30. Sophia
Chapter 30
Sophia
“ S ee,” I say to Mason as we brush our teeth together the next morning. “The nice thing about pot is the lack of hangover the next day.”
“I’m not so sure I agree.” He checks his still-slightly-bloodshot eyes in the mirror. “I’m craving a bagel with cream cheese and lox. I’ve never craved that in my life. I blame the drugs.”
Hmm. He was also craving salty fish yesterday. “It’s possible it’s not completely out of your system.”
Who knew a two-hundred-pound hockey player would have such a low tolerance? I mean, he was so stoned that he told me he loved me. Or rather, he told someone—probably some unnamed salty fish. Or maybe he meant to send a telepathic message to Flop the Dolphin. Either way, he didn’t mean it, I’m sure. It was just euphoria talking.
Hell, when I tried molly, I confessed my undying love to my new iPhone, so there’s that.
But what if he did mean it, if only on some subconscious level?
Could it be that he at least likes me?
No. I can’t go there. We agreed. What happens on the cruise stays on the cruise.
Besides, our fling, or whatever this is, is most likely about the team. As soon as we get back to NYC, he’ll go back to trying to get me to sell.
Ugh. Should I sell it to him? Given how our first meeting unfolded, I was dead set against it, but I can no longer hold onto my spite.
This is important to him. So important he’s pursued me into the open ocean. And he’s right: what do I know about running a team, even with Abigail’s help? But if I sell, will he disappear? Will the transaction sever whatever connection there is between us? Or will it?—
“Ready?” he asks.
Shit. I’ve been standing here, staring dumbly into the mirror.
With effort, I shake off my funk. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
It’s official. Mason is still stoned—how else to explain the fact that he just ate an actual doughnut?
Weirdly, I ate a piece of fruit myself.
“Seems like we’ve rubbed off on each other,” he says with a grin when I point this out.
Yeah, we have, and we rub against each other some more that evening, and the evening after that. In general, we spend all our time together over the next couple of days—and they’re the best days of my life.
After the doughnut breakfast, he gets the captain to give us a private tour of the ship, including areas that “no one has ever seen, or will see again… until two days from now.”
“What happens two days from now?” I can’t help but ask.
The captain takes a big gulp of vodka straight from the bottle. “Florida Bears are taking this very cruise,” he explains excitedly. “Which means I get to meet my other favorite hockey player: Michael Medvedev.”
Mason’s expression darkens. “Don’t tell him you’re a fan of mine, or he might just punch you in the face.”
“Oh.” The captain chugs another liver-destroying dose of alcohol. “Thanks for the warning.”
When the tour is over, I ask Mason about this Michael Medvedev, as it seems there’s history there.
Mason’s jaw tightens. “Misha is a rude fucker who thinks he’s my equal, except he’s not.”
“Misha?” I blink in confusion.
“In Russian, that’s a diminutive version of Michael, but it’s also associated with bears. He hates it when people call him that, which is why I use it whenever I can.”
“I see.” When I think bears, I think Winnie the Pooh, Paddington, and Viking berserkers, but hey, whatever tickles your pet bear.
“Anyway,” Mason continues, “he’s got some talent, I’ll give him that, but no ability as a team player. The Yetis kicked him out after his first week, and he blames me for it, even though it was actually our coach who made that call. The only team that would take him after that were the Florida Bears, and they’re at the bottom of the DHL barrel. But hey, I guess he’s still famous enough to be on the captain’s radar.”
I wink at him. “The good captain does seem to have great taste when it comes to hockey players.”
I’m not sure what exactly was seductive about that sentence, but Mason picks me up and carries me into his suite, where he gives me a full-body massage and fucks my brains out. Afterward, he surprises me with a romantic dinner for two on his balcony, which is followed by another divine-level fucking.
The next day, I learn that Mason has booked us a morning at the spa, as well as a private cabana to chillax in—and canoodle in. The day after that, he reserves a private outdoor hot tub surrounded by ocean views. And if that weren’t romantic enough, he sets up a hammock on the very top deck of the ship so we can sleep under the stars.
Throughout all this pampering, I get the feeling like he’s on the verge of asking me something, but he never does. I suspect he wants to ask me to sell the team, and I’m glad he doesn’t voice that out loud because I want to pretend that he’s with me for me. Plus I still haven’t decided if I’ll sell or not.
