Chapter 3
three
. . .
Nick
one year ago
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
How in the hell did I not know that Bex, the woman who’s haunted me for the last two years, is actually Bex Whitney, the little sister of my archnemesis?
And how the fuck did I manage to screw up our easy truce in two point seven seconds?
I’ve thought about her constantly over the last two years.
How fun and easygoing she was in the bar, and how everything changed once we got naked.
How she was hot and cold, and before the sweat had cooled on our skin, she was hopping out of bed and out of my life.
How I let her slip away without asking for her last name or getting her number. She didn’t ask for mine, either.
Did she just want to brag that she bagged a hockey player? It isn’t that hard to put together that Nick, the hockey player from New Orleans, is Nick Mitchell, the two-time Hart Trophy winner. Sure, we met at a low point in my life, and—fuck.
Her brother is the one who knocked my team out of the playoffs days before we met. Whitney single-handedly destroyed New Orleans en route to the Cup two years ago. What an insult to injury.
Two entire seasons have come and gone, and I’m over that playoff loss. New Orleans has made it to the postseason ever since they acquired me two and a half years ago. Only the first round, sure, but farther than other teams.
Whitney’s arranged for a group of about twenty guys to gather for a week-long engagement party and start-of-offseason vacation. Most of the guys I’m friendly with, at least enough to join in. A week on the beach with nothing to do but rest and have fun… There are worse things in the world.
Fuck, and Bex is here. How am I supposed to resist her? I wonder if she’s a bikini type of girl, with all of her curves on display, or if she’ll wear a svelte one-piece that covers up her delicious body. Either way, I’ll enjoy looking.
If she doesn’t eviscerate me with her eyes first.
I take a shower, but the cool water does nothing to calm my heated skin. Slipping naked between the sheets, I draw the blanket over me and grab my phone off the charger. Now that I know she’s friends with Elsy, I should be able to find her online.
And sure enough, my best friend follows her on Instagram. Rebecca Whitney, PhD. Bex’s profile is private, her picture a professional, stiff corporate headshot. She’s a scientist, researching something smart and intense. She did her master’s thesis on CTE.
No wonder she wants nothing to do with me.
I send her a follow request, having no expectation she’ll actually allow me to see past her online defenses.
So I flick over to Whitney’s page, and—jackpot. Pinned front and center is a photo of him down on one knee in front of Elsy, and the next photo is of the two of them being hugged by Bex.
My gorgeous redhead is wearing a pink sundress, the sunset shining off the ocean behind them and illuminating the wavy copper strands.
Her brown eyes are bright with happiness, and from the wide smile stretching across her face, I believe she’s genuinely glad her brother and best friend are getting married.
I wish I could say the same. It’s hard to let go of the resentment that’s been simmering in my veins for over fourteen years. Whitney was an epic dick to Elsy all those years ago, and she may have forgiven him, and I may support their relationship now, but I won’t forget.
Shaking my head, I refocus on his Instagram page.
Most of his photos are of Elsy—playing her violin on stage with the symphony, or the two of them at events, or sitting on the couch with green goop on their faces—but there are some with Bex, too.
And I’m practically salivating for any glimpse of her.
During the season, I don’t have a lot of time for social media.
I have a tiny group of people I follow, but I don’t know how I missed Bex in Elsy’s photos.
They’ve been friends for years, since they were in grad school and I was breaking into the league, and they were roommates in Boston for two years, but we’d never met.
Stupid me thought the name was just a coincidence.
I should have known better.
Beneath the covers, my soft cock brushes against the delicate white linens, and it’s definitely the friction that has me stiffening.
It’s totally not the memory of a sweet and spicy minx with poison on her tongue.
It’s absolutely not the fire in her eyes when she threw me out of her hotel room only an hour ago.
And there’s a one hundred percent chance it’s not the anticipation of seeing her all week, the two of us half naked in our bathing suits, her delicious body on display in skin-tight spandex.
Except I can’t lie, not even to myself.
My cock grows harder, and I can’t resist reaching down and giving myself a stroke.
I can’t remember the last time I hooked up with someone and didn’t feel like crap afterward.
It’s gotten to where it’s not worth the effort, knowing how down it gets me.
The momentary high wears off fast, and then I’m back to square one, hating myself.
Hating the one who got away. The one I let slip through my fingers.
Bex.
Her name puffs on my lips, and even though I know I’ll hate myself the second this is over, I reach for the lube I hid in the bedside table. It’s not like I’m planning on hooking up with anyone on this resort, and I’ve got to take care of my needs.
I pump the cool liquid onto my palm, letting it warm up before I take myself in hand again and stroke with purpose.
Sticky precum pools on my skin, and I roll my balls, trying to bring myself that sweet, sweet relief that’s just out of reach.
My hand is a poor substitute, so I let my mind wander to my favorite fantasy: a sassy, mouthy redhead and that one perfect day.
Remembering her scent, the sweet orange blossom perfuming the humid hotel room. Remembering the way she tasted on my tongue, the exquisite way her pussy gripped my fingers and then my cock. Her sighs and moans, the soft cries she let out.
I don’t let myself think about after. I don’t allow myself to recall how it all went south.
No, I think about all the good.
And when I come, her name on my lips, and the intense high washes over me, I wait for that sickly feeling to take root in the pit of my stomach.
She doesn’t want me. She discarded me as soon as she was done with me. Just like everyone else in my life.
Sighing, I force myself out of bed and clean up. The endorphins pinging around in my brain are already fading. Here I am, lusting over a woman who would barely give me the time of day, and now that we’re finally face-to-face again, she still wants nothing to do with me.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but it’s my burden to bear.
Maybe this week, we can finally bury the hatchet and put this behind us. I have no idea what I did to ruin our fragile, fledgling truce so easily, but maybe…
Maybe. It’s the possibility I cling to as I crawl back into bed. Although my general outlook on life is pessimistic, just this once, I want to hope.
I have a second chance with my dream girl. And I won’t let her slip away—not again.