7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Kevin
I nearly come just from the way she laughs when I bite her shoulder.
The sound of her abandoning herself to this moment, to the physical and the pleasure, vibrates against my lips. Her skin tastes like the faint sweetness of whatever lotion she uses. I think it’s strawberry and vanilla, which fits her personality perfectly.
For a split second, I make myself think rationally instead of getting completely swept away. This is wrong. This is the opposite of what I'm supposed to be doing.
I was supposed to tell her. That was the plan. I even promised Crash and Sticks. The game plan was to walk through that door, have an actual conversation, be honest about how I feel.
Instead I'm half-drunk on horse-topper whiskey with Sarah straddling my lap, her nails digging into my shoulders, and I can't remember why talking seemed important.
"Can we move to the bed?" Her question is whispered, a gasp against my mouth.
Right. Bed. I can do that.
I stand, lifting her with me despite my shoulder screaming protest. She wraps her legs around my waist, and the pressure against my cock makes me see shooting stars. Her weight is perfect in my arms, solid and real.
"Wait. Your shoulder—"
"Don't care."
I take three steps and my left knee connects with the coffee table. The lamp wobbles. Sarah's elbow hits the wall, knocking my World Juniors Team USA picture off the wall and down to the floor.
We're laughing and cursing and still trying to kiss. This is nothing like the smooth, coordinated moves I know I can pull off. I skate for a living on two really narrow blades. Why can I not walk correctly when my whole foot is in contact with a floor that isn't frozen?
Complete disaster. Total chaos.
Wouldn't change one fucking thing.
I finally get down the hall and kick my bedroom door shut behind us. We fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. The duvet exhales beneath us. The mattress bounces us apart, then back together. Sarah goes for my belt and nearly takes out my eye with her elbow.
"Ow—"
"Sorry— shit—"
My hands shake trying to unbutton her jeans. When did I forget how buttons work?
"How are you bad at this?" She gives a dry laugh. "You’re a professional athlete. Don't women throw themselves at you constantly?"
"I don’t take them all up on it! And besides, you poured me a lot of bourbon—" I finally get the button free. "And my shoulder's fucked—"
"Excuses."
She's laughing at me. Sarah's absolutely laughing at me and it's the best sound I've ever heard.
I shut her up by following her jeans down with my mouth. Open-mouthed kisses down her stomach. Her legs. Taking my time on the way back up, using teeth on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
Her laugh turns into something that sounds like my name.
The jeans get stuck on one ankle — the denim is rough under my hands, but her skin is smooth and warm where I press my mouth to her hip bone — and she kicks frantically while I'm laughing against her stomach and this is it. This is the moment I should tell her.
Sarah, I need you to know—
But then she's pulling at my pants and my brain goes completely offline.
I should stop this. Should have an actual conversation. Should explain that this isn't just some drunk hookup for me, that it's never been just friendship, that I've been gone for her since she told off the rescue's biggest donor at a board meeting well over a year ago.
That the reason I haven’t taken any woman up on any anonymous offers of anonymous sex in anonymous hotels in well over a year — like what’s-her-name offered me at the bar in Calgary — is because the only woman I want in my bed is Sarah.
But instead of coming clean, I emotionally deke and kiss her again. Because maybe I'm a coward. Because she tastes like pizza and whiskey and feels like everything I've ever wanted. Because if I tell her the truth right now and she doesn't feel the same way, everything ends.
At least this way I get to have her. Even if it's just tonight.
"Are you—" she starts when I kick off my pants.
"Do I need to grab a—"
"I'm on the pill."
“Thank fuck,” I say quietly on an exhale.
I settle over her and everything else stops mattering.
The ache in my shoulder. The losses. The bruises.
The promise I'm breaking to my teammates.
None of it compares to the way she feels beneath me: soft skin, strong legs wrapping around my hips, her hands pulling me closer like she needs this as much as I do.
When I push inside, we both freeze.
"Holy shit," she breathes.
My forehead drops to hers. I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except feel her around me — warm and tight and perfect — and I'm hers. I've been hers for more months than I can count and she doesn't even know it.
