Hockey players like it rough
ON A WEEKEND IN MID-NOVEMBER, THE MEN AND WOMEN’S TEAM schedules line up where we’re both playing the University of Maine. There are only a few dozen Division I schools in women’s hockey, which means we’re constantly playing the same teams throughout the season, often on back-to-back nights. So it’s always refreshing to face a new opponent like Maine. The men play Saturday, while the women play both nights. Either way, it’s a long enough drive from Briar that it means…
“Road trip, baby,” Camila says happily as she flops onto the twin bed next to mine. Our team manager is the one who comes up with the room assignments, and this season I’ve been paired with Cami. I don’t mind it, except that sometimes she talks in her sleep and doesn’t believe me when I tell her.
It’s game day, so I just finished a low-protein, heavy-carb meal, and now I’m nursing a sports drink until we need to go down to the bus. The hotel is about twenty minutes from the rink. It’s an early game, starting at four thirty, so we’ll have the rest of the night to ourselves, which Camila is all about.
“Should we hit up a club?” she suggests, rolling onto her stomach and scissoring her legs as she scrolls through her phone. “Does Portland have any good clubs? I’ve never actually bothered to check.”
“I say we go to the club after tomorrow night’s game. We should do dinner or something low-key tonight.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She answers a phone call, so I head downstairs without her. Coach Adley and his staff are probably already in the lobby waiting to herd everyone onto the bus. When I step out of the elevator and start walking, a stocky man with glasses and a beard intercepts my path.
“Gigi Graham.”
I look over. “Hi.” He looks vaguely familiar.
“Al Dustin.” He extends his hand. “Assistant coach for Team USA.”
My heart speeds up. Oh my God.
I try to hide my eagerness. “Right. Yes, sorry. Good to see you again. I think you were at our exhibition game back in September. With Coach Fairlee.”
“Yes, we were.”
“Are you just visiting Portland, or here to watch our games this weekend?”
“Here for the games. But don’t worry, Brad’s not with me.” He winks. “So you can relax, let your guard down.”
I laugh sheepishly. “Yeah, he makes me nervous. Is it that obvious?”
“Nothing to be nervous about, kid. I caught some tape of your last game,” Dustin tells me, nodding in approval. “Excellent puck protection behind the net.”
I feel myself blushing with pleasure. Yes. Someone’s noticing. I make a mental note to thank Ryder.
“And while I’m not the one with the final say on our roster…” He smiles again. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Just throwing that out there.”
I force myself not to break out in a happy dance, but it’s difficult. Because if he’s implying what I think he’s implying, then I’m going to be receiving a call from Brad Fairlee one of these days.
“Anyway, looking forward to seeing you play live this weekend. Good luck out there.”
“Thanks.”
I’m still riding the high of that conversation during the game, which ends up being far less competitive than expected. Meaning, we kick their butts. I don’t know if it’s the cloud of exhilaration I’m on, or if Whitney and I are just in perfect sync, but we’re making the kind of plays you see on a professional level. By third period, Coach Adley benches the first and second lines. He gives the third and fourth lines the extra ice time, because there’s no way Maine is going to make up a five-goal deficit in the time remaining.
There’s loud celebration in the locker room afterward. When I check my phone, I find a text of congratulations from my dad. Our games might not be televised, but they’re all taped, and Dad always manages to call in favors so he can watch them live from home.
When the bus returns to the hotel, I get a message from Ryder.
RYDER:
Hey. Are you able to get away from the girls? I’ve got something to show you.
ME:
Is it your dick?
RYDER:
Of course, but we’ll do that later. I’m in Portland.
ME:
I thought you weren’t arriving till tomorrow!
RYDER:
I came up early.
Next thing I know, he calls me. I step away from my teammates, who are all filing into the hotel lobby.
His husky voice fills my ear. “Sorry. Easier to call. I told Jensen I had an appointment in Portland, so the school sprung for an extra night at the hotel for me.”
“Wait, you’re in the hotel?” My heart skips a beat. “Right now?”
“Yeah. Did you pack a dress by any chance?”
“Yes…” I say suspiciously.
“Go put it on. And be quick. We don’t want to miss it.”
“Miss what?”
“Meet you in the lobby in fifteen,” he says without answering.
