Chapter Four #2
For a split second, I worry that I’ll become another victim of his short fuse.
Images of Tommy turning aggressive flash through my head as the hit he landed on Holt for defending me back in January come roaring back.
Asshole or not, Tommy is one of the biggest hockey players I’ve ever seen, and I know a lot about the sport, having grown up in a hockey madhouse.
“You’re a fucking bitch—you know that?” His eyes are almost black when he finally shows me them again.
He opens his mouth to add something more but quickly closes it, and I breathe an internal sigh of relief. I don’t know what he was about to say, but apparently, Tommy Schneider does have lines he won’t cross.
“You say that like you think it’ll hurt my feelings.”
Reaching out, I pat his shoulder mockingly, and he pulls back. I wouldn’t describe the action as a recoil, more like I electrocuted him.
It doesn’t track. Tommy has built a career steeped in animosity, and there was nothing friendly about my gesture. A condescending tap on the shoulder shouldn’t even register, let alone elicit that kind of response from him.
I push past the doubt and solidify the upper hand I’ve got.
“Did Patrick tell you that I banged him?” I smirk just like he always does at me.
“He was pretty good actually. So good that I lost all my inhibitions. Anyway …” I wave away the details of that night, which was less than memorable.
“One thing led to the next, and he started talking about New York and my soccer career, and then we got onto the Blades, yada yada. He agreed with me that he thought you were a subpar player at best, and that’s when I pointed out that your flirting game wasn’t much better. I’m sorry that what I said upset you.”
There’s no sincerity to my empty apology, and he knows it.
The entire time I talked, Tommy’s grin only grew wider. He leans one thick forearm—white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows—against the wall next to us. He crosses his legs over at the ankles—and, goddamn, if it isn’t hotter than hell.
“How many times did he make you come?”
If I still had my soda, I’d throw it in his face.
The audacity of this guy.
“I beg your pardon?!”
He runs his tongue across his bottom lip. “Orgasms, Jenna. How many did he pull from you? You described the sex as good enough to lose your inhibitions, so I figure that he fucked your brains out.”
My eyes narrow at him. “I lost count.”
Roughly translated: I didn’t come once.
He taps his knuckles against the wall, clicking his tongue once. “I’m surprised Gentry can still get it up, to be honest. He’s gotta be at least thirty-four.”
My brain fights to keep my eyes on Tommy’s face and not drop them to his crotch. “I tend to find older guys are better. More experienced and confident.”
Tommy nods like he’s agreeing, leaving me confused. “That’s what older women say when they reach a certain age and no longer interest younger guys.” He leans forward, and his breath has a minty edge to it. “I’m not interested in you, Jenna.”
Something unwelcome shoots through me, pooling in my eyes. Rapidly, I blink away the wetness. Of all the turns this conversation could’ve taken, it had to head down my one vulnerable route.
At twenty-seven, I fear being left on the shelf while I watch all my friends happily marry and have babies. It’s probably my biggest fear, full stop.
Truthfully, I don’t know how I see my future, but I do know I don’t want to spend it alone.
My dad was an asshole to my mom, constantly cheating on her when he worked out of town.
For a while after their divorce, I was determined never to get married or settle down and risk being torn apart in the same way Dad did to my mom.
I think the turning point was my split from Lee almost two years ago.
I liked having someone in my life, all I needed was for it to be the right person, and now, it feels like I’m fighting against time before I’m left out in the cold.
Given my failure to hide my upset, I’m certain that Tommy can tell he’s rattled me or at least touched a raw nerve. His face doesn’t change though, not an ounce of empathy entering his expression.
I fucking hate him. Before Holt returned to France, he told me to never speak to Tommy again. That he was bad news and out for petty revenge. I wish I’d listened to his advice.
“You are a cold and callous asshole, and I wish Holt had buried you that day.”
When he shrugs nonchalantly, it’s only my soccer career that holds me back from doing what my brother should have. All Holt asked Tommy to do that night was repeat what he had said under his breath when he walked by us.
I never found out what Tommy had said, not that I particularly care. I know it wasn’t a compliment.
He’d called me a stuck-up princess the day I told him I didn’t want to leave and go to another bar with him. We both know he was trying to get me into bed. Unfortunately for the Blades bad boy, I’d already figured he was an asshole who would likely fuck me and kick me out the first chance he got.
I’m the one who leaves a man’s bed. Always on my terms.
For a split second, I think Tommy’s going to kiss me when he leans in closer, and I hate the conflict that stirs low in my belly.
Everything about him should disgust me. He’s cruel and just like his father on the ice.
He doesn’t respect the opposition, only seeking to cause as much collateral damage in his quest to be the tough guy.
Hell, I’m not even sure he cares about his own teammates or the loss they endured tonight.
He isn’t a professional, and he doesn’t deserve to earn big money while I play and practice with athletes who make a tenth of his salary and possess more talent and integrity than he ever will.
He stops an inch from my lips, enunciating each word as he speaks. “Talk shit and try and humiliate me again, and you really will wish your brother had retaliated that night. I can make your life hell, and I promise you I will. Don’t play this game with me, Jenna. You will lose.”