Chapter 8
King
She’s right. I need some fucking impulse control.
That thought runs through my head as I stare at a long dark crack, zigzagging from the corner of the mirror in the bathroom outside her office, down to the center where my fist is still implanted in a crater of glass shards.
As soon as I walked out, the tension and rage were right back, prickling like needles under my skin at the thought of her touching some other guy in that bed.
Our bed now.
Punching my reflection distracted me for a minute, but now I’m right back where I started.
I should have fucked her. I should have shoved her legs apart and rutted into her until she was screaming my name and creaming all over my fucking dick. Then I should have fucked her some more, until all she knew was how it feels to have me inside her.
But instead of following my gut, I had to start thinking.
No pussy during the season.
I can go without pussy. No sweat.
No sweat.
I have to keep my focus. Because if I don’t, it’s not just me that will suffer. I’ve always been a wildcard. Always the loose cannon. But underneath it all, hockey and the team come first.
At least, they always have.
My energy, my focus, sets the stage for each game. I’m not team captain material and I don’t care about that, but I’m a driving force.
If I’m off, the team is off, and that’s unacceptable.
All the rage, all the impulsiveness, it’s served me well. Ever since my adopted father introduced me to the game, that rage has always given me an edge. Hockey became my family, it saved my life.
Staring at my broken reflection in the mirror, I see that angry kid who got passed around to twenty-three foster homes by the time he was ten. I see the kid that fought for food and threw himself out of a moving truck to get away from a foster father who only knew how to communicate with his belt and his fists.
That kid learned how to protect himself because no one else was stepping up. Until the Martins took me in. Their quiet, calm love—and hockey—gave me my life back.
They taught me what family should mean. By blood or not.
If I let my team down because I’m distracted, I’ll lose them. And if I lose hockey…
But what just happened in there, with that lush little firecracker, turned my world on its head. When she screamed my name as her orgasm rocked her world, I felt like a fucking God because I wanted to give her that more than I want to win the cup.
I was the source of her pleasure and my everything suddenly made sense.
She’s the one. I know it, through and through.
“Fuck,” I grumble at my reflection, lowering my fist, waving it under the faucet and letting the cool water wash away the blood seeping from the small cuts across my knuckles. “Focus.”
My voice echoes into the hard tiled corners of the bathroom.
A toilet flushes and the door to one of the stalls swings open. A man in his late forties walks out, the flickering overhead fluorescent light illuminating his balding head.
There’s hand stitching on the lapels of his dark suit, a gold Rolex glinting on his wrist, shoes shined to black mirrors.
He gives me a side-eyed look, with a snort and a knowing smile, raising his hands.
“I didn’t see a thing,” he says, widening his grin, flashing unnaturally straight, white teeth. “I take it you just had a go with Emee?”
Hearing him say her name sets off a flash fire of rage, but I push it down. I promised her I would. “Yeah,” I seethe.
He looks into the shattered mirror, straightening the knot on his baby-blue tie. “I had to park in the handicapped spot to make sure I had enough time to get in here and get my dick under control before I go in. She’s seriously fuckable. This will be my fourth session. I’ve tried everything, but so far she’s a wall. I don’t even care about the therapy. My wife made me come, said I had to get in touch with my feelings.” He scoffs. “Miss Bristol in there, she’ll cave. They all do. You show them the Bentley, the Rolex.” He bends his arm, twisting his wrist back and forth, showing off the solid gold around his wrist. “Make them think they have a shot at the golden ticket, and they’ll spread their legs before you can say threesome.”
He turns toward the door, shaking his head as flames flick over my skin, my fingers curling into fists, and the way my vision turns dark I know I’m about to punch the smug look off his face.
Except, I promised.
No hitting anyone until our next session.
To my surprise, I let him walk out, nodding as he passes me, not even washing his fucking hands.
I glare at the empty space as the door closes behind him.
I don’t want him opening up to her. I sure as fuck don’t want her opening anything to him. I don’t want to think about her asking to touch his shoulder or his fucking chest. He shouldn’t get to feel her tits pressing against him.
No one gets that privilege from now on except me.
Walk away. He’s her next client.
My fingertips twitch, staring at the bloodied cuts across my knuckles. I consider punching the mirror again since I can’t do what I really want, and knock a few of his veneers down his throat.
Why would I make a promise like that to her?
What’s really bugging the shit out of me is, nobody has ever made me second guess my instincts before now.
I shoulder through the door back into the hall, just in time to see him disappear behind the door to her little lobby. Even the way he walks infuriates me.
The urge to grab him by the throat and throw him through a fucking window is overwhelming.
Instead of following my instinct, I turn around and start down the hall. Because I’m an asshole in an infinite number of ways, but I keep my promises.
But, I’m not leaving until I know he’s not going to touch her with those unwashed hands.