I’m intrigued.
Ryder is not Mr. Spontaneous, so I definitely want to see where this is going.
I tell the girls I’m bailing on dinner, and fifteen minutes later I stride into the lobby in a little black dress, very little makeup, and with my hair down. His eyes flare with appreciation when I approach. He’s wearing black pants and a dark gray sweater, his dark hair artfully tousled as usual.
“Come on, we gotta get out of here quick,” I urge, already heading across the lobby. “My teammates are coming down for dinner soon. Someone might see us.”
He trails after me, hands in his pockets. “God forbid.”
“Oh, are you ready for Case to hate you five seconds after you two called a truce?”
Ryder flinches. “Good point.”
As we quickly exit the hotel, I’m sure to keep three feet between us in the event that we are spotted.
“I can’t believe you actually brought a dress with you,” he says with a grin.
“I always have one on hand these days. My aunt Summer is a fashion designer, and she has this strict rule that any time you travel, you should bring an LBD with you. Little black dress,” I clarify at his raised brow. “I used to think it was a silly rule, but a couple years ago I was in New York for the weekend, and my cousin Alex and I were invited to a runway show at the last minute. The only outfit I had with me was jeans and a shirt that said…wait for it…Hockey players like it rough.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re lying.”
“Nope. Google it. It’s actually on all those official stock photo sites. Me sitting in the front row with my aunt and cousin, and I’m wearing that ridiculous shirt. They’ve never let me live it down.”
He’s still chuckling as we slide into the back seat of an Uber. I still have no idea where we’re going, and I don’t know Portland well enough to recognize any of the streets we drive on.
“Where is this mystery ride taking us?” I ask him.
“Nowhere, really.” He’s the epitome of innocence, his large warm palm against my bare knee.
And he’s freshly shaved, when normally he’d be rocking a five o’clock shadow. I check him out from the corner of my eye, resisting the urge to run my fingers over his smooth jaw. It’s so chiseled. I think I like him clean shaven. Although I also wonder what he looks like with full facial hair. Like a scruffy, glorious god, I bet.
When the car comes to a stop and I notice where we are, my jaw drops. The bright, shining marquee in front of the theater advertises we’re here for a production of Samson and Delilah.
My mouth drops open. “Oh my God. You’re taking me to the opera?”
Ryder shrugs. “You said it’s the only date you’re interested in going on.”
“I was lying.”
“Yeah, I know.” His eyes gleam. “And now you’re being punished for it.”
“You are such an asshole,” I say, but I’m laughing.
I’m also downright astounded. I can’t believe he brought me here.
“It already started, though. Curtain was at seven thirty. We missed a lot already.”
I’m not sure I care. I’m more interested in the fact that we’re here in the first place.
Ryder pulls up the tickets he purchased and passes his phone to the ticket taker at the door. The suit-clad man scans the barcodes and lets us into the theater. We walk down the empty red-carpeted lobby, following the signs to our seats. I’m startled to realize we’re not sitting in the mezzanine, but on the second level in one of the opera boxes.
“How the hell did you swing a box?” I whisper.
“Baby. We’re in a tiny theater in Maine. These seats cost like fifty bucks and almost every box was available.”
He called me baby.
It happens very rarely, but when it does, my heart turns into a pile of goo in my chest. I think it might be time to start examining what this means. But not tonight. Right now, I’m too focused on this completely unexpected outing.
We have the box all to ourselves and are provided with a perfect unobstructed view of the stage. As we settle in the plush seats, I lean closer to Ryder and whisper, “I’ve never actually been to the opera.”
“Me neither.”
Since we’re so late, I have no context for what’s happening on the stage. A woman in a beautiful gown and a man dressed as a priest sing a duet, her high voice blending perfectly with his rich tenor. There’s a frenetic feel to it, as if they’re outraged about something.
“I wish we had a program,” I murmur. I would search the details on my phone, but despite Ryder mocking it, the theater is at least at eighty percent capacity, and I don’t want to disturb any of the other operagoers. “Do you know the story of Samson and Delilah well?”
“Sort of? If memory serves, Delilah is a total cocktease and spends all her time trying to figure out the source of Samson’s power.” Ryder speaks in a low voice, his gaze fixed on the action below.
