on the way down.
A giant box of condoms lands at my feet.
Beckett and I stare at it, then exchange an amused look.
Gigi’s cheeks turn a shade of red that doesn’t exist in nature. She quickly kneels to collect the fallen items, shoving everything back in her purse.
“You didn’t see that,” she orders.
I raise a brow. “Value pack, huh? Big plans this weekend?”
“They’re not mine,” she says through gritted teeth.
“You’re a bad liar, Gisele.”
“Okay, fine, they’re mine. But I acquired them against my will.”
“Out of curiosity, how many rubbers do you require per session?” Beckett pipes up, grinning with delight.
She’s on her feet, trying another key. This one also doesn’t work.
“Goddamn it The keys are against me,” she moans.
Beckett’s still working through the condom math of it all. “I mean, a box of fifty, huh? Let’s be ambitious and say we go three or four rounds a night. That’s three or four condoms. Although I guess if it’s a group thing…you know, like the three of us here—”
“Oh my God. Would you stop?”
“—then we’re talking two condoms at once, three or four rounds. That means you could hypothetically go through six to eight condoms per night. Damn. We’re knocking that whole box out in less than a week.”
Gigi sighs and looks my way. “Is he always like this?”
“Pretty much,” I confirm.
She locates the right key, and the loud breath of relief she releases makes me chuckle.
“There.” She pushes open the door for us. “Go suit up.”
“Should we put the condoms on now or after?” Beckett inquires.
“I hate you.” She moves down the hall toward the women’s locker room. “I’ll meet you guys on the ice. Rink B.”
In the men’s room, Beckett and I change into our practice gear.
I strip off my shirt, then give him a dry look. “You’re not as cute as you think, you know. And you sure as shit ain’t getting a three-way out of her.”
“Bullshit. She was interested.”
That gives me pause.
Was she?
“Nah,” I finally answer, because Gigi Graham really doesn’t strike me as a threesome type of girl.
“That’s a shame. The more the merrier. You know that’s my motto.”
I want to say he’s joking, but he’s not. In the two years we’ve known each other, the kind of debauchery I’ve witnessed from Beckett Dunne has been pretty extraordinary. I also never heard a bad word about him from anyone he ever hooked up with at Eastwood, so that’s something, at least. Hell, most of those chicks remained in our friend group. Those good looks and Gold Coast tan provide him with a lot of leeway.
“What about you?” he asks as he sits on the opposite bench to lace up his skates.
“What about me?”
“You interested?”
I lift my head to find him grinning at me. “Sorry, brother. I think you’re pretty, but I just don’t feel any sparks.”
“I mean, in her. Because you look interested.”
I duck my head and finish lacing up. “I’m not.”
“Really.”
“Really,” I say, because for some reason uttering the words “Yes, I’m interested” makes me…uneasy.
Because I’m not interested.
I don’t think.
Fuck. Why am I even dwelling on this right now? That’s not why we’re here tonight.
The Zamboni has just concluded its final lap when we meet Gigi out on the ice. We’re not wearing our full game gear, but enough padding that we can knock each other around a little if we want. Beck and I also brought some mini orange pylons, which I stack on the ledge in front of the home bench along with a few bottles of water.
“Okay,” Gigi says, beaming. She skates a few circles in front of us. “I’m your willing student.”
Beckett groans softly. “Don’t say things like that. I can’t skate with a stiffie.”
Her smile only widens. “I think I’ve figured you out,” she informs him.
“Have you?”
“Yes. You’re the man who tries to disarm everyone with sex.” She jerks a thumb at me. “And he’s the grumpy man of few words.” She shrugs. “I like knowing where I stand with people.”
I do too. I suppose we have that in common. Another thing we share is the complete intensity with which we throw ourselves into our sport. The second we get down to business, Gigi’s entire focus is on the task at hand. Fully and unapologetically.
“Right, so this first drill,” I start gruffly. “It’s all about opportunities. Versatile players know how to create scoring opportunities.”
Beckett grabs the pylons and skates around to set them down. He picks a few strategic spots, one in front of the net, two at the point.
Some people gripe and complain about drills. They think nothing can ever truly prepare you for the split-second decisions and unforeseen scenarios that arise during a real game. Me, I think that’s bullshit. Yes, instinct will go a long way. But practice always makes perfect.
“Beck is gonna get all up in your personal space,” I warn her.
That’s actually why I picked him to assist. Dunne’s one of the more aggressive d-men on the team, and he knows how to make life claustrophobic for another player.
“But in this scenario, he’s not the only one suffocating you. You got two other guys, or rather, women,” I amend, as Beckett drops another pylon behind the net. “So if you turn and think you can just escape that way, nope. You can’t. Your goal isn’t to break out and score yourself. Get the puck to me, or to one of our other teammates,” I say, gesturing to the various orange markers.
“Got it.”
“Ready?” I glide to a random spot between the crease and the blue line.
She taps her stick on the ice. “Let’s do this thing.”
