10. Rook
Chapter ten
Rook
A laugh, one simple noise.
My head snaps towards the direction of the sound, memorizing it, feeling branded by it. When my eyes finally dial in on the sight before me, it feels like I’ve stumbled into a dream, only to be snapped back into my body by the sight of the goddess standing in front of me.
Head thrown back, that glorious sound still coming from her mouth as she smiles wide. Tight ripped jeans hug the most glorious of asses. My gaze lowers, taking in her legs. Images unwillingly conjure in my mind of them wrapped tightly around my head. Curves that make my mouth water and my dick stir in my tailored suit pants. Adjusting my stance, trying to hide my growing bulge, I will myself to look away.
Getting hard in the family lounge surrounded by my teammates, other colleagues and their families is definitely not an ideal scenario, but for the life of me, I can’t force myself to look anywhere else.
Conversation becomes background noise, as all of my brain works on absorbing as many details of her as I can.
My gaze rakes up her body, hips that curve out before sweeping back into a narrow waist. The swell of her full round breasts create a perfect hour-glass figure that makes my body ache more than being checked repeatedly into the boards.
I try not to drool at the softness in her hips and stomach as I envision my hands gripping on to them while balls deep inside her, my fingertips marking the tender flesh. The sweet noises I could make come out of those lips, glossed, slick. My balls tighten and I cough to cover the awkward attempt to shuffle my dick in my pants for the second time in under a minute.
Forcing myself to rejoin the conversation with Dupont and his wife, I find myself nodding in agreement with whatever they’re talking about. But the vixen still snares my attention on the other side of the room.
I nod but notice silence next to me. Dragging my eyes away, I find both Dupont and his wife—Chrissy, I think—are staring at me. Shit.
“Sorry, what?” I question, knowing I haven’t been paying attention at all since I walked in and stood next to my captain and his wife to avoid as much mingling as possible.
“Chicago? How are you finding it?” Chrissy asks again, a friendly smile warms her features.
“It’s uh, cold?” Cold… Fucking moron, say something else. “The guys have been nice, though. It’s been tough adjusting to a new city but, ah, yeah, it’s okay.” I shuffle on my feet, taking a sip of my ice water, glancing from her face down to the floor. Trying not to draw attention to who I've been ogling at since I walked in.
“We usually have the boys over for a barbecue and a few beers when we have a few spare days free. Of course we would love for you to come. You’re one of us now,” Chrissy says, gesturing to the room. The movement of her hand has my eyes darting around to catch a flash of silver hair. “Oh, look, the kids are gonna play mini sticks,” she exclaims, pointing towards a glass wall on the opposite side of the family room.
We move closer to the window. For the first time, I notice it opens out into a miniature size rink.
“Management thought it would be good to have a mini rink to keep the kids entertained while we have games. They usually hire staff to be up here and supervise so the wives can watch the game without distractions,” Dupont explains.
“Or with more champagne,” his wife chimes in with a giggle from his other side.
Watching the kids gear up, they each take turns slapping pucks into the net. Off to the side of the court, I notice Maverick having a conversation with my girl and I can’t stop myself from staring, straining to pick up any slither of their conversation, like I’ve gained superhuman hearing or suddenly learned how to lip read.
Gray eyes lock with mine, like she knows I’m staring, utterly frozen in her orbit. She holds my gaze for a few seconds, her head tilting, like she’s trying to figure me out too. I blink, and she is back, engrossed in conversation with Maverick.
It’s instinct on the ice to protect your goalie. From a young age, you’re taught that no matter what, no one fucks with your goalie. Some of the best hockey fights have broken out in retaliation for an opponent getting a little too close to a team’s goalie.
In that second though, when her hand lands on his bicep as he says something that makes her laugh, my laugh, I’ve never wanted to knock someone out more, goalie or not. White fiery rage brews deep within my gut, and I shake my head to snap myself out of it. Rubbing my jaw, attempting to center my focus anywhere but on them.
Get your shit together! I mentally scold myself. Fucking raging at your goalie for talking to a fucking stranger.
