Chapter 16
16
TYLER
My phone rings as I add a scoop of protein powder to the blender, screw the lid on, and start it up. It’s the ringtone I assigned to Echo. The ingredients whizz together, forming a thick brownish liquid. I glance at the phone, but my smoothie will only take a couple more seconds, so I leave it.
Once the drink is at the right consistency, I turn the blender off and reach for my phone. Unfortunately, by the time I pick it up, the call has gone to voicemail. I try to call her back but get the busy dial tone.
I set the phone down, pour the smoothie into a tall glass, and take both the phone and the smoothie to the breakfast bar. The phone rings again, so I answer.
“Hey, beautiful.”
“Why did you send me a hockey shirt with your name and number on it?” she demands.
I can’t help grinning. She sounds so indignant. I wish I could see her expression. I bet her face is all pinched up and cute.
“I’m flattered you know my number,” I tease.
“I assumed,” she snaps. “It’s not like you’d put your name and someone else’s number on the shirt.”
“I’ve always loved that big brain of yours,” I tell her, amused when she huffs in response. I like her like this. Fiery. Not afraid to fight back.
When we first reunited, she had two modes: scared, and cornered animal. Now, she seems comfortable being snarky with me without fearing that the fate of her world hinges on our every interaction.
“You liked my big brain when I helped you get good grades,” she retorts.
I wave my hand dismissively, forgetting she can’t see. “That was just a side benefit.”
“So,” she prompts. “The shirt?”
I eye the smoothie, which looks about as appealing as a raw egg. “I’d like you to wear it to the game today.”
She sputters, clearly outraged by my audacity. My grin widens.
“No,” she says. “Absolutely not.”
I wrap my hand around the glass, raise it to my lips and sniff. I should probably have drunk it before speaking to Echo. The bitter aroma isn’t doing much for my appetite. I take a sip. It’s tart and the texture is disturbingly grainy.
“I bet I can persuade you.”
She snorts. “I’d like to see you try.”
Bracing myself, I gulp down the smoothie, swallowing mouthful after mouthful until it’s gone. I go to the sink, fill a clean glass with water, and rinse my mouth out as I evaluate her tone.
Is it just me, or is there a little less heat in her words than there used to be? Perhaps her conversation with Soraya went well. I couldn’t get any of the details out of my sister, who claimed to be willing to talk to Echo but not prepared to report back.
“Have you come since our last phone call?” I ask.
A weighty silence follows. She makes a noise, as if she’s about to answer, but then doesn’t.
“I’m going to assume that’s a yes.” I pack both glasses into the dishwasher. “Because you’d have immediately said no if you could have. Was it as good as when you had me on the phone, telling you what to do?”
The silence continues. I stroll over to the window and look out. My apartment is on the third floor, and the windows in the living area are angled to catch the morning sun.
When it’s clear that Echo doesn’t intend to reply, I go on.
“If you wear that shirt to the game today, I’ll call you as soon as I’m home and we can do it again.”
She hangs up.
Great job, Kinsey. You just had to go and push her too far.
Hours later, I’m warming up on the ice, still kicking myself for how I handled Echo’s call. She’s fragile. It’s so easy to forget that, but I can’t afford to if I want her permanently in my life. I sent her a text message to apologize for pushing her, but she never responded.
In this case, her silence spoke as loudly as words. Music plays through the loudspeakers—a combination of pop and classic rock—and my teammates zip around me. It’s our first official game of the season, against our neighbors from Benton, the next town over.
The stands are almost full, and even though I doubt Echo will show, I can’t help scanning each new arrival in case she does.
“Kinsey.”
I glance up just in time to stop a puck flying across the ice toward me from Anaheim. I glide toward the goal and fire it at Jackson, our goalie. He whacks it away with his gloved hand and Anaheim sweeps in, collecting the puck. He passes to me, I feign a shot at goal, then pass it back, and Anaheim flicks it past Jackson’s left foot and into the net.
Anaheim claps me on the back as he skates past, then gestures toward his helmet. “Head in the game.”
“Got it, Cap.” He’s right to call me on my distraction.
Anaheim summons the other first-line forward, Welch, and we run drills together, taking turns shooting at Jackson, until a whistle indicates that it’s time for us to wrap it up.
