Chapter 4
Jefferson
“You were right,” she says as I walk her back to the hotel, our shoulders brushing every few steps, “you are very good at air hockey.”
A normal guy would have let the woman he’s interested in win, but I’m not a normal guy. I put myself out there. You either take Jefferson Parks for who he is, or you don’t.
That being said, I can’t tell if Ingrid likes me. Not yet.
Me? Well, my pulse is doing this stupid pounding thing, like I just took a slap shot to the chest. I want to kiss her.
Hell, I want to do way more than kiss her.
I'm living out a decade of locker room daydreams, and late night jerk off sessions.
She's right here, laughing at my dumb jokes and stealing my fries like she's not the most famous woman I’ve ever breathed next to.
Like she’s not Ingrid Flockton. Number one on my sex list.
For once, my brain is working better than my dick. Because as much as I want to press her up against any and every available surface to show her just how not-boyfriend-material I could be... I know better.
Ingrid may be famous. She may be experienced.
But she’s also ready to run at the first wrong move.
Tonight is a one-off for her. A fun little escapade so she can still feel alive.
But it’s not real. I can feel it in the way she smiles too quickly, in the way she glances over her shoulder like she’s keeping tally of every exit.
And if I want more than just dinner and a walk across campus–if I want her–I’ve gotta play it right.
“Okay, I’ve got one,” she starts, “pre-game superstitions. Do you have any?”
We’ve been going back and forth like this all night. Comparing our lives. Ingrid’s a mega-rich and famous rockstar. I’m a popular hockey player on my way to the NHL. Is it even? No, but there are still some things in common, and she’s right, superstitions are part of it.
“I have a few,” I admit. “Nothing drastic like when Axel grew a pornstash earlier in the season during our winning streak.” I grin, thinking about our goalie and his horrific facial hair.
I’ll give it to him, he committed. “But yeah, I have a lucky pair of socks, and my mom always texts me before the game, and…”
“And what?”
We’re walking down the sidewalk, and I glance over at her. “No sex the day of the game.”
“Seriously?”
I shrug. “Yep.”
“Wow. Okay.”
“What about you?” I’ve slowed, trying to keep this night from ending. “Any pre-show rituals?”
“Of course,” she says, her pace easing to meet mine. “No speaking for six hours before the show–”
“To anyone?”
She shakes her head. “No one. Not even Madison–my best friend and assistant,” she clarifies. “I have to protect my voice.”
“Makes sense.” We step off a curb and cross the road. The hotel lights are in the distance. “Anything else?”
“Cherry and pineapple gummy bears.”
“Oh,” I laugh. “Got it.”
“What?” she tilts her head.
“You’re one of those musicians. A diva.”
She rolls her eyes, but the little smirk on her red lips tells me she doesn’t mind the title. We’re a half block from the hotel, and with every step I’m trying to work out how I’m going to leave this night, when she suddenly tugs on my sleeve.
“Listen–”
Before I can finish, she pulls me down a narrow side street, her hand tight on my wrist. It’s darker here, quiet, the buzz of streetlights fading behind us.
She spins, presses me back against the brick wall.
She’s so tall. Confident. Then her hot, soft lips are against mine, and she kisses me like she’s trying to erase everything else–like she’s starving and I’m the only thing left to eat.
It knocks the goddamn breath out of me, and Jesus, I want more.
When she finally pulls back, I’m blinking like I forgot how to use my eyes.
“What was that for?” I ask, voice low and hoarse. My cock twitches on my thigh.
She licks her lips, thumb brushing my jaw like she’s memorizing the shape of me. “Because I wanted to.”
Then she steps back like she didn’t just short-circuit every working part of my body. And I swear–if she turns around and walks into that hotel like nothing happened, I might actually pass out right here in this alley.
She smirks like she’s got the upper hand–and fucking hell, she does. “Just a kiss goodnight,” she says. “You know… the end to a really fun, unexpected night.”
My eyebrows lift. “‘Fun’ is one word for it. Doesn’t have to end here, you know.”
