Chapter 11 #2
I looked at her. I respected the threat.
"I'm not using her," I said quietly.
"Good," Chloe nodded. "Because she's fragile, Max. Under all the glitter. She thinks she's unlovable. Don't prove her right."
She walked away, leaving me with the weight of her words.
Unlovable.
I looked across the room. Imogen had extricated herself from the crowd and was heading toward the back hallway—the one that led to the bathroom. Or the back exit.
I checked my phone.
Meet me. 5 mins. Laundry room.
I waited two minutes. Then I moved.
The laundry room of The Hive was a dark, damp closet in the basement that smelled of mildew and dryer sheets. It was the least romantic place on earth.
It was perfect.
I slipped inside and locked the door behind me.
It was pitch black, save for the blinking lights of the washing machine.
"Max?" A whisper from the corner.
"Yeah."
I fumbled for the light switch, but she stopped me.
"No lights," she whispered. "Someone might see under the door."
She moved toward me in the dark. I felt her hands on my chest before I saw her.
"I missed you," she breathed.
"I've been in the same room as you for an hour," I said, my hands finding her waist, pulling her flush against me.
"Too far," she complained. "I hate watching them look at you. That volleyball girl—Sarah?—she was practically climbing you like a tree."
"She asked me about knee cartilage," I said. "It was purely orthopedic."
"I don't care," Imogen hissed. She stood on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around my neck. "You're mine."
She kissed me.
It was hungry. Desperate. We kissed like we were starving, devouring each other in the dark, damp room. Her hands were in my hair, pulling. My hands were gripping her ass, lifting her up so I could press her against the washing machine.
"Jump," I ordered.
She wrapped her legs around my waist. I set her on the vibrating machine (someone was washing a very unbalanced load).
"Oh god," she moaned as the machine thumped beneath her. "That’s... convenient."
"Focus," I growled, kissing down her neck. "I wanted to kill Miller tonight."
"Why?" She tilted her head back.
"He touched your arm," I said, biting the sensitive spot under her ear. "He made you laugh."
"I was laughing at his shoes," she gasped. "They were terrible."
"I don't care," I moved my hand up her thigh, bunching the dress up. "I want to take you right here. I want to mark you so everyone knows."
"Do it," she begged. "Max. Please."
I slipped my hand into her panties. She was soaked.
I groaned, kissing her hard to stifle the sound. I started to move my fingers, matching the rhythm of the machine.
"Max... Max..."
The doorknob rattled.
We froze.
"Dude, is someone in there?" Jinx’s voice. "I need to wash my lucky socks. The game is tomorrow."
"It's locked," another voice—Miller—said. "Probably broken again."
"No, I hear it running," Jinx insisted. He pounded on the door. "Hello? Occupied? Are you washing sins or socks?"
I held my breath. Imogen buried her face in my neck, her body trembling—half from fear, half from the interrupted orgasm.
I waited.
"Whatever," Jinx sighed. "I'll use the sink. Savages."
Footsteps retreated.
We stayed frozen for a full minute. The only sound was the thump-thump-thump of the washing machine and our ragged breathing.
"That was close," Imogen whispered. Her voice shook.
"Too close," I agreed.
I pulled my hand away. I helped her down from the machine. I smoothed her dress.
"We can't do this here," I said, my voice rough. "It's too risky."
"I know," she said. She sounded disappointed.
"Go back upstairs," I said. "Wait ten minutes. Then leave. Meet me at the apartment."
"Okay," she kissed my cheek. "Bye, Warden."
She slipped out the door.
I stayed in the dark for a moment, leaning against the washing machine, trying to get my heart rate under 150.
This was dangerous. We were getting reckless. The high of the secret was making us stupid.
I unlocked the door and stepped out into the basement hallway.
And ran straight into Coach Sullivan.
He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding a clipboard. He looked at me. He looked at the laundry room door. He looked at the lipstick smudge on my collar (dammit).
He sniffed the air. Imogen’s perfume—peonies—still lingered faintly.
"Vane," Coach said. His voice was devoid of humor.
"Coach," I said, standing at attention.
"You doing laundry during a team mixer?"
"Spilled a drink," I lied smoothly. "Wanted to rinse it before it stained."
Coach narrowed his eyes. He stepped closer.
"You've been distracted lately, Max," he said. "Missing morning skate. Leaving practice early. Staring into space during film."
"I passed my midterms," I defended. "My focus is fine."
"Is it?" Coach asked. "Because the scout from Montreal called me today. He asked about the concussion rumors. He asked if you were 'mentally tough enough' to handle the transition."
My blood ran cold.
"I'm tough enough," I said.
"Prove it," Coach snapped. "Tomorrow's game is against BU. Their offense is a meat grinder. If you let in soft goals because you're... distracted... by laundry..."
He let the threat hang.
"I don't care who she is, Max," Coach said, his voice lowering. "Puck bunnies come and go. The NHL comes once. Don't fumble the bag for a piece of tail."
He tapped my chest with the clipboard. Hard.
"Clean yourself up. Get your head in the game. Or you're riding the bench."
He turned and walked up the stairs.
I stood there, the shame burning in my gut like acid.
A piece of tail.
That’s what they saw. That’s what they thought she was.
And if I didn't perform tomorrow... if I let one puck slip past because I was thinking about Imogen's legs wrapped around me...
I would lose everything.
I wiped the lipstick off my neck with my thumb, scrubbing until the skin was raw.
The bubble had cracked. The real world was leaking in.
And it was cold.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Mom calling.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again immediately.
Agent: Montreal GM is coming tomorrow. Last look. Be perfect.
I stared at the screen.
Be perfect.
I looked at the stairs where Imogen had gone up, laughing and warm and alive.
I looked at the basement wall, grey and concrete and cold.
I put the phone in my pocket.
I walked up the stairs.
I needed to be the Warden again. Just for twenty-four hours.
I had to lock her out.
For both our sakes.