Chapter 18
TRISTAN
“ H ey, Stiles, come to my office when you’re showered, yeah?” Coach says as the team heads for the locker room.
“Yeah, sure. Is everything okay?” I had a good practice, and last game I scored a goal and an assist.
“Yup, just want to have a word.” His smile is tight, though, which worries me.
Flip claps me on the shoulder. “Stay out of your head, man. You’ve been killing it on the ice lately. I’m sure it’s good news.”
“Yeah.” But I can’t shake the heavy feeling in my stomach as I change out of my gear and shower.
Flip offers to wait for me, but there’s a free lunch buffet, so I tell him I’ll meet him up there. I knock on the door to Coach’s office and wait until he tells me to come in.
He and Jamie Fielding, the GM, are sitting at his small conference table, papers strewn across it. He shuffles them into a pile and slides them into a manila folder. “Have a seat, Tristan.”
I drop into a chair and try not to fidget. “What’s up?” I don’t love their expressions. It’s like they’re trying to keep them neutral.
“We wanted to talk to you about the starting lineup for the opening game.” Coach taps his pen on his knee.
I glance between them. Yeah, this isn’t reassuring. All my gains from last season are slipping through my fingers. My value to the team isn’t where I want it to be. “You’re starting Hollis, aren’t you?”
Coach raises his hand. “It has nothing to do with your performance on the ice. Your preseason play has been top tier, and you’re on track to have a great season if you keep it up.”
“So why aren’t I starting the game?” I cross one leg over the other, then uncross them. I’m restless and frustrated.
“Hollis is strong at the beginning of the game,” Coach says.
“He’s been out for almost an entire season, and he’s been playing for Toronto for nearly half of his career,” Fielding adds.
I can read between the lines. It’s good for team morale to start Hollis on the first line for the opening game. He’s a fan favorite, and he’s part of the fabric of this team. He’s taken the Cup home twice. I nod slowly. “So I’m second line opening game?”
“We’ll put you on first line for the second game of the season,” Coach says.
“Okay. You know what’s best for the team.” My mouth feels full of cotton. “Is that all?”
“That’s all.” Coach and the GM exchange a look. “This isn’t a reflection of your on-ice performance, Tristan.”
“Yeah. I get it. I can go?” I do get it, but it rattles my confidence. What’s coming at the end of the season if this is how we’re starting?
“You can go. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s a big day,” Coach says.
I leave the office feeling worse than I did when I went in. I want Bea. I want to lose myself in the feel of her under me. I want her to look at me like I’m a fucking god. It’s Friday. She should be home in an hour. I can get inside her and release some of this tension.
I’m on the way out of the arena when I run into the last person I want to see.
“Tristan! Hey, man, can I have a word?”
I turn to face Hollis. “Now really isn’t a good time, man.”
He raises his hands. “I know you’re upset about tomorrow.
You have every right to be.” The empathy on his face makes me want to punch him.
“I know it’s shitty for you, and you deserve to start this game, but you’ve got a lot of great years of play left, man.
Lots more opening games of the season to start.
This will be a rock-star year for you. Just know this isn’t about you. ”
“I get it. See you tomorrow.” I walk away. I know I’m being an asshole, but it’s the best I can do right now. I understand their reasoning, but it doesn’t make it suck any less.
Flip messages to let me know he’s meeting a “friend” for some pre-game stress relief. That means he’ll probably be occupied for at least a few hours.
I slide into the driver’s seat and message Bea.
Tristan
I’m on my way home and I’m in a shit mood.
Might be a good idea to vacate the premises if you’re not interested in being ridden hard
#1
Thanks for the warning. What about Flip?
Tristan
He’s occupied with a friend
#1
I’ll be ready
Tristan
You should probably visit Hemi
#1
Is that what you want me to do?
I compose and erase the message three times.
#1
I’ll take that as a no. See you soon
When I get home, Bea is in the kitchen. She’s wearing a pink lace bra and a matching lace thong.
And that’s it. Her hair hangs over her shoulder in a long braid.
She leans against the island, gripping the edge, her head tipped to the side as I stalk across the room.
I stop before my body collides with hers.
“I’m not going to be nice,” I grind out.
“I gathered that from the text messages,” she says softly.
I clench my hands into fists. I should walk away. She doesn’t deserve this side of me. “You’re not going to like this version of me.”
“Maybe it’ll be my favorite.” Her eyes flash.
