Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Silas
Her text pings before warmups.
Scout
Good luck tonight. Don't kill anyone.
Attached is a photo. She's curled on the couch back at my condo, blanket bunched at her thighs, tank top dipping low enough to show the curve of her breasts.
Dark blonde curls tumble loose and wild over one shoulder.
Those green eyes look straight at the camera, warm and sleepy, like she just woke up.
No makeup, just her natural beauty on full display.
Casual. Comfortable. Sexy as hell. She's smiling, just a little, like she knows exactly what this picture will do to me.
Me
Thanks.
Convincing myself not to stare at the photo proves useless. I stare anyway, zooming in like a creep, imagining what she's wearing under that blanket. Probably those sleep shorts that ride up when she moves. Maybe nothing at all.
Scout doesn’t usually text me. Especially not selfies.
I’m not sure how to respond, but I don’t want to discourage her from sending me more photos.
So I snap a selfie of myself in my gear giving a gloved thumbs up.
I feel like a huge chump sending it, but I do anyway.
This communication from her was unexpected, but very welcome.
“Silas!”
I look up to see Thorne staring at me. He’s the last player to leave the locker room and is waiting for me to get my ass up. “Yeah. Coming.”
I shake off thoughts of Scout and focus on following my teammates. Game day. My head needs to stay on the ice. We need the win. The Havoc have cleaved a path right down the middle, winning just as many games as we lost.
The game is a complete disaster.
Toronto owns us from puck drop. I play like a machine. Every shift clean, every gap closed, every passing lane covered. It doesn't matter. We're hemorrhaging goals from mistakes I can't fix alone.
Hunter does his best as right wing, aggressively going after the puck, checking the opposition into the boards, taking every shot he has. Between him and Thorne, at least they score two goals.
Jett, on the other hand, has a really bad game.
Standing in front of the net, masked and padded, looking every bit the intimidating goalie doesn't help when soft goals keep slipping in glove-side that should get saved in his sleep.
Hunter takes a stupid retaliatory penalty after a clean hit and chirps his way into a double minor.
Tate coughs up the puck at our own blue line and suddenly it's a breakaway.
Thorne misreads coverage and leaves Jett hung out to dry.
I'm left chasing the puck around the ice, desperately trying to knock it back on their side and keep it from getting near the goal. Time and time again, the puck gets through. It's a massacre.
Four to two by the end of the second period.
I throw my weight into every hit. Block shots until my ribs scream and my shoulder feels like it's tearing apart from the inside. Grind through shifts until my lungs burn and my legs turn to lead. And nothing fucking works. We still lose.
Six to two. Humiliating.
Reporters circle like vultures in the tunnel afterward. One sneers, "Are you washed up yet, Huxley?" Another shoves a microphone in my face. "Should the Havoc be looking for younger talent to replace you?"
I mutter something about team effort and learning from losses. Juliet's voice echoes in my head, telling me not to bite, not to give them ammunition.
If I said what I really think to the journalists who've never laced up skates but love to tell players how to do their jobs, looking for new work tomorrow would follow immediately.
The worst moment, though, comes later.
Coach Cross: Did you make that appointment?
No, of course not. Dr. Sable's card got dumped in the bowl by my front door that holds my keys. I crack my neck and sigh.
Me: Not yet. I plan to.
Coach Cross: Get it done, Silas.
Right. Doing a piss-poor job of delaying my own execution seems to be my specialty.
When we reach the hotel, every member of the Havoc looks like they've taken a beating.
We bumble into a line at the buffet set up for the players, eating like condemned men.
Steam trays line one wall. Overcooked chicken.
Bland pasta. Rice that tastes like cardboard.
But we pile our plates high anyway because a loss like that needs fuel for anger as much as for strength.
Beck stacks protein high on his plate. Double chicken breasts and three hard-boiled eggs. "We'll review tape tomorrow. Reset and move forward," he says to the whole team. His voice stays even but tight with tension.
Hunter stabs at his food like it personally insulted him. "Refs were blind out there. They could've been offsetting penalties on half those calls." His scowl could turn men to stone.
"Or maybe," Thorne cuts in with a pensive expression. "The truth is that we just sucked tonight. Except Silas. He was a fucking wall out there."
The compliment scrapes like sandpaper. It doesn't fix the loss or change the fact that we got embarrassed on national television. I just chew my bland chicken and swallow.