As we skate over to meet Coach Danvers, a ruddy-faced man in his fifties or sixties with thinning gray hair, a flash of movement near the entrance catches my attention. It’s Echo, wearing a shirt with the Newbury logo on the front. On the back, out of sight, is the number 21 and my last name.
I can’t see it, but I know it’s there, and my chest inflates with pride.
She came.
She’s here.
I don’t even care that she’s brought Ryan with her. She isn’t wearing a shirt with his name on it. He isn’t the one who promised her an orgasm later.
Matthews jostles me. “Dude, what are you staring at?” He follows my gaze and a grin spreads across his face, mirroring my own. “How did you manage that?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
Coach Danvers calls our names and I force myself to look away from Echo and focus on the game. It’s hard, though. This would have been a dream come true when I was in high school. I knew at the time there was no chance I could have Echo in the crowd, wearing my number, but I wanted it.
Badly.
Now, here she is.
She’s making a statement with her presence. I’m not quite sure what it is yet, but I’ll figure it out. The most important thing is, I know that this is monumental for her, and I won’t let her down ever again.
Coach gives his pep talk and sends us out. I’m starting, and I’ve never been more determined to win a game—not even the year we took the championship at my former college.
The air is thick with anticipation. We’ve shaken off the summer slowness over the course of our exhibition games and we’re beginning to be able to communicate wordlessly on the ice. There’s plenty of room for improvement, but we’ll win today. I can taste victory already.
The chill chaps my cheeks, but the rest of me is warm as the referee indicates for us to faceoff. I stare down my opponent, and the second the puck drops, I’m on it. Sticks clack, but I get it past their front line and flick the puck to Anaheim, who skates toward the goal, evades one of the defensemen, and passes back to me.
My eyes dart up to the stands, searching for Echo, but don’t linger long because I have to focus. I hit the puck toward the corner of the goal, but the goalie stops it with his stick. Welch is there almost immediately, and a moment later, the puck crosses the goal line.
One up, less than two minutes in.
I congratulate Welch and we skate back to our end. This time, I allow myself more time to scan the stands, and eventually I spot Echo, standing near the front on my left. Her hair is tied back and tucked under a cute, knitted hat. She’s wearing matching mittens, and she’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.
I return my focus to the game, and seconds later, we roar into action. I earn another assist—this time with Anaheim—and I score twice. Both times, I meet Echo’s eyes, hoping she can read the silent message that they’re all for her.
Late in the third period, I’m racing up the ice, the puck on my stick, when the other team’s left defenseman barrels into me out of nowhere. I go down hard, the impact jarring my bones. The puck is snatched away and my hip throbs as I get to my feet. That’s going to bruise.
I rip off my gloves and helmet and square off against the defenseman. He does the same. He’s a big, stocky guy, with the beginnings of a beard and a smirk that says he’s loving every second of this.
I throw the first punch, bloodying his lip. He strikes back, but his blow glances off the side of my face as I dodge. Little does he know, I have more experience escaping hits than he can possibly imagine. I ready my fists to go again, but then others swarm us, and I’m pulled away.
The referee calls a penalty against Benton, I don my gloves and helmet, and we’re off again. Unfortunately, Benton turns the play around quickly and scores over Jackson.
I grit my teeth. Despite my aching hip and a faint throbbing in the back of my skull, I’m determined to get a hat trick. I can’t let Echo’s last impression of me be as the guy who took a face dive.
Together, Anaheim and I work the puck up the ice, drawing the defenders to us before Anaheim sends it back to Welch. His first attempt on net ricochets off, but I catch it on the rebound and send the puck past the goalie’s ear.
A few minutes later, when the buzzer sounds, the final score is 5-1.
We skate a victory lap while the home crowd cheers and then retreat to the locker room. Coach Danvers gruffly congratulates us, then warns us not to get too big for our britches. He warns us that we’ll be practicing some of our weaker plays on Monday, and then he and the assistant coach leave.
I get out of my gear as quickly as possible and rush through the shower. I pull on a pair of jeans and a team hoodie, and I’m checking my phone when Ruiz nudges me.
“There’s a party at Jackson’s place,” he says. “Beers and pizza. You in?”
“Nah.” I grimace, aware that I should be making a better effort to integrate into the team. “I have something else to do.”