She doesn’t take the bait, just smooths her hoodie over those long legs and gives me that pop star smirk. That untouchable look I’ve seen her give a hundred times on stage or in magazines. Except this time it’s aimed right at me. And yeah, it does things.
“So that’s all this is,” I say, my hand trailing casually up and down her arm, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist like maybe I can flip the switch back on.
She nods once. “That’s all this is.”
There it is. No hotel invitation. No ‘wanna come up?’ Not even a suggestive wink. Just the cold, hard truth wrapped in a hot, soft package.
She steps back, already in motion. “Don’t walk me the rest of the way,” she says. “I don’t need a headline in the morning.”
Message received.
I raise both hands like I’m innocent–even though I’m very much not. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She turns, but before she gets more than a step away, I grab her wrist. “One more,” I say, already leaning in and yanking that hoodie off, revealing her lavender hair.
The first kiss was hers, but this one is mine.
I take it slow and cocky, like I’m trying to brand it in her memory.
My hand cups the side of her neck, fingers in her hair, body lined up with hers like I’ve got nothing to lose–which I don’t.
We’re in overtime, the clock is winding down, and like I’ve practiced for years, I’m taking the goddamn shot.
Thank Christ, she kisses me back, just enough tongue and teeth to make it sting when she finally pulls away with a soft exhale. That feeling in my pants? It’s way more than a twitch. We’ve gone full hard-on.
“Thanks for the night out, Jefferson,” she says, fingers slipping away from mine. “And good luck.”
Then she’s gone. Hood up, back across the street, slipping into the lobby of her fancy-ass hotel like we didn’t just make out in an alley like two drunk college kids.
I watch her go, not even pretending to look away.
Yeah, when I reached out to her, I was hoping I’d end the night with a little more than a kiss. Thought maybe I’d get to notch the infamous Ingrid Flockton off my very short, very exclusive list. But weirdly, I’m not that pissed.
She was fun. Hot. Smart as hell. And even though I didn’t get the ending I wanted, I still feel like I won something, even if I didn’t win the game.
By the time we pull up to the team hotel in Chicago, I’m in the final three songs of Ingrid’s last concert.
Her fans record them in full and then upload them on socials so that everyone who wasn’t there can watch the spectacle.
And fuck me if she isn’t a firecracker in those sequined thigh-high boots and sweeping dresses strutting across the stage.
Even though I’m fully immersed in the woman, I do successfully push every intrusive-ass thought about last night out of my head. How I had one shot and blew it.
Sure, I got to meet her and spend a little time with her, but I didn’t seal the deal on the one thing I wanted most of all: crossing her off my list.
Turning off the video, I let Emerson, crammed in the seat across from mine, chirp about strategy for our first game tomorrow. I even allow Pete to fall asleep on my shoulder without elbowing him in the face.
Axel stretches as we unload, his shirt riding up to reveal the dark ink all over his lower abdomen. He looks around like we’re about to hit the town for a night out instead of checking into a basic-ass hotel set up by the league. “Man, Chicago’s got that energy,” he says, inhaling deep.
“I feel like anywhere has more energy than the Texas suburbs,” I say, reminding him of where he’s from. His father is the preacher of a mega-church called Kingdom. He was set up to be the next in line before he finally told his controlling, dominating father to fuck the hell off.
I’m from LA, or just outside. My dad is in tech, a programmer who designed a system that only he knows how to implement. My mom is an artist–her medium is paint and collage. I’m used to big cities, but Chicago does have it’s own vibe.
Axel laughs, slaps me on the back, and disappears into the hotel lobby with Reid and Emerson, already trying to figure out where they can grab deep dish pizza the size of their heads.
Coach Bryant gave us tonight free, but curfew’s locked for tomorrow.
Not that it matters. We didn’t come here for the pizza and nightlife.
We came here to win.
I grab my duffel and head inside with Reese, who’s more focused on his phone than his feet. I don’t even need to ask who he’s texting.
“Twyler, I assume,” I say, eyeing the little smirk tugging at his mouth.
“She just wanted to make sure we got in okay,” he says, not bothering to hide the fact that he’s so whipped for this girl he can barely see straight. “She gets nervous before big games.”