“This is actually kind of incredible,” I marvel, as Delilah releases a series of high, perfectly tuned lilting notes that bring actual goose pimples to my bare arms. “I regret missing the beginning.”
“Me too.” He sounds sincere.
As we watch, he reaches for my hand, interlacing our fingers.
“I think this guy is the one who bribes her to seduce Samson.” Ryder brings his mouth close to my ear so I can hear him over the woman’s haunting wails. “And then at some point, Samson falls asleep and she cuts his hair. And then he gets his eyes gouged out, which is pretty punk rock for a Bible story.”
I laugh quietly.
Down below, the tone shifts as a new set is revealed onstage. It’s a bedchamber. Delilah now wears a white nightgown that, at some angles, appears almost sheer beneath the stage lights. A new character joins her. A beautiful man who I presume is Samson because he’s sporting a long luscious wig with golden waves cascading down his back. Either that, or it’s his real hair and I’m jealous.
Delilah starts singing to Samson in a sweet soprano that is belied by the sensual movements of her body. I assume this is the seduction. Something about the way she’s rolling her hips and blatantly attempting to bang the beautiful man elicits an odd tug between my legs. Never thought I’d be turned on by an opera, but here we are.
“What kind of pornography have you lured me into?” I whisper to Ryder.
“Like you’re not into it.” His voice is a soft, teasing whisper.
“I’m not.”
“Uh-huh.”
Before I have a chance to react, he slips his hand beneath the hem of my dress.
My heart stops.
“Not into it, huh?”
“Nope.”
His fingers dance along my thigh before he curls them to rub the knuckles over my suddenly damp core.
“Really?” One teasing finger skims under the crotch of my thin panties. I gasp when the tip pushes inside me. “Then why are you so wet?”
All the oxygen has left my body. And all the blood has pooled between my legs, throbbing in my clit.
“I’m not,” I croak out the lie.
“My finger disagrees.”
He eases it out, and I squawk when he lifts it to his lips and sucks.
“Manners!” I hiss.
“What? I’m not the one who’s dripping all over the seat.”
“I am not,” I say weakly. “I’m wearing underwear.”
“Yeah, speaking of those. They’re a problem. Take them off.”
I can’t stop the thrill that shoots through me. “People will see.”
“It’s too dark and their eyes are on the stage, anyway. Take them off.”
Something has possessed me. Maybe it’s the unfiltered lust burning in his eyes. Maybe it’s his deep, commanding voice. Maybe it’s the excitement surging in my veins.
Drawing a deep breath, I discreetly slide my hand under my dress. I hesitate when I reach the waistband of my skimpy underwear.
Ryder watches my every move. Waiting.
I grip the material with trembling fingers, lift my ass off the seat, and then slide the panties down my thighs. The entire time, I keep my gaze straight ahead in case anyone in the opposite boxes is paying attention to us. But the other patrons’ gazes are rapturously focused on the sensual spectacle below and not the one above.
I drag the panties down my legs, then step out of them, one high heel at a time.
Ryder holds out his hand.
Without a word, I place the scrap of lace in his palm. His lips curve as he tucks it in his pocket.
“So obedient,” he murmurs. “I like this new Gigi.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re pushing your luck.”
“Nah.” He shifts closer. “Luck has nothing to do with this.”
Then his hand is under my dress again, seeking out the warm, aching spot between my thighs. He rubs me with the pads of his index and middle finger. The first contact makes me gasp.
“Quiet,” he warns. “Or I’ll stop.”
“Stop now, and I’ll rip your head off.”
“You’re so violent. I love it. Spread your legs a little.”
I can hardly hear the command over the sudden wailing below. Delilah’s voice rises in pitch, the music gathering, building to a crescendo. Meanwhile, Ryder strokes my pussy until I’m quivering in my chair, a live wire about to explode. He pushes his fingers inside me, hitting spots that make me impossibly wetter. Bringing me closer and closer toward orgasm.
His lips are at my ear again. “Say my name when you come.”
“What—”
Then the heel of his palm applies pressure on my clit, and I shatter, reflexively giving him what he ordered.
“Ryder.”
The sound of his name is drowned out by the aria below and the thunder of my pulse in my ears. I come hard enough my vision wavers.
When I crash back to earth, I find him grinning at me. Satisfied with himself.
