Chapter 23 Tytus
Chapter twenty-three
Tytus
It’s been years since I slept as well as I did last night. I wasn’t plagued by a single nightmare.
My internal clock, set to rise for morning skate, woke me, but I don’t have anywhere to be this morning. Being right here, with her in my arms, is my only priority.
She’s draped over me, our legs tangled beneath the covers, my cock perfectly aligned with the apex of her thighs.
This close, each freckle is distinguishable, its own entity, unique in size and even shape, contrasting against her creamy skin.
Her lips are parted slightly, warm breath tickling my bare chest as she exhales.
She’s so beautiful I hardly allow myself the chance to blink.
From now on, I’ll only allow myself to sleep over when I don’t have morning skate the next day. No commitment to the team or fear of Coach’s retribution could force me out of this bed right now.
My willpower doesn’t exist when she’s in my arms.
She may think I’m the demanding one, that I’m forcing us into existence, but she has all the power. Deep down, she knows it. Last night proved it. She just needs me to take charge and pave the way.
Slowly, I roll over and reach for my phone on the nightstand to check the time.
When I unlock the screen, the numbers don’t even register. All I see is the three missed calls and two text messages from Coach Connors.
Stomach lurching, I click open the messages and scan them.
In my panic, I must jostle Sawyer, because she stirs behind me.
She runs a hand over my abs, her forearm resting on my ribs. “What’s wrong?” she murmurs through a yawn.
I press her hand into my abdomen before she realizes how intimate her touch is and tries to pull away.
With my back still to her, I shake my head. “Nothing’s wrong. At least I don’t think it is. I just have to get to the rink. Coach wants to see me. Says it’s urgent.”
Fingertips smooth over my rib cage and up my pec, then hook over my shoulder, her chest pressed to my back and her breath warm on my neck. “Do you want me to go with you?”
I freeze, waiting for awareness to hit. Did she really just offer that? And how long will it take for her to renege?
It only takes two or three heartbeats before she stiffens and tries to pull her arm away, emitting a cute little huff as she does.
Grasping her wrist, I bring her hand to my mouth and place a kiss on the center of her palm. “No, baby,” I say, turning to face her, still holding tight. “You must be exhausted after last night. Stay in bed and sleep.”
Her cheeks flame, and she won’t meet my gaze.
A twinge of rejection shoots through me.
But her first instinct was to snuggle closer this morning. And she offered to go with me to the ice arena all on her own.
Progress.
We’re making fucking progress.
Leaning forward, I take the less risky route and plant a kiss on her bare shoulder. “I’ll see you tonight at the game.”
I stand and stretch my arms overhead, letting my back crack and snap, then twist my torso, loosening up my spine. I ignore the incessant heft of my fully erect cock. I don’t have time to rub one out right now.
I have to get to the rink.
I texted Coach to let him know I was on my way. He sent me a fucking thumbs-up in response, leaving me to stress about what I might be walking into.
It took my three clumsy tries to swipe my student athlete ID at the back door to gain access. I’m singularly focused on keeping my body upright and keeping my breathing steady as I navigate the back hall, heading for his office.
Is this about the video? Did it get out after all?
If it did… if another soul has seen what’s mine…
Fuckin’ A.
I don’t need this kind of stress on game day.
Gulping down the throat-constricting anxiety, I knock twice on his open door.
“Come in.”
When I enter, Coach is smiling, leaning back casually, like he’s testing the stability of his office chair, both hands behind his head.
Across from him, a woman in a purple dress and a man wearing a dark suit sit in the chairs reserved for guests.
“Oh,” I say, pausing at the threshold. “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?”
The man and woman rise and turn, huge smiles plastered on their faces.
My defenses lock into place quickly. I know those kinds of smiles. They’re case worker smiles. Human Resource smiles. Corporate smiles, devoid of human emotion, given eagerly when the wearer is working to check a task off their to do list.
“Not at all.” The man steps forward, hand outstretched. “We’re actually here to see you. Clark Petrello, and this is my colleague, Nicole Bock.”
On autopilot, I shake his hand.
The woman approaches next, and Coach rises and sidles up beside me.
“We’re excited to be here today, Mr. Tremblay.” The woman gives me an eager, toothy grin.
At a loss for the correct way to respond, I keep my mouth shut.
“Do you know who we are?”
I don’t, and the not knowing causes my stomach to twist and panic to claw at my insides. My chest swells with painful pressure, like my ribs have outgrown my body and are trying to burst through my chest.
Flashbacks of drab offices and multi-hour meetings with unfamiliar adults pummel my consciousness.
Memories of the interviews with people from Youth Protection Services when I was removed from my dad’s apartment.
The exams. Sitting on a cold table, shivering, in nothing but a paper robe.
Being poked and prodded and talked about as if I wasn’t right fucking there.
The interviews I endured before being placed with the Davvies family.
The thick files that would come out every time a new person was brought on the case.
Pressure on my shoulder pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts. When my vision clears, Coach is watching me, brows furrowed in concern.
When he squeezes my shoulder again, I flinch, though I rein in the urge to bat his hand away.
“Breathe, Tremblay,” he murmurs. Then, louder, he says, “It seems you’ve surprised us all with your visit, but we’re thrilled to have representatives from the Georgia Galaxy with us today.”
Fuckin’ A.
By some miracle, I collect myself enough to stumble through introductions.
Clark Petrello is the managing director of player development, and Nicole Bock is head of media relations and publicity for the Georgia Galaxy.
According to them, they’re on a multi-stop trip around the Midwest, checking in on recruits and prospective recruits.
Without a heads-up, I can only assume they wanted the visit to be a surprise.
While we stand around Coach’s office, I tell them about my classes, turning on the charm to the best of my ability, the smile I force big enough to make my face hurt.