"Yeah."
"This is really happening."
I pull back slightly, push deeper. Watch her eyes flutter. "Yeah."
"We're really messing up our friendship."
We're not. I'm in love with you. This could be everything if you'd let it.
Instead, I deke again. "Probably." Then I move straight to another thrust that makes us both groan.
"Okay. Just checking." Her voice is wrecked. "Move. Please move."
I try to set a rhythm. Try to make this good for her. Try to show her without words what I can't seem to say.
And that’s exactly when my completely fucked shoulder decides to fuck me over a little bit more.
I'm bracing myself on my left arm, muscles shaking with effort, when it just buckles. I collapse onto her with my full weight, driving deeper, and we both make sounds that are probably illegal in several states.
"Do that again," she gasps.
"Can't— shoulder—"
I try to push back up. My shoulder refuses to cooperate. Frustration builds alongside the pleasure. I want this to be perfect for her. Want to show her I'm worth the risk.
Instead I'm a broken mess who can't even hold himself up.
"Here—" She pushes at my good shoulder.
We roll. She ends up on top.
And I forget how to breathe.
Sarah’s straddling me, head thrown back, taking what she wants. Her hands are splayed across my chest. Her thighs are gripping my hips. Her skin’s flushed pink all the way down to her breasts.
This might be the best thing I've ever seen. Eighteen months of imagining, and I didn't even come close.
"Fuck, Sarah." My hands find her breasts, thumbs brushing across her nipples, just enjoying watching them peak as I play with them. "You're so beautiful."
The words slip out before I can stop them. I can’t take them back — I don’t want to, I meant them — but I hope they’re not too much.
She falters for a second — I can see something flicker across her face — but then she's moving again, finding her rhythm, and I stop thinking about anything except the way she feels.
She shifts wrong trying to get leverage and her knee connects with my ribs.
Pain explodes through my side. I jackknife up, nearly throwing her off. "Fuck!"
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"
"It's fine— maybe if we—"
We try side by side. Me behind her. This angle is devastating in the best way.
I can feel every inch of her against me — her back pressed to my chest, the curve of her ass against my hips, her legs tangled with mine.
Her skin is damp with sweat where my mouth finds her shoulder and that faint hint of strawberries again.
She's mine and I never want to let her go.
Tell her. Just fucking tell her.
But I pull her hair instead. Too hard. She yelps.
"Sorry—"
"It's okay. I liked it. Just… Not that hard—"
Ranger barks from his crate.
"Your dog is a pest," Sarah laughs, and the way it makes her clench around me almost ends everything right there.
"My dog? He’s yours too."
Much like said dog’s attitude, the new position stops working for the good of the situation. My ribs are protesting. The angle's wrong. I'm fucking this up in every possible way.
With a frustrated sound, I roll onto my back.
"Come here." I sound like I'm calling a play in a huddle. "Get back on top. I want to watch you."
She straddles me again, and I take a moment just to drink in every look, sound, scent, everything. Sarah’s above me. Flushed and beautiful and mine — at least for right now.
Her hair's a mess. Lips swollen from kissing. That mark I left on her shoulder is already darkening.
She sinks down on me in one motion, and I stop thinking entirely.
"Fuck." My hands find her hips — holding her there, feeling where we're connected. "You’re incredible."
This time she finds the perfect angle. Leaning back, hands braced on my thighs. Every roll of her hips hits something that makes her gasp and I love the sound, love that I can do this to her.
Watching her chase what she needs is better than ripping a clean clapper from the blue line, better than burying a one-timer on the power play in Game Seven.
"That's it," I hear myself say. "That's my girl."
Instantly, I freeze. Fuck, I hope she doesn’t think I shouldn’t have said it.
But she doesn't pull away. Doesn't correct me. Just moves faster, eyes half-closed, lips parted.
Her whole body goes taut, then shudders, and I can feel the rhythmic pulse of her around me — clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing.
She comes, grinding down on me as I work her clit, maximizing this moment for her, she says something that sounds like feelings and forever and my name all mixed together.