Who the fuck am I? Not once in my life have I ever been so distracted by a woman. I’ve never had a problem with landing women. When you’re a professional athlete, it isn’t hard to find company for a night. Someone easy on the eyes, a temporary escape, and no strings attached.
Emotions are not something I deal with hooking up. Between flying between cities to see my mom and hockey, there’s no time for anything else, even if I wanted to.
What’s the point, anyway? Nothing good comes out of relationships, nothing except more pain. I have my hockey, and I have my mom. That is all I need. It’s always been the two of us against the world.
Soon it will just be you.
My chest tightens as I push back the thoughts that have been plaguing my brain lately. She's getting worse; tonight’s phone call solidifies that.
Grabbing a glass of champagne from the server as they pass, I down the bitter liquid in one mouthful. I hold in my gag at the taste. I’ve never really enjoyed alcohol, the occasional beer here and there, so I don’t know why I now feel the need to drink it.
Growing up surrounded by the negative effects of it was enough to put me off. Even in college, when my teammates were wiping themselves out, I usually ended up locking myself in my room to avoid it all.
One night, a few boys on the team had talked me into coming to one of the campus bars after a game. Beer became shots and the whole place reeked of whiskey as I panicked, knocking tables over as I sprinted away from the bar.
Placing the empty glass on a nearby table, turning to excuse myself from Dupont and his wife, heading for the bathroom. A flash of silver hair drags me to a stop in front of the window and the beauty that's now being strapped into protective gear.
“Arms up,” Maverick tells her, and she complies, slipping her arms and head through a team jersey. The black and red material covers the tattoos that decorate her arms, so huge on her it hangs behind her leg pads.
FUCCKKKK.
This girl is already going to be the death of me, and she hasn’t even said one word directed at me.
“OK.” She looks at Maverick, who smiles as he positions his helmet over her head. “Ugh, this thing stinks…” She pulls back slightly and her nose crinkles. Mav chuckles, pushing the helmet down to cover her face. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Stop the puck from getting in the net,” he jokes and her face deadpans. I can practically see her eyes shoot daggers and I can’t stop the snort that comes in response.
“The kids will love it,” he laughs.
She looks uncertain, her mouth twisting as she moves the pads back and forth, stretching, learning the movement of the gear.
“A quick photo please,” the social media manager asks as she sprints in front of them. “Our fans will flip, seeing the lead singer of Hopeless Mercy not only in a team jersey but decked out in full gear.”
“Ah sure,” she responds, and Maverick throws his arm around her and they both smile wide for the camera.
I resist the urge to growl. Turning, I see Dupont only a few steps away from me.
“Who is she?” I ask, moving closer, avoiding looking towards the two and the arm that is dangerously close to being ripped off as they continue to pose for photos.
“Have you been livin’ under a rock?” Chrissy’s slight southern drawl peaks through in her reply. Before I can answer, she continues in a conspiratorial whisper, “That’s Othelia James, lead singer of Hopeless Mercy. She’s basically the Taylor Swift of the rock world.”
My brows knit in confusion. I take a quick look back at them, Maverick making sure her straps are right.
“James?” Oh fuck. “As in Rian James.”
“Yes,” she hisses. “That’s his baby sister.”
Double fuck.
Maverick clears his throat to get everyone’s attention. The social media manager, crouches in front of them, phone poised. “Hey everyone, Tilly here has been gracious enough to volunteer to play goalie in a game of mini sticks with the kids. As you know, the team has been raising money for underprivileged kids across Illinois. So for every goal Tilly successfully blocks, I will donate five hundred dollars.”
“Seems like you have little faith in me?” She giggles, waving the pads in the air. The crowd laughs along with her as Mav smiles wide, standing together, their bodies angling towards each other. They almost look like a couple. “I will also match that donation. Maybe I should donate more ’cause the chances of me actually catching something are pretty slim.”
“Most of them are five-year-olds, you’ll be fine.” Maverick leans in, bumping her shoulder, and my fists clench at my sides.
“Yeah, five-year-olds with professional hockey player dads,” Rian chirps as he walks up next to her, clapping her on the back.
“You’ll be right, Til. It’s only been, what, fifteen years since your last game of mini sticks?”
