Chapter Six
Royce
Ithink I'm in love. Is that possible after a single date? Maybe. Or maybe I was falling before I ever set foot into her office yesterday. I don't fucking know. All I know for sure is that getting on that plane this morning was a bitch. I didn't want to fly half a continent away from her.
"Elliot!" Coach shouts, his hard voice cracking across the ice like thunder. "Get your head out of your ass."
Shit.
I glance up in time to see Kingston Monroe barreling toward me with his stick back, ready to take a shot on the goal. As soon as his stick makes contact with the puck, I dive for it. It's embarrassing how far away I am when it slams into the back of the net.
"Jesus." Kingston slides to a stop, sending a spray of ice across me. "You even on the ice with us today, motherfucker?"
"Eat a dick, Monroe," I grunt, slapping my hand down over the puck to stop it. "I was thinking."
"Did it hurt?"
I shoot my teammate a dirty glare, which makes him chuckle. He holds a hand out to me, helping me back to my feet.
"Seriously, man. You good?"
"Yeah, fine." I drop the puck into his outstretched hand. "Just got some shit on my mind."
Kingston glances toward Coach, who is glowering at me like he's contemplating marching over here to hand me my own ass. "Better work it out before the game tomorrow," he murmurs. "We need this win, or Coach may kill us all."
"No kidding." We're inching toward the Playoffs. We need the win to give us a little breathing room. But the game is the last thing on my mind right now. I glance at Kingston, contemplating. He's all coupled up and in love. It's been all over the fucking news since he fell for his girl. "Question."
"Answer," he smirks.
"How'd you know you were in love with Evie?"
He slow-blinks at me.
"It's just a question."
"Uh-huh." His shit-eating grin gets on my damn nerves. "And hockey is just a sport. You think you're in love or something?"
"Maybe." I shrug. "Answer the question."
To his credit, he doesn't give me shit this time. He genuinely contemplates his answers. "I guess I knew something was up when I decided to start writing her fucking letters," he says, chuckling. "But I was sure of it when I went to her show."
"You knew because you went to her show?"
"No." He grins. "I knew because she basically called me a stalker when she saw me in the audience, and I loved it."
I rub my gloved hand over my helmet. "So…she insulted you in public, and you liked it?"
"Pretty much."
I eye him sideways. "You ever think maybe you just have a humiliation kink?"
"Man, fuck off," he growls, and then laughs again. "But shit. Honestly? If she's doing the humiliating, I'm down for it."
"Jesus Christ."
"You'll see how it is," he says, slapping me on the back. "When you love a woman, every goddamn thing she does is either adorable or sexy as hell, even shit that would piss you off if anyone else said or did it. That's how you know you're fucked."
I grunt in response, not entirely sure he's wrong. Emelia gives me shit, and I'm here for it. If anyone else did it, it'd piss me off. But she isn't anyone else, is she? She's Emelia.
Fuck me running. I am in love.
This is a problem. Not because I don't want to feel it. I'm absolutely on board with falling for her. I think I knew that the minute I walked into her office. It's a problem because she isn't there yet. Hockey is my wheelhouse. Making someone fall for me is not.
How the fuck am I supposed to make a goddess fall?
Maybe Google can help.
Google is no help. It gives lame-as-fuck advice like "be your authentic self" or "create positive shared experiences".
My authentic self is a pain-in-the-ass professional athlete—her least favorite thing.
And fucking my kid into her would be an excellent shared positive experience.
It's also one likely to get me murdered.
I toss my phone onto the hotel bed to scowl up at the ceiling, contemplating the merits of voodoo. I quickly decide I probably shouldn't go that route. I mean, it could undo whatever magic her cootie catcher put into the universe. Best not to risk it.
"Jesus Christ," I groan. I'm losing my mind. I fell for a goddess and immediately lost it. No wonder Kingston is always smiling now. He's dicking down his girl every day, living in this weird, happy bubble of fuckery. It's unnatural for motherfuckers like us.
My phone buzzes with an incoming message.
I reach for it, then sit straight up, grinning like an idiot when I see Emelia's name on the screen. She's texting me.
No.
She's thinking about me.
Future Wife: I sent your team the contract.
Me: Interesting.
Future Wife: ??
I scoot back against the headboard, getting comfortable.
Me: You were thinking about me.
Future Wife: Do you even live in reality, Royce?
Me: Admit it, you were.
Future Wife: Was not.
Me: Liar. You didn't have to text me to tell me you sent over the contract, but you did.
Future Wife: Yes, I did. I NEED YOU TO SIGN IT!!
Me: No. It's because you were thinking about me.
Future Wife: Whatever.
Future Wife: What are you doing?
I chuckle, glancing at the hand on my cock.
Me: Well…
Future Wife: That sounds ominous.
Me: Only if you have an aversion to dick pics.
Future Wife: OMG.
Me: Do you?
I wait, barely breathing, for her response. It takes so long, I'm almost positive she isn't going to reply at all. And then:
Future Wife: No.
I groan out loud, practically ripping through my goddamn fly to get my cock out. I don't even have to jerk off to get the bastard hard. He was ready to go as soon as her name popped up on my screen. I wrap my fist around him, fumbling with the camera until I manage to get a decent angle.
Before I can think it through or talk myself out of it, I snap the photo and send it.
Me: You did this.
Future Wife: Jesus, Royce.
Me: He's hurting for you, pretty baby.
Future Wife: Do something about it.
I groan her name, hitting the button to dial her number.
"Hello?" she whispers, her voice shaking.
"Say it again," I order, squeezing my cock hard.
"D-do something about it," she says.
"Fuck, Emelia," I groan, sliding my hand up my shaft. "Are you touching yourself too?"
There's a little gasp on the other end, all breathy and sweet. "Maybe."
"Yeah?" I rasp. "Tell me where your hands are right now, baby."
She whimpers, the sound hitting me right in the balls. "In my panties," she whispers.
"Let me hear it," I demand, already half-wild for her. I can picture the flush on her cheeks, her eyes all glossy and unfocused, hair messy and wild. God, I want to see it for real. I want her under me. I want to bite her lip and hear her scream when she comes. "Tell me what you're doing."
She doesn't answer, but I hear a tiny moan, then a shaky sigh. "I'm…"
I stroke my cock harder, squeezing the head. "You're what, Emelia?"
"I'm rubbing my clit," she breathes, her voice barely audible, but I hear every fucking syllable echoing in my skull. "God. I want your mouth on me, Royce."
"You'll have it," I promise, working my cock through my fist harder, faster. "Next time I see you, I'm going to eat you until you can't stand."
"Promise?" she whispers. I can practically hear her biting her lip, stifling a moan.
"Yeah," I growl, loving how desperate I sound. "And you're going to come on my cock over and over until you forget your own fucking name."
She gasps, and I hear the rustle of sheets and then her keening whimper.
"Oh my god," she moans, her voice hitching like she's about to sob. "Royce, I'm—" She doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, she just breaks apart, crying out my name.
It's perfect. It's fucking perfect, and it wrecks me. My own orgasm rips through me so fast it's almost a surprise. I grunt into the phone, her name on my lips. I stroke myself through it, milking every last drop until I'm wrecked, boneless, and panting.
There's a long, shaky silence. I hear her breathing, soft and sweet, and I wish like hell I could reach through the phone and pull her into my arms.
"I miss you," I rasp.
She's quiet for a long moment. "I miss you too," she whispers then, so soft I almost think I imagined it.
But I didn't imagine it.
My heart clenches in a vise, every damn piece of it in her hands. I'm so done for. Just…fucking gone.