Grinning at her, I drop the puck and shoot it toward the boards.
Like a rocket, Gigi skates for it. Beckett is hot on her heels, practically breathing down her neck. Her stick makes contact just as he elbows her and tries to gain control of the puck.
For a moment I wonder if this is a bad idea. I’m six-five. Beck’s six-two. We outmuscle her to an alarming degree. But Gigi holds her own, throwing her shoulder into it, and I hear Beck’s answering grunt. As they fight for domination, I remain in position, waiting for her to make something happen.
Finally, she manages to snap the puck out, but nowhere near me or any of the pylons. The shiny black disk misses every potential stick and gets iced all the way down the boards.
“That would’ve been a breakaway for your opponents,” I tell her when she and Beck skate out.
Gigi’s cheeks are flushed behind her visor. “Not necessarily.”
“My left winger would’ve been right there in the corner, salivating. You just made a perfect pass to him. That’s not where you want to shoot.”
“Hey, I’m trying. That beast was on me.”
“Aw, thanks,” Beckett says, looking pleased.
I roll my eyes. “All right, go again.”
We run the same drill half a dozen times, and each time Gigi can’t wrangle the kind of control she needs back there. Outside of that cramped space, however, she’s ridiculous. The kind of elite skater that coaches drool over. Her edge work is insane. And I’ve seen her game tape—she’s able to pluck shooting or passing opportunities out of thin air.
Except, apparently, when she’s in a tight space.
“This isn’t working.” She sounds frazzled.
“C’mere.”
She skates over to me, removing her helmet to wipe sweat off her forehead. It’s inexplicably hot seeing her do that. And the sight of her braid hanging over one shoulder triggers a strange primal urge to tug on it and pull her toward me so I can slide my tongue through her frowning lips.
I snap myself out of it and try to focus.
“Beck, let’s switch,” I call. “I’ll defend.”
He skates off toward the bench, where he uncaps one of the water bottles. He chugs half of it while I brief Gigi.
“I want you to give me everything you got, all right? High pressure on me. See how I move.”
Now it’s the two of us battling it out, and the tension from the gala returns. My pulse quickens at her proximity, mouth running dry. Hearing her heavy breathing makes me think about how she’d sound while I’m fucking her.
She jams her stick between my skates, trying to pry the puck out. I pivot, successfully getting away from her as I twist my body. I skate out a couple of feet, pivot again, and shoot the puck straight to Beckett. He smashes it into the net.
“Oh, I hate you guys. You make it look so easy.” Grudging admiration flickers across her face.
I don’t switch with Beckett even though I could. I guess I enjoy having her close. I apply pressure on her, and this time she manages to get a pass off to Beckett. The speed with which the puck flies is a testament to the power of her shots. It’s too fast for him to connect with his stick, and the error is his, not hers.
“That was good!” I tell her, nodding in admiration. “Really good. Let’s do it again.”
For the next hour, we run her hard, and even when she has trouble at first, she’s quick to adapt and able to handle everything we throw at her.
“Gotta practice those deep knee bends,” Beckett advises her. “And not just because they make your ass look good.”
She snickers.
“It’ll help you change directions faster.”
She nods. After the next puck drop, she pivots so hard, it catches me by surprise, and the puck leaves her stick before I have a chance to battle for it. A perfect pass to Beckett leads to a sweet goal right in the back door.
Gigi throws her arms up in a victory post. “That’s what I’m talking about, bitches.”
A smile tugs on my lips. I don’t let it surface, though, because I’m sure it will lead to me being made fun of for it. But I can’t deny I’m proud of her progress.
“All right,” she announces. “Like Coach Adley always says, let’s end this shit on a high note.”
We skate to the bench to drink the rest of our water.
“So you’re trying to make Team USA, huh?” Beckett says.
Gigi recaps her empty bottle. “Yeah.”
“I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t select you. You’re ridiculously good. Ryder showed me some of your game tape, and you’re one of the best skaters I’ve ever seen.”
She glances at me, smirking. “You’re showing people my film? That’s so cute. I knew you were obsessed with me.”
I roll my eyes.
We head back to the locker rooms to change into our street clothes. Beck and I don’t bother showering since we’re going straight home. Then we reconvene outside and walk to our cars. The parking lot is illuminated by a couple of floodlights, so it’s easy to discern the gratitude shining in Gigi’s slate-gray eyes.
“Thank you for this,” she tells both of us, but her gaze is on me. “Let’s do it again? Maybe next week?”
“Sounds good,” I say brusquely.
“What are you up to this weekend?” Beckett asks her.
“Not sure yet. Why?”
“We’re having people over on Friday. You should come by.”
I give him a look, which he returns with a wink. I know what he’s up to. Beckett is as transparent as glass. Mostly because he never tries to hide his intentions.
Gigi’s still watching me, though. Contemplating. Then she shrugs and says, “Maybe,” before getting into her car and driving away.