He cocks his head, his dark eyes gleaming. “Your girl? I saw her in the stands.”
My chest puffs out. “Damn right.”
He holds his fist out and I reluctantly bump it. “Good luck, man. Don’t screw it up.”
“I won’t.” Hopefully.
I sneak out one of the side doors and manage to avoid some of the girls who hang around in the hopes of catching the players as we leave. I beeline to my Audi and drive home as fast as I can without risking being pulled over by the cops.
When I’m holed up in my apartment, sprawled on the big gray sofa in the living room and gazing at the massive painting of the night sky hung on the wall, I call Echo. I don’t really expect her to answer despite showing up at the rink earlier, so I’m surprised when the call connects.
“You came,” I say, at a loss for words. Apparently, I didn’t take the time to think through what I’d actually say to her if I got the chance.
“I did.” Amusement laces her voice.
“You have no idea how much that means to me.”
She clears her throat, and I get the feeling I went too far. “You played well. I was worried when you took that hit though. Are you okay?”
My insides warm. She was worried about me. That must mean she cares, right? At least on some level.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
I’ll have the mother of all bruises, and I’ll be achy for a couple of days, but that’s just how hockey is. There’s no point worrying her more.
A silence descends between us. I’m tempted to let it linger and find out what she might say to fill the void, but she’s too skittish for that. It’s more likely she’d hang up and refuse to answer the next time I call. It’s better to keep her comfortable. Or at least comfortable-ish. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t push things a little.
“Since you held up your end of the deal, it’s time for your reward.” I lower my voice. “Have you tried any of the other toys?”
“Just one,” she admits.
“Which one?”
“The mini vibe.”
That makes sense. It’s non-threatening and she didn’t have to put it inside her. I could be wrong, but I get the feeling that the idea of penetrating herself—even with a sex toy that’s completely under her control—intimidates her.
That’s all right. We can work up to it—if she lets me help her. As much as I’d love to listen to her fucking herself with a dildo that I can imagine is my cock, it isn’t in the cards today.
“Are you ready to use it again?” I ask.
“Yes,” she whispers. “But I need you to…take control like you did last time. Tell me what to do.”
“I can do that, baby.” In fact, it would be my pleasure. “Are you alone?”
“Martina is out with her friends. She shouldn’t be back for hours.”
“Good.” We’d have plenty of time then. “Get the vibe, the lube, and light that candle. Maybe put on some soft music. Do you still like to listen to classical music?”
“Sometimes.”
“Find something gentle, so it won’t distract you.”
She’s silent for a couple of minutes, and I assume she’s doing as I asked. Faint sounds come through the line, rustling and muffled bumps.
“Done,” she says.
“Are you comfortable on the bed?”
She laughs nervously. “As much as I can be.”
Closing my eyes, I allow myself to picture her. I can perfectly recall how her cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink when she’s turned on, and her eyes darken with need. I imagine her lying on white sheets, twisted around her legs, that satiny underwear I used to like so much barely covering her.
“Let’s warm you up first. Put a bit of lube on your fingers and slide them through your pussy, then rub that pretty clit of yours.”
There’s a click—presumably as she uncaps the lube—and then more rustling as she shifts around on the bed.
“Is that okay?” Just because she enjoyed this last time doesn’t necessarily mean she’ll have the same response this time. I don’t want her to feel pressured.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Just takes a bit of getting used to. It’s been so long…”
My chest constricts. Damn, I hate what happened to her. What I allowed to happen. If I hadn’t ruined our relationship, or if I’d seen the warning signs, maybe she wouldn’t have been assaulted. We could be blissfully happy, after having spent more than three years together.
But stewing in self-recrimination won’t fix anything.
“Ty…”
My heart leaps. It’s the first time she’s called me that since I came back into her life. “Yeah, baby?”
She hesitates for a long moment. “Last time, we only focused on me, and I was relieved about that, but this time, I’d really like it if you could join in.”
My mind short circuits. “What do you mean?”
“I want you to get off too.”
My eyes snap open. Surely, I didn’t just hear her say that. “Are you sure? I’m happy for it to be all about you.”
In fact, if I participate, I can’t guarantee I won’t be wracked with guilt about it later.
“Please, Ty.”