Or maybe I have decided. Selling is the only way to ensure that “what happens on the cruise stays on the cruise.” Otherwise, he’ll continue stalking me, and it would be all too easy to believe that it’s not just my team he’s after—and I can’t allow myself to fall into that kind of trap again.
After Mom and Rupert, I would be an idiot to trust someone who I know has ulterior motives.
Still, even though I know that whatever is between Mason and me is an illusion, I find myself increasingly down as the end of the cruise nears… even as I continue to enjoy myself in Mason’s company.
In fact, if it weren’t for his company, I might get downright depressed.
On the night before our arrival back at Port Canaveral, I can no longer stave off the mopiness. Even the five orgasms he’s given me this evening haven’t helped. I am beyond depressed that the cruise is ending—and I feel dumb for feeling this way.
I knew this would end.
Knew that a joy such as I’ve experienced wouldn’t last.
Not for me.
Never for me.
My chest tightens as I picture my life back in NYC. It’s a good life—I have money, I have Abigail, I have my philosophy studies. I even have horny turtles… I mean, tortoises. Yet I feel hollow as I imagine going back to all that sans Mason.
In the past few days, he’s stalked his way not just onto my cruise but also?—
Mason turns over in his sleep, removing his arm from my shoulder.
I instantly feel cold.
I pull a blanket over myself, but it doesn’t help. I can’t sleep. The separation is looming over me like the sword of Damocles. Tossing and turning, I try to come up with a way to proceed that would not hurt… or would hurt the least.
Midway through the night, I decide I need to just rip off the Band-Aid. Or the full-body burn bandage, as it may be. I need to avoid any kind of emotional (possibly fake on his end) goodbyes and sneak out of his room and off the cruise before he wakes up. Once home, I’ll get in touch with my lawyer and sell the team.
Yeah. Maybe if he calls me after that and still wants to see me?—
No, I need to stop thinking in that direction. That way lies hope, and hope leads to heartbreak, as I’ve learned one too many times.
Still, a part of me wants to at least take a cab to the airport together. Or have breakfast. Or a goodbye fuck. But no. If we take that cab together, we’ll be on land together, and he’ll probably give me a dozen orgasms right there in front of the driver—and that’ll be it. What happened on the cruise will have happened outside of the cruise… and I don’t think I could bear it.
Not if it’s meant to end, which, of course, it is.
Yet, even after the decision is made, I can’t sleep a wink, not even when he rolls back and gathers me against him, teddy-bear style.
Especially not then.
After what feels like a week, the dawn finally arrives.
I carefully extricate myself from Mason’s embrace. As I do so, the first rays of the rising sun illuminate Mason’s chiseled features, making something in my chest flutter like the wings of a huge loveliness of ladybugs.
Am I making a mistake? What if he does want me for me? Or will, once he gets the team?
No. That’s just hormones talking. The more important question is: what if he doesn’t?
I’m too scared to find out.
Moving like a ninja, I sneak out of Mason’s suite and into my own to get my stuff before sprinting for the VIP elevator.
The whole way down, a weak part of me hopes that Mason has woken up and decided to intercept me… but that’s not the case.
I’m the first person to get in line for the exit, though a crowd piles up behind me pretty quickly.
Mason isn’t among them.
When we dock, I escape from the ship and push my way through the people waiting to depart in the terminal. Among them are a bunch of huge dudes who must be the Florida Bears hockey team the captain mentioned the other day. How else to explain the broken noses and fierce expressions?
It's not like Vikings exist today.
As I wade through all that testosterone, I make the mistake of wondering which of these mounds of muscles is Michael Medvedev. Of course, as soon as I think of Mason’s nemesis, I think of the man himself and nearly turn around. But I don’t. I keep walking and hop into the nearest cab.
“Where to?” the cabbie asks.
I futilely scan the crowds for any hint of Mason. “Orlando airport.”
The cabbie starts the car. “Sounds good.”
As the car’s engine comes to life, I’m almost sure that Mason will suddenly appear and force me to stay… but that’s just wishful thinking.
No romantic deus ex machina for me.
There never is.
I cry all the way to New York.