“Should we bail on this and go back to the hotel?”
I finally manage to find my voice. “Yes.”
Later, we lie tangled together in his sheets, sated and sleepy after the best sex of my life. Because every time with Ryder is the best sex of my life. I’ve stopped trying to figure that out. I just know I’m addicted to it.
I tell him about running into Al Dustin, trying to not be too hopeful, to curb my excitement. Though I can’t fight my happy grin as I say, “It’s not a done deal yet, but he sounded pretty confident Fairlee was going to pick me.”
“Told you he would.” He strokes my lower back, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “Olympic gold, here we come.”
His words remind me of something, triggering a confession that’s been nagging at me for a while now. A flash of reluctant comprehension I hadn’t wanted to put into words yet. Because it still feels like…betrayal, I guess.
“Do you remember the last time we talked about the Olympics?” I run my fingers over the defined muscles of his chest. “You asked me why I’m so desperate to make the team. Whether it’s for me or my dad.”
“I remember.”
“Well, it’s been bothering me ever since. I thought about it. A lot.” I lick my dry lips, still hesitant. But I’ve already come this far, so I force the rest out. “I want something he doesn’t have.”
Ryder tenses slightly, as if surprised to hear it. Hell, I’m surprised to say it.
“I’ve never said it out loud. I don’t know if I’ve ever even thought that deep into it, but… He has everything. The Cup, the awards, the all-time records, MVP titles, almost-certain Hall of Fame induction. I will never come close to achieving even half of that.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “But one thing he never did was compete for Team USA. And that’s the one thing I can do.”
Ryder rolls over so we’re lying face to face. He watches me, his expression indecipherable.
Sometimes I hate that he’s able to draw things out of me without even trying. He doesn’t ask or beg or push me to talk to him. It just happens when he’s around. All my secrets spilling out with abandon.
“I want…to feel important in my own life,” I admit. “Achieving this is a way for me to finally step out of his shadow. I can be an Olympic gold medalist. Something my dad will never be.” I groan in desperation. “It feels so petty to say it. Is that awful?”
“Depends on whether it’s the only reason you want to compete. Is this nothing but a Fuck you, look at my medal, old man?”
“Of course not.” I flinch. “It’s like the teeniest part of it. A sliver of a percentage that pokes at the back of my mind sometimes. Competing on the world stage is so much bigger than him. It’s exciting.”
“Good. Focus on the excitement. But also acknowledge that the sliver exists.”
“I feel bad acknowledging it,” I admit, closing my eyes.
I jerk when I feel his thumb stroking my chin.
“You really need to get over this,” he says gruffly.
I frown. “Wow. I just shared something really important and—”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” He shakes his head at me. “You need to stop feeling bad about the way you feel. You hate that chick Emma and feel bad about hating her. You want something your father doesn’t have and feel bad wanting it.”
For some reason, my throat tightens. The sting of tears burns my eyes. Oh my God, I better not cry.
“It’s like you refuse to voice even a shred of negativity; otherwise it makes you a bad person. Or you feel like you need to be eternally grateful for being born wealthy and gifted.” He wraps his arm around me, his lips gently brushing mine as he strokes his hand down my bare arm. “Just feel what you feel. It’s okay.”
I blink to keep the tears at bay, but they’re threatening to spill over. And not because I’m ashamed by everything I’ve confessed.
It’s the undeniable awareness that I’m developing feelings for this guy.
“I…” I take a breath, attempting to steady my voice. “I’ve never met anyone I felt comfortable sharing all that with.” I peer into his bottomless blue eyes, always floored by how vivid they are. “I don’t feel like you judge me. About anything. Ever.”
“I don’t.”
“Do you feel like I judge you?”
“Never,” he says simply.
Then he visibly gulps, and I know precisely how he feels.
This is fucking terrifying.
Ryder rolls us over so that he’s on his back and I’m draped over his bare chest. He runs his fingers along my naked skin, from my shoulder to my tailbone, before resting his palm on my hip. I shiver from his touch.
“Gisele,” he says.
“Mmmm?”
“Are we dating now?”
A smile tickles my lips. I rise slightly on my elbow and gaze down at him. He’s biting his lip and it’s adorable.
“Yeah. I think we are.”