“She gets nervous before your big games,” I point out. “You’re the one playing.”
He shrugs. “Yeah. But she’s invested.”
That’s one word for it. Twyler has been invested in Wittmore Hockey since she was assigned to the team for her training internship.
She’s been invested in Reese since the day they fake-kissed their way into a full-on relationship.
My boy didn’t just fall for the tomboy trainer. He jumped head, dick, and heart first.
The team’s rooms are on the tenth floor, double queens, same setup we’ve had for every away game since freshman year. I throw my bag on the bed closest to the window, and Reese takes the one near the bathroom. Automatic at this point. No words needed.
“You think Coach’ll go with the same line rotations tomorrow?” I ask while he kicks off his shoes.
“Probably,” he says, pulling out his laptop. “Unless he’s hiding a secret weapon we haven’t seen yet.”
“Doubt it,” I snort. “You’re the weapon, and it’s not a secret.”
He grins. I’m not wrong.
Unlike our power forward and star scorer, my job’s not flashy.
I’m not the guy with the most points or a highlight reel full of toe-drags and bar-down snipes.
But you need someone to protect the puck?
To clear the crease? To slam someone into the glass so hard they forget which way the bench is? That’s me.
Every team needs a hammer. I just happen to be one in skates.
Reese flops onto his bed and flips open the laptop.
I already know what he’s doing, pulling up the latest film Coach Bryant sent over.
He’ll probably watch it ten times before he goes to bed.
That’s why he’s the captain and the number one prospect at graduation.
“You ever think about what happens after this? Like, after we win?”
“After we win?” I ask, arching a brow. “Not if?”
He shrugs again. “Confidence. Twyler says manifesting is important.”
Jesus Christ.
“I’m hoping I’ll be drowning in puck bunny pussy,” I reply, since my one shot with my dream girl was a bust. “Women love victory.” He rolls his eyes, but it wasn’t that long ago that he was sowing his oats all over campus and would have been thinking the same thing.
I stretch out on my bed, letting my muscles relax.
“But I’m not thinking about that right now. One game at a time.”
Reese nods, but there’s a glint in his eye. He’s not done. “You ever think about more than hockey? You know, in the future.”
I look over. “You want me to say I’m gonna find a nice girl and settle down like you?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” he says with a grin. “One day, maybe?”
“Unlikely.”
And I mean it. It’s not that I can’t be that guy. I just have no interest in becoming him.
My parents have been married since they met at Berkley.
On paper, they’re the dream team–Dad’s the owner of his own tech business, works from home, controls his hours, doesn’t own a suit.
Mom’s got that hippie vibe, her hands always covered in paint or ink.
They've got money, stability, but the one thing they don’t have? A single fucking thing in common.
I grew up watching them orbit around each other like two distant planets.
Vacations where they never spent a minute together, each of them splitting off to their respective interests.
My dad loves the outdoors and playing golf.
My mom, museums and galleries. For as long as I can remember, they have acted more like roommates, not a couple.
Love? Commitment? Marriage?
That shit looks like a trap wrapped in a lifetime of monotony.
So no, I don’t do girlfriends. I don’t play house. If possible, I don’t even bring them home. I’ve had plenty of hookups–sorority girls, puck bunnies, the occasional TA who should’ve known better. I don’t promise anything. I don’t text the next day. I don’t let it get messy.
And last night?
I definitely don’t regret it, but I’m not sitting here daydreaming about what could’ve been.
It was a moment. A hot, unexpected, kind of unforgettable moment with a woman who’s probably about to walk out on stage now.
We kissed. It was good. Better than good.
But she made it clear where the line was drawn, and I respect that.
Because that’s all it was.
And honestly, I’m surprised at how okay I am with it.
Reese is back on his phone, probably updating Twyler on what kind of socks he packed.
I pull out my headphones and queue up the same film Reese has open–Coach sent it to all of us.
My mind shifts away from last night, back to the rink, to strategy, to faceoffs and power plays.
I let the buzz of anticipation settle into my chest.
Tomorrow, it’s game time.
And whatever that night was?
It’s already behind me.