It’s a skill I learned from Atty—the smiling, the nodding.
The follow-up questions that keep people talking about themselves and mercifully keep the attention off me.
If I’m lucky, it’s enough to make up for my blunder when I walked in.
They’ll be here for tonight’s game, though they have to leave after the second period to make their flight.
Apparently they’ll be back through the area next weekend and will attend both games against Northeastern. They want to take me and a plus-one out to dinner on Saturday.
This whole thing was a setup.
They called me in to see how I would react under pressure.
And I almost went dark in front of Coach and these people who have authority over my future career. I came dangerously close to slipping into a spiral. Thank fuck Coach noticed, and thank fuck his effort to pull me out was successful. Usually only Atty or Sawyer can do it.
By the time Clark and Nicole leave, I’m wrung out. My knuckles ache from keeping my hands balled into fists and my head throbs, the pressure in my left temple making me wince when I move even a little.
All the calm shrouding me in Sawyer’s bed has been replaced by calamitous anxiety. Every cell aches. My eyelids are heavy, my limbs weighted, like I could crawl back into bed and sleep another eight hours.
Staving off a panic attack will do that to a person.
“Relax,” Coach instructs, his hand on my shoulder once more. “Fucking breathe, son. They’re gone, and you did fine.”
His assurance does little to assuage my panic.
Did they notice the way I froze up? Did I say or do anything else I shouldn’t have?
When Coach finally releases his hold on me, my knees buckle. As I steady myself on the corner of his desk, he stomps over to the open doorway, checks the hall, and closes the heavy door, shutting out the world.
Turning to me, he releases a long, exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a heads-up. They specifically asked me not to. What a fucking ruse.”
I study his face, looking for any trace of insincerity. Is this another trap? I don’t have the first clue how to respond.
“Sit down,” he insists, rounding his desk.
His expression looks sympathetic, but I’m really fucking bad at reading emotions. Especially from people I don’t know well.
I want to believe I can trust him, but the alarm bells are still blaring in my head, warning me he might not be safe.
It’s a constant battle, navigating life under the assumption that everyone and everything is working against me. It’s exhausting. Debilitating. I hate that my brain reacts so fucking poorly to surprises and unknowns.
“Was that normal?” I finally force out.
Coach barks out a humorless laugh. “I wouldn’t exactly call it normal.
But it’s becoming more commonplace. Occasionally teams send out corporate personnel to check on their draft picks.
It’s happened to a few of my coaching buddies at Great Lakes U and Northeastern.
Though this is the first time I’ve experienced it myself. ”
I settle back in my seat, willing my heart rate to settle.
“That was hard on you.” He stares me down, his expression softer than I expect.
I open my mouth, then snap it shut, still confused about how to respond.
With both hands held up in surrender, he says, “I know we’re just getting to know each other, but I hope that eventually, you’ll see that I always stand by my guys. I’ve learned a valuable lesson here today. When they come calling again, I’ll make sure you know in advance.”
I clear my throat, willing my voice not to shake. “Even if they specifically ask you not to tell me?”
He grimaces. “I don’t feel comfortable answering that directly.”
My shoulders sag. Of fucking course not.
“But I’ll say this: It’s my responsibility as your coach to ensure your physical, emotional, and mental well-being.
Especially on fucking game day.” His tone goes sharp there.
“I won’t allow them to blindside you again, regardless of what they ask of me.
That’s for damn sure. You’re my priority, Tremblay. ”
The riot of nerves in my gut settles a fraction.
I’m not exactly relieved, though it helps to know that I’m not completely alone. That maybe I can trust someone other than Sawyer and Atty.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice thick. “Is there anything else?”
With a shake of his head, he excuses me, urging me to take some time to relax before the game.
Fat fucking chance of that happening now.
I’ll be lucky if my heart finds its resting rate before warm-ups at three.
“Oh, and Tremblay,” he says as I reach the door.
I pause and turn around, brows lifted.
“Let me know if you want me to be your plus-one for that dinner.” He steeples his fingers and rocks back in his chair. “I’m probably not the person they had in mind, but if it helps—”
I shake my head, though I offer him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Coach. I’ve got that covered.”
With weighted down feet, I leave the locker room and pass through the lobby. I wave to Bryant and Kai at the counter as I pass, but I don’t stop.
When I push open the back door, the brisk fall air slams into me, waking me a little. I pull my hood up and duck against the cold. Then I fish out my phone and send a text.
Ty: Just met with two people from the Georgia Galaxy front office. We’re going to dinner with them next Saturday, after the game.
She replies instantly.
Sawyer: Why do I have to go?
I smirk. I’m tempted to respond with “because I said so.” But a memory of her expression this morning stops me. She was so soft, so warm and open. I want more of that. Of what’s real. Of moments where she isn’t resisting. So instead of matching her energy, I offer the truth.
Ty: They ambushed me today. Specifically asked Coach not to tell me they were waiting for me. This feels like a test. I’d feel better if you were by my side.
The moment I hit Send, I wish I could take it back. I hate the idea of being so vulnerable, of giving her ammunition to use against me.
Sawyer: You should ask Atty. It would be a good networking opportunity for him.
With a scowl, I shake my head. Is she suggesting that because she wants to help her brother, or because she doesn’t want to be with me?
Doesn’t fucking matter.
That’s not what’s happening.
Ty: You’re going, end of discussion. We’ll ride together. Make sure you’re not scheduled to work. I’ll go to Cam about it myself if I have to.
Three little dots appear, disappear, then reappear on my screen.
But no text ever comes through.
Fuckin’ A.
I always get it fucking wrong with her.
Stashing my phone in my hoodie, I trudge back across campus.