25. Burning
Chapter twenty-five
Burning
Emma
“ C OLE!” Vetter Johnson shouts over the music Sloane insisted on, holding up a beer like he’s proposing a toast. “Speech! You’re basically an Olympian now!”
The entire men’s team came by to celebrate with us, which would normally be great. Except tonight, it’s keeping me from the one person I actually want to celebrate with. Am desperate for.
“Haven’t even gotten formal invites yet,” I correct. “And even if I do, it means I get to spend the summer getting my ass kicked by the top women in the country.”
“You’ll crush it,” Sky says from where she’s curled up next to Chase on the couch. “You and Sloane both.”
Sloane, who’s currently attempting to teach Hunter Matthews how to do a keg stand despite the fact that neither of them should be anywhere near a keg, shoots me a thumbs up.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out expecting a reply from the flirty photo I’d sent Luke forty-five minutes ago. When I’d rubbed it in his face that he isn’t here.
But it’s not Luke.
It’s Drew.
My stomach twists uncomfortably.
Drew
Heard something about Olympic scouts talking with you tonight. Congrats
How the FUCK does he know?
Drew
Always knew you were capable of great things when you had the right connections
Connections ? Trust a man to believe I’m only getting this opportunity because of who I’m sleeping with.
Not that he needs to know who I’m sleeping with.
Or pretending not to be sleeping with.
Another message comes through, this one making my blood run cold.
Drew
We play the men’s team in two weeks at Silver Pine. Final game of their season. Maybe I’ll see you there.
Oh, fuck him.
No way in hell he’s ruining my night.
I delete the thread without responding and shove the phone back in my pocket.
“You good?” Sloane’s suddenly beside me, slightly unsteady but her eyes sharp. “You look like you want to murder someone.”
“Just a congratulations text from Drew.”
Her mouth twists. “He’s still texting? Probably jealous he ruined his chances with a future Olympian.”
Why I love her.
“Speaking of jealous—” I dip my chin in Hunter’s direction. “Hunter, huh? Earlier today you were all heart eyes for Mrs. Team USA.”
Just the mention of Reese Whitmore-Kane (who’s married to a former NHL hockey player, mind you) has her entire body lighting up. Yeah, that might be a problem.
But that’s a summer problem.
“You need to get over your fan-girl crush if you’re going to play with her.”
Sloane’s smile is smug. “Oh, I want to play with her alright. ”
“Play with who?” Dexter Fletcher, men’s team captain, asks, appearing with two drinks in his hand, extending one to both of us.
“Only the most talented female hockey player in the world,” I answer Dex. “Someone Sloane, here, had a poster of that she drooled over until very recently.”
“Who’s to say I still don’t,” Sloane corrects, completely unbothered. “She’s a three-time Olympic medalist. Has the body of a model. Eyes that see straight into your soul.”
“And she’s married,” I remind her. Again .
“So? Open marriages are all the rage these days,” Sloane counters with the confidence of someone who’s never really been in a committed relationship. “She lived in Sweeden for three years, Em. While her husband was here. Playing for Boston. No way she remained celibate—”
“You’re not seducing the USA co-captain, Sloane. That has trouble written all over it.”
“Pot. Kettle. Especially with all that eye-fucking tonight. Surprised you didn’t rip all Co—” Sloane catches herself mid-word, probably because of the scowl on my face.
The one that says I will literally murder you if you finish that sentence.
“Surprised no one called you out for the way you were staring at Katya.”
It’s such a lame correction I want to groan.
Drinking-Sloane has even less filter than sober-Sloane.
Sloane smiles at Dexter who looks at me curiously.
“You’ve got a thing for Katya?”
“Nope.” I take a long drink of the beer I don’t really want and make an excuse to be literally anywhere else. “I’m just gonna…”
I trail off, find Becca. Get into a safer conversation about the first round of conference playoffs.
Relax.
Let it really sink in that I might be at Olympic camps next summer. Might actually make the team.
My phone goes off again.
This time it is Luke.
Luke
Still up?
I glance at the time. 11:48 PM. Two hours since I left him at the arena.
Yeah, why? Finally finish dinner with Gray?
Luke
Come upstairs and find out
What the…
I glance at the stairs like Luke might magically emerge, walking down like I’m part of some hallmark movie.
He doesn’t.
Why?
Luke
Don't make me wait, Em
My heart stops.
Luke’s…here?
Oh. My. God.
I’m halfway up the stairs before I even realize I’ve moved.
“Heading up already?” Rowan calls from her spot near Becca.
“Just grabbing something from my room,” I lie. Or maybe lie. Because I have no idea what I’m about to walk into.
I stand outside my door for three seconds, trying to catch my breath. Then finally open it.
Luke’s sitting on my bed, in the dark, in only boxers.
And I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. If heaven included 6’ 2” of former hockey player glory laid bare like an offering. To me.