If she feels any doubt, it isn’t present in her tone. My subconscious screams that this is a terrible idea, but Echo asked for it and there’s very little I’d deny her, so I strip off my jeans and underwear, freeing my cock.
“Do you want me to tell you what I’m doing?” I ask, needing to know the boundaries.
“I… I think so.”
Some of her certainty has dissipated, which means I need to tread carefully.
“Are you ready for the vibe?”
“Yes.” This time, she’s sure.
“Then switch it on and put it against your pussy. Just nice and gentle. Leave your clit alone.”
I grit my teeth as the buzz begins. It was torture last time, knowing what she was doing without being able to see or touch her, but after everything, I deserve a little pain. I wrap my hand around my cock, putting pressure on it, but I don’t stroke yet.
Instead, I focus on the small tattoo on my hip. One I put there on my 19th birthday, in a place I knew my dad wouldn’t see.
A shooting star.
It’s for her. Everything I do—and am—is for her.
“Feels good,” she breathes.
Relief floods me. The last thing I want to do is trigger her, but it’s an ever-present possibility.
“Rock your hips for me,” I order. “Tease yourself.”
“Mm.”
The moan cuts off, but my cock flexes in response. Slowly, I guide my hand along the length. After so long without sex, Echo’s gasps are enough to make me come with hardly any stimulation.
“I’m stroking myself,” I tell her. “Slow and steady.”
She whimpers, and I squeeze the base of my cock to stop it getting over-excited.
“Can I use it on my clit now?” she asks.
I stifle a groan. I want to make her beg. To instruct her to hold off until she’s desperate, but that isn’t what she needs right now. Making sure she finds pleasure in sex is the most important thing.
“Do it.” I pump my cock more quickly as her breaths grow increasingly ragged.
She keens. “Oh, my God.”
Pleasure zaps up my spine and a spurt of precum dribbles out the head of my cock.
“Touch your entrance,” I tell her. “Lube your finger and tease yourself.”
“Ty.” Her voice is strained.
“You can do it,” I croon. “Just the tip. You can stop whenever you want. Just try, baby girl.”
A shaky breath. “O-okay.”
Another click. The buzzing continues. And then she sucks in a breath.
“Relax,” I urge. “Breathe out and let all your muscles go.”
She exhales softly.
“Keep circling your clit with the vibe.” If she’s distracted by pleasure, perhaps her mind won’t travel down any dark rabbit holes.
“I am.” She definitely isn’t as relaxed as she was earlier. “The tip is in, but I can’t relax.”
“Close your eyes. Keep breathing in and out. In for four, and then let it all out at once and soften your muscles. Ready? One, two, three, four…”
Her breath gusts out. “It worked.”
I chuckle. “No need to be so surprised. I have some good ideas.”
“Are you still…?”
“Touching myself?” I ask gruffly. “Yeah.”
“I want to hear you come.”
I clench my jaw. “Only if you come with me.”
“Do I have to keep the finger inside?”
“Of course not, baby girl. Take it out if you don’t like it there.”
“Thanks.” Some of her tension seems to dissolve. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
“Thank you for telling me.” I won’t take it for granted that she’s willing to be honest.
I spit in my hand and stroke myself, picturing her flushed cheeks, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest. I remember how pretty her tits were, and how much I loved having her slender thighs wrapped around my head.
“Turn up the vibrator,” I rasp. “Put it right on your clit and don’t even think about pulling it away.”
She cries out. “Oh, God. It’s too much.”
“You can take it.” This much, I’m sure of. Her voice is thick with pleasure, not strain.
Her next cry is muffled, as if her hand is over her mouth.
“Let me hear you,” I growl. “Don’t try to hide.”
“It’s too much, it’s too much,” she whispers over and over again. “I’m gonna… Oh, God.”
She moans as she comes, and the sound shoots right to my balls. Pleasure licks at my nerves and I empty all over my stomach.
“Fuuuck,” I pant. “Echo. Baby. Fuck, you’re so perfect.”
She doesn’t respond, and we’re both quiet as we catch our breath. Just as I’m beginning to wonder if she has regrets, she finally speaks.
“I hope you know what it takes for me to be vulnerable with you,” she says. “If you do or say anything to make me think I shouldn’t have taken the risk, you’ll never hear from me again.”