She rolls her eyes, but her smirk gives away the love she has for her brother. “Well, your shot hasn’t improved much since then, so I should be okay.” With that declaration, she sways her way towards the net, as all the guys cheering on her chirp at the forward.
When she crouches in the crease, I find my body warring between panic that she will probably take shots to the face, and arousal at seeing her geared up and wearing my team’s jersey. Though I’m glad that from this angle that I can’t see Maverick’s number on her back.
The first of the kids step up to the line, shooting wide. Bracing, she darts out towards it. The shot was so wide it wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near the pipes, but as her glove skims it and she falls to the ground, my heart suddenly pounds in my throat.
Slowly rising, she speaks with the little girl, telling her about how good her shot was. My heart relaxes seeing her so comfortably brace for the shot and then speak to the kids, individually acknowledging them.
My lips tip up in a smile as I lean against the glass window, finding myself once again bewildered by this woman.
“She’s amazing, right?” A voice startles me out of my thoughts. My head turns to find Rian’s heavily pregnant wife standing next to me, eyes not on the mini sticks game but glued on me.
“Sorry…?” I stutter, taken by surprise by this tiny punk woman.
“Tilly? She’s amazing.” She points through the glass towards her, both watching as she throws herself, rather dramatically, onto a slow-moving puck, like it’s a bomb about to go off.
“Uh…” I can’t even think of a response. She smiles up at me, my face obviously giving away my thoughts of the last twenty minutes.
“Yeah, I thought I was lucky when I met Rian. Don’t get me wrong, love of my life, yada yada.” She waves her hand in the air before placing it on my forearm. “But that girl. God, fuck would I be lost without her.”
Staring dumbstruck at her, I don’t know what to say. Though she ignores my silence and continues as if I’ve responded. “She’s hurting right now.”
My fists clench involuntarily at the thought of her in pain and my eyes dart back to the glass, finding her still wrapped in conversation with Maverick, laughing.
“She’s good at hiding it, but when it's time… you’ll know,” she says, like she’s sending me off on the biggest quest of my life.
What is she trying to say to me?
My forehead creases. “Know what?”
She gives me a casual shrug as she rubs her hand over her swollen stomach, giving me a quick wink before walking back to Rian.
My eyes drift back to the rink as members of the team join their kids. They help them set up for better shots as Othelia stands strong in her cage.
Rian bounds out to join them, like a golden retriever chasing a ball, and the kids all laugh and smile as the star forward slides towards them on his knees with his own mini stick, designer suit be damned.
“Did you see that slide?” he whoops, pumping his fist in the air. “Impressed by my mad skills, T?”
“I’ve seen better.” She shrugs and I snort into my fist.
Who the fuck is this girl?
James gapes at her. “Seriously, these guns are fucking masterpieces when let loose,” he says, flexing his biceps.
“OK, big boy.” She put her hands up in surrender, laughing. “Settle down, we don’t want any misfires around the children.”
I will dream about that laugh: hot, dirty dreams of the noises I could drag from her as I worship her body.
Stop.
Stop.
I have to leave. I can’t keep looking at my teammate’s baby sister like that. I don’t do relationships and anything short of a lifelong commitment to a teammate’s sister would get my ass handed to me.
I turn back to Dupont, who's deep in a conversation with the GM.
“Uh yeah, I’m gonna head off.” I scrub my hands down my pants to dry off some of the sweat forming on my palms. I need to go stand under a cold shower or an ice bath. Maybe I can hit a bar on the way home and find someone to quell this urge.
“Oh, such a shame. Well, I hope you come to the house soon. We’ll need to organize a team dinner soon, Marcus. By now we've usually had at least one!” Chrissy smiles at me while playfully smacking Dupont in the chest.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. This year has been a crazy one.”
“Rian and Sloane will be busy with the baby in a few weeks. If we organize something soon, maybe Rian could bring Tilly along? Gosh, isn’t she gorgeous?” The last part Chrissy seems to direct at me, but I’m already glancing at her. Watching her smile and laugh as she nudges her brother in the shoulder.
I have to go. I can’t stare at her anymore.