Jett drops into the seat beside me, cracking open a bottle of water. "You look like shit, man."
"Fuck off," I mutter, but there's no real bite in it. "I did my best with what I had to work with."
Hunter leans against the wall across from us, arms crossed, eyes sharp as knives. "How's your roommate situation working out?"
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. "Fine..."
"Fine," Hunter echoes with a snort. "That's what you say when your kitchen's on fire but you don't want to admit it."
"Pretty sure his kitchen is on fire," Thorne drawls from down the table. "Scout moves in and suddenly Mr. Iceberg looks human. I can't say I blame you, man. She's hot as hell. Don't know how you're not all over her."
"Shut it," I snap, sharper than intended. My fork scrapes loud against the plate.
Jett finally huffs a laugh. "Jesus. Touchy subject."
"Maybe he's just tense," Hunter mutters, lip curling into something that might be amusement. "If she were my roommate, I'd get her to give me a massage."
I slam my water glass down hard enough that liquid sloshes over my hand and onto the table. "She's not yours."
Mr. Iceberg. Ice Man. The nicknames stings more than they should. They think I'm cold, unaffected, a machine. No idea exists about what's burning underneath. Right now, the ice is cracking. One mention of her and I'm ready to throw punches at my own teammates.
Beck lifts one eyebrow but doesn't comment. Thorne just smirks wider, like he's got me completely figured out.
"Fuck you guys," I grumble. "Stay out of it."
I shovel the rest of my food down as fast as I can. The bland pasta could be ash for all I taste it. All I can think about is that picture Scout sent before puck drop. Her curled on my couch, curls tumbling loose over her shoulders. Warm and soft and completely off limits.
I hate that the only thing keeping me awake tonight won't be replaying our defensive breakdowns.
Back in my hotel room, the silence irritates me. I stretch my shoulder until it twinges with warning pain. Ice it for twenty minutes. Scroll through my phone because I can't settle.
A text from Scout lights up my screen.
Scout
How's the shoulder?
Fuck my traitorous heart for beating faster at the slightest interest from her. She's just checking on me because I'm her project. Remembering that would serve me best. I type a response, delete it, type again.
Silas
Tight. Can yoga help?
Scout
Depends on the stretch. Want me to send you one?
Silas
Maybe. How's home?
Scout
Boring without you here. How's your hotel room?
Impulse wins over common sense. I peel off my shirt, adjust the ice pack strapped to my shoulder, and snap a photo. Shirtless in the hotel bed, abs on display, just enough to make my point. I hit send before I can overthink it.
Scout
You're ridiculous. But at least you're icing like I told you to.
I almost type something about missing her. My thumb hovers over the letters. Then I delete it and set the phone face down on the nightstand.
But the silence doesn't stick. My phone vibrates again. This time, a notification from the dating app scrolls across my home screen, demanding attention it shouldn't get.
A new message waits.
Yoga4Lyfe
Want to get a drink tonight?
Staring at the message, my jaw works. Meeting her sounds incredible. It also sounds terrifying. It’s impossible, because explaining why I can't show up in person would require confessing that I'm Silas, her roommate, the guy who created a fake profile just to stalk her.
Telling her the truth would be the smart move. The right move. It’s the only move that makes any kind of reasonable sense.
But I'm an idiot, so I don't do any of that.
StatMan12
Right now, all I want is to pin a woman down, fist her curls in my hands, and bury my face between her thighs until she's sobbing my name.
The three dots appear almost immediately. Her reply hits fast.
Yoga4Lyfe
Fuck. Keep going.
StatMan12
I'd start slow. Drag my tongue over your clit until you're begging me to go faster. Make you spread wider for me. Hold you there when you try to squirm away because it's too much.
Yoga4Lyfe
God. I'm already wet just reading that.
I groan out loud, shifting against the hotel pillows. My cock strains hard against my sweatpants. The room suddenly feels too hot, too small.
StatMan12
Good. Don't touch yourself yet. Just picture it. My mouth on you, my hands keeping you open. I want you desperate before I let you come.
Yoga4Lyfe
You're killing me.
StatMan12
You don't even know how good you'd taste on my tongue. How perfect you'd look falling apart for me.
Her next reply lands like a punch straight to my chest.
Yoga4Lyfe
I want it so bad. I wish it was you here instead of my hand.