“How—”
“Close the door, Emma.” Not a request. A command. In that low, raspy voice.
I close the door. Lock it.
“How’d you even…”
“Get in here?” he assumes, glancing at the window that overlooks the back yard.
“I used to have this room, remember? Know all the secret ways to get in when you don’t want someone to know you haven’t been in your room all night.
Mainly when you’ve spent the entire night talking to your roommate’s sister. ”
The reminder that he used to sneak out of this room to call me, that those late-night conversations meant enough that he’d risk getting caught, has my heart doing aerobics.
“Romantic. ”
“I thought so.” He leans back on his elbows, and the casual confidence of the pose is devastating. Like he owns this space. Like he’s always owned it. “Though I never thought I’d be sneaking back in here. For this.”
“For what?”
His eyes darken. “Celebrating you.”
The music from downstairs thrums through the floor. Someone laughs—maybe Katya, maybe Sky. A reminder that the party is still going. While I’m locked in my room with my coach who climbed through my window like we’re in some kind of twisted rom-com.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, but I’m already moving toward him. “If someone comes upstairs—”
“No one can get in here,” he reminds me. “Now get that ass over here and let me show you how proud of you I am. How fucking incredible you are.”
“Luke—”
“Do you know how many times I laid in this bed thinking about you?” The confession comes out raw. Unfiltered. “How many nights I stared at this ceiling trying to convince myself what I felt wasn’t real?”
I’m already crossing the three feet between me and the bed. Already removing my shoes and socks. “How many?”
“Too many to count.”
He glances around the room—at my stuff on his old desk, my clothes in his old closet, the life I’ve built in the space he left behind. “And now you’re here. In my room. Sleeping in my bed. Wearing my number on your hip.”
“Your room,” I repeat, sliding down my leggings, loving the way his eyes track every newly revealed inch of skin like he’s never seen it before. “Funny. Pretty sure it’s been mine for five months.”
“Maybe it’s time to make it ours.”
I grin. Reach for the hem of my sweater. “Oh, yeah? And how exactly do you propose we do that?”
He looks at me with eyes so dark they’re basically black. “By making you come so hard on this bed that every time you sleep here alone, you’ll remember tonight. Remember me. Remember us.”
This man really does enjoy making my fantasies come true, doesn’t he.
I tug off my sweater. Stand in front of him in just my sports bra and underwear. Nothing fancy and yet his gaze rakes over me like I’m in seductive lingerie.
“What if I have my own thoughts on how tonight goes?”
He lifts a shoulder, watching me prowl toward him. “Tonight is your night. Just know that at some point, that sweet pussy will have my face buried in it.”
I’m on my knees now, moving up the bed, my fingers trailing up his legs, his calves, his thighs. “And if I want to start with you in my mouth?”
He groans as I slip my hand beneath the fabrics of his boxers. Not touching yet, just teasing. “Christ, Em.”
I pull at the hem, tug until I free his rock-hard length. “Was this what you used to imagine, Luke? Me on my knees, sucking your cock while you told me how much of a good girl I am?”
His laugh is half disbelief, half barely restrained need. “All the time, baby. But tonight’s not about me.”
“No,” I whisper, wrapping my hand around the base of him, stroking once. “But you did say I got to call the shots since it’s my celebration and all.”
“Yeah, but—”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because I lean down and take him into my mouth. Press my tongue to the underside of his cock like I know he loves. And suck.
One hand flies to my hair, twisting my braid around his palm, while the other presses against the headboard to keep pinned in place.
“God damn, Em. Baby. Fuck. You don’t—yes. Fuck, I love when you—” He whimpers. My twenty-five-year-old Coach-turned-lover whimpers . And it’s the sweetest sound I’ve heard all night.
I hollow my cheeks, take him deeper until my saliva is fully coating him, until my eyes are watering from the way he hits the back of my throat. Glide my hand up and down in rhythm with my mouth.
“Shit. Em. Baby, I'm—”
Warm, salty liquid coats the back of my throat and I’m fucking grinning. Giddy. That not even three minutes of my mouth on him has him breaking for me.
Three weeks of restrained desire via Facetime calls that ended in mutual masturbation and he’s needy. Eager.
“Baby. Sweetheart.” He settles, runs his hands down my cheek as I take one last pull up his shaft then finish swallowing. “That’s not how that was supposed to go.”
“Oh, yeah? What were you thinking? ”
He smirks. The one I’ve missed so much these last few weeks. “Just get those powerful thighs around my head and let me repay the favor.”
Downstairs, someone cranks the music louder. The bass vibrates through the floor, through the bed frame, through our bodies.
“With pleasure, Coach.”
Because for just a little longer I want to exist in this blissful bubble we’ve built. Where Olympic opportunities and ex’s texts and people who don’t understand how deep this thing runs between us and just see a coach and player. Where no one can hurt us. Can’t break us.
For just a little while longer.