She is not an option, none of this is. I have one year on this contract and then I won’t see most of these guys again, except as the opposition. What’s the point of building any sort of friendship with them if I have no plans on staying?
Saying my goodbyes, I shake the GM’s hand so he knows I was here, like he asked. Then I push out of the glass double doors and into the staff hallways, making a beeline to the locker room to grab my bag before heading to the car park where I parked my bike.
My muscles relax as the rumble of the engine vibrates through my body, but a certain level of tension remains, like an itch I can’t scratch. I decide to stop at a bar on my way home. It won’t take me long to find someone I can bury my aching cock in, needing to drive away all thoughts of the tattooed vixen imprinted on my thoughts.
Weaving through the empty car parks, I cut across to the entry and out onto the streets. Releasing the throttle, picking up speed, my mind becomes clearer the further I get from the arena, the further I get from her. Though I still can’t shake the images of a curved waist, sparkling gray eyes and the laugh gifted by the gods, out of my head.
Before I know it, I pull up in the garage of my apartment building, having driven past three bars. Sighing, I shoulder my gear, exhaustion hitting me now as I stand in front of the elevator doors.
I press the button for the elevator, watching as the numbers slowly tick down levels, slipping my hands into my suit pants as I wait. My fingers brush against something unexpected in my pocket, and I pull out a wrinkled piece of paper.
I stare at the neat script scrawled across the cat shaped post it note.
You are worthy.
Now I’m even more confused. How did this even get in my pocket? Frustrated, I flip the piece of paper back and forth in my hands, hoping to uncover some hidden message. Just as I’m about to crumple it up, I get this weird urge to keep it safe. I carefully fold it and tuck it into my wallet, shaking my head at how ridiculous it is.
The doors open and I step inside, my phone lights up with a group text from Dupont. I groan at the invitation to team lunch at their house on Sunday. The last thing I need is to spend an afternoon surrounded by my team and their families to remind me that my only family sits alone, two thousand miles away.
My mind slips back to those sweet curves and I can’t help but think of how good she would look poolside in a tiny bikini. My hands flexing on her hips as I pull her back against my hard length, her back arching into me. Long lashes fluttering over piercing gray eyes as her chest heaves with her need, giving me the perfect view of her nipples, hard and begging to be sucked through the tiny amount of fabric that covers them.
Fuck…
I’d only stood in the same room as her for less than an hour and already I’m rock hard and aching for her in the middle of a fucking elevator.
I shake my head and adjust my dick as I unlock my apartment. Sending off a quick thumbs up to the group chat, I dump it and all my gear in the entryway as soon as the door closes and stalk to the bathroom.
Stripping off, I step into the cold spray, not bothering to wait for it to warm up, too desperate for release. I hiss as the icy water stabs like tiny needles against my skin, now regretting forgetting to pick someone up on the way home. I haven’t gotten laid since I moved here. That has to be the problem.
Tension rolls through me and my cock, still hard from my pool fantasies, glistening at the tip. Palming it with one hand, I lean against the wall. My eyes fall shut as I imagine Tilly standing outside my shower, slowly stripping off her clothes. She opens the door, stepping under the spray. Moving my hand with long, sure strokes, I’m panting in seconds.
I tease myself, running my thumb back and forth over the tip, then quicken my pace as I picture her kissing my neck, my collarbone, chest, planting kisses lower and lower down my body until she rests onto her knees at my feet. I’m growling and squeezing my eyes tighter, desperately trying to make her real.
She kneels in front of me, silver hair darkening as water cascades over her body. Gray eyes unflinching as she opens her mouth, tongue gliding along my shaft as she swallows me whole. I moan as I watch those plump lips push back and forth over my length, tongue teasing the tip as onyx nails dig into my thighs.
A guttural cry roars from my lips as strands of my warm release pulses, covering the wall in front of me. My knees threaten to buckle with the force of my orgasm. I keep my eyes shut, not wanting to leave this imaginary world, where she is here and she is mine.
She smiles up at me, pleased with herself. Taking her time licking the taste of me from her lips as her name unintentionally falls like a prayer from mine.
Tilly.