It's probably just the bourbon. Probably doesn't mean anything.
But I pretend it does. Just for now.
When I follow her over the edge, pulling her down hard for a kiss, I let myself imagine this is real. Let myself drown in the taste of her mouth and the sound she makes when I come inside her — half-gasp, half-moan. Let myself believe we'll do this again.
We collapse together. Sweaty and breathing hard. My shoulder is on fire. My ribs are screaming.
I've never felt better in my life.
My hand finds hers. Our fingers intertwine. She lets me hold on.
"Stay," I mumble against her hair. I was already half-gone when I walked in the door, and now the bourbon and exhaustion and endorphins are dragging me under. Rapidly. "Don't go anywhere."
She's quiet for a moment. If I had any firing neurons left, this would be the time to start overthinking everything.
But I don’t.
"Ranger's whining," she says softly.
He is. We both recognize that low, persistent sound he makes when he needs to go out.
"I'll get him—" I try to sit up. My shoulder protests at top volume. My ribs join the chorus.
"I've got him." Her hand presses gently against my chest, pushing me back down. "Sleep, Kevin. You're a mess."
"M'not a mess. M'a professional athlete, ‘member?"
"You're a professional disaster." But her voice is warm. "I'll take care of Ranger."
I want to argue. Want to keep her here. Want to stay awake long enough to say everything I should have said before we ended up horizontal.
But her weight leaves the mattress and I'm already sinking. I hear Ranger's claws on the hardwood, her soft voice talking to him.
Say something. Get up. Go to her.
I'm out before I can do any of it.
My eyes slowly open an hour or so later. Maybe two.
Empty bed. Cold sheets. No Ranger in his crate.
Great.
She's in the guest room. Has to be. Letting me rest. Not jostling my broken body by staying next to me.
Sarah being Sarah. Taking care of everyone around her. Classic.
My rational brain knows that.
Doesn't make the empty bed feel any less like my second minus-four on the stat sheet in the last twenty-four hours.
Eighteen months. Eighteen months of having her in my life, wanting more than just friendship, waiting for the right moment, and when I finally get her here — finally hear her say my name like it actually means something — I pass out like a rookie after his first road trip.
One job, St. Clair. Stay conscious and use your words.
Nailed it.
Instead I'm alone in sheets that smell like her, and my dog picked her over me.
Which, honestly? Fair. I'd pick her too.
The room's cold. That bone-deep rink cold that settles in during a TV timeout when you're already down three goals.
Except this is worse. Because an hour ago she was here and the room was blazing hot, on fire.
I can tell the difference and I don’t like it. She’s twenty feet down the hall — with my dog, mind you — and it may as well be twenty miles.
My phone is on the nightstand. I can’t get back to sleep immediately, so I flip it over and tap the screen.
The group chat. Of course.
??What the Puck??
Sticks
You home yet?
You gonna talk to her tonight or wait til morning
Crash
dont be a pussy Sunshine
Sticks
classy crash
but fr - He's either passed tf out on Toradol or he's finally having the conversation he should've had 6 months ago
Crash
or just going straight to bow chicka wow wow
Sticks
Crash
Crash
what? we're both thinking it like don’t act like you’re not
Sticks
Alright you're clearly asleep sunshine
But remember Calgary man. No more waiting. She needs to know
Crash
fr tho tell her before she ghosts your sorry ass. She can’t be your dogsitter 4ever
you waited like a year already don't be a dumbass
Seriously, fuckstick. Tell her before she builds a wall you can’t get through.
For once in his life, Liam's not wrong.
Solid work tonight, St. Clair. Really nailed the game plan you laid out earlier.
Calgary feels like a lifetime ago. I'd agreed on the game plan. Told two of my best friends I'd man up and just say the words.
I had the chance. Had her. Right here. And I still didn't say a word.
Eighteen months waiting for the perfect moment. Tonight proved there isn't one.
Morning. First thing. Before she convinces herself this was a mistake. She’s going to hear what she needs to hear from me.
No more waiting. No more promises I don’t keep.
I'm done deking around this.