I hate how much I want her, how much I don’t want her to see me like this, how I don’t want to be this person with her anymore.
I could fuck everything up. If she sees me at my worst, she’ll probably end this, and maybe she should.
It would be better for her. I’m barely tolerable on a good day, let alone boyfriend material.
I’m so pissed off that I need her, and she’s still standing here.
“Last chance, Beat. You should really fucking run.”
“But I don’t want to.” Her voice wavers.
I reach out and trace the contour of her bottom lip, murmuring I’m sorry .
But I’m out of control. My career is hanging in the balance because of someone else’s legacy.
I’m lying to my best friend, betraying him every fucking day.
And I’m putting Bea at risk every time we do this.
She has nowhere else to go, no apartment to move into because I keep asking her to stay longer.
And worst of all, I’m lying to myself. Because it’s not just about the sex.
It’s about her. About the way she makes me feel. But I don’t want to stop. I can’t.
I spin her and curve my hand around the back of her neck, pushing her down until her cheek meets the counter.
I slap her ass with my free hand, and she gasps and moans.
“God, I love that fucking sound.” I unbuckle my belt and pop the button on my jeans, yanking the zipper down to free my erection.
“You sure this is what you want?” I kick her legs apart. “To get fucked?”
“Yes.”
She sucks in a shaky breath as I slip my finger under the thin strip of fabric. “Tell me to stop.”
“I don’t want you to,” she whispers.
“You will.” I follow the strip of satin down between her thighs. I skim her clit and she moans. This shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t be doing this. She should be tapping out. I push two fingers inside her and pump twice, then withdraw to slap her ass again. “How about now?”
“I want more,” she rasps.
I lean in, sliding my cock between her ass cheeks. “So fucking filthy. Feel how wet you are for me.” I wipe her juices on her cheek, then lick over the spot as I push my fingers between her lips.
They close around them on a greedy moan.
“Such a dirty girl.” I pull my fingers free, grip my cock, and bite her earlobe as I line myself up and push inside her on one hard thrust. “So ready to be fucked.”
“Oh, God,” she whimpers.
“Tap out, Bea.” I’m almost begging. This could be the last time she lets me inside her. I could ruin it all right now. “Tap the fuck out.”
“No. I want you.”
I pull my hips back and slam in. She moans, and her legs tremble. She tries to snake a hand between her thighs, but I release the back of her neck, spear her with my cock, grab both of her wrists and fold her arms behind her back, holding them with one hand to keep her in position.
“Still want me now?” My breath is ragged, heart hammering, waiting for her to tell me she’s done. For good. To quit me. She should. I’d quit my demented ass if I were her.
“Don’t stop. I’m so close,” she pleads.
“You think I’m going to let you come?” I pull out to the ridge and spit on my cock before I thrust. “You haven’t even asked nicely yet.”
“Please,” she moans.
“Not good enough. Try again.”
“Please, Tristan.” She whimpers and tries to roll her hips.
She grunts her displeasure when I pull all the way out. “Please what? Please stop?”
She shakes her head. “No. Please don’t stop.”
I keep her on the edge, close to coming, never going over.
Her legs shake and juices coat my cock and drip down the inside of her thighs.
I come all over her ass and keep fucking her.
Keep pushing. Keep pleading for her to tell me to stop.
But she doesn’t. She just keeps taking it, keeps asking for more, keeps begging me to let her come.
But I don’t.
It’s fucking cruel. I know it is. I hate this version of myself, when I feel too fucking much and don’t have control the way I should. I hate that I need her. Want her. Can’t get enough of her. But she doesn’t tell me to stop.
It isn’t until I’m close to a second orgasm that I pull out.
I slide a hand under her and pull her to standing, quickly wrapping my arm around her waist because her legs are too weak to hold her up.
She’s a rag doll as I spin her around and set her on the counter.
The cheek that was pressed against it is red.
I wrap my hand around the back of her neck as her head lolls.
Her eyes are glazed and unfocused. Her hands glide down my chest and rest limply on the counter. “Hey, hey.” I cup her face in my palms. “Bea, baby? Tell me to fucking stop. Tell me you’ve had enough.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You need this, and I need to come.”
I step between her parted thighs, line myself up and push back in. Her eyes roll up when I brush her clit with my thumb.
“Please, please, please,” she whimpers.
I rub circles on her clit, and she jerks and shudders, eyes flaring before they roll up again.