Chapter 5
Chapter Five
SUTTON
Ikiss him back.
Everything I've been holding in for weeks comes rushing out in that kiss. All the longing, the regret, and the desperate need I've been trying to ignore. His hands come up to cup my face, and I melt into him.
"I missed you," I whisper against his lips. "God, I missed you so much."
"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at me. "I missed you, too."
I reach for the hem of his shirt and tug it up. He helps me pull it over his head, and then his hands are on me, sliding under the shirt I'm wearing—his shirt—pushing it up my ribs. I raise my arms and let him strip it off me, leaving me in nothing but my panties.
His eyes darken as he takes me in. "You're so beautiful."
I feel beautiful under his gaze. Wanted. Needed. All the things I've been craving since I walked away from him.
He leans in and kisses down my neck, his lips hot against my skin. I arch into him, my fingers threading through his hair. When his mouth finds my breast, I gasp. He takes his time, lavishing attention on one nipple and then the other until I'm squirming beneath him.
His hand slides down my stomach and slips beneath the waistband of my panties. When his fingers find me, I'm already wet and ready for him. He groans.
"Fuck, Sutton. You're soaked."
I can't form words. All I can do is move against his hand as he works me into a frenzy. He knows exactly how to touch me, exactly what I need. Within minutes, I'm trembling, right on the edge.
"Come for me," he murmurs against my ear. "I want to watch you fall apart."
I do. The orgasm crashes over me in waves, and I bite down on his shoulder to muffle my cry. I'm aware of the other guys in the house, aware that these walls are thin, but I don't care. Not right now.
When I come back to myself, he's watching me with a look of pure hunger.
He helps me get his jeans off, and then he's gloriously naked above me. I wrap my hand around his length and stroke him slowly, watching his face as pleasure washes over his features.
He pushes into me slowly. We both moan at the sensation. It’s been too long.
"Fuck, I missed this," he groans. "Missed you."
"Move," I beg. "Please move."
He does. He starts with slow, deep thrusts that have me gasping. But it's not enough. I need more. I need him to make me forget everything except this moment, except us.
The headboard starts hitting the wall with each thrust, but neither of us cares. His mouth finds mine, and we kiss messily, desperately, like we're trying to make up for all the lost time.
I can feel another orgasm building, tightening low in my belly.
A few more thrusts, and I'm gone, crying out his name as I come apart beneath him. I feel him stiffen, and then he's following me over the edge, burying his face in my neck as he finishes.
I curl into his side, my head on his chest. I can hear his heartbeat gradually slowing.
"So," he says after a while. “What now?”
I sigh. “Can we just take this one day at a time for now?”
Not exactly sexy pillow talk, but I want to be honest with him.
“For now, but we’re going to figure this out.”
I smile. “I believe you.”
A week later, and things are good. Mostly.
Declan and I exist in this strange, suspended state around each other. We’re not together, but we’re not apart. I haven’t slept with him since that night, but we have coffee in the morning. We hang out when I’m not working and he’s not at practice.
I don't let myself read too much into it. I try not to, anyway.
Trying to put a title on what we have is like rocking the boat.
And I don’t want to do that right now. I like things easy.
I need to focus on the upcoming game. I don’t want to be negative, but it’s very unlikely we’ll win.
It will be the last game of my college hockey career, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“Hey,” Declan grabs my arm when I walk out of the bathroom.
“Hey, you.”
He gives me a quick kiss. “I’ll be at your game tonight.”
I laugh. “I’m sorry, it won’t be nearly as exciting as one of yours. I’m not sure I want you there.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re probably going to embarrass ourselves.”
“I’ll be there anyway, and then we’re going out to celebrate.”
“Celebrate our loss?”
“Celebrate the end of an amazing four years playing for Avalon.”
I kiss him. “Thank you. I will be looking forward to that when we’re getting our asses handed to us.”
I'm skating hard, pushing through the third period even though we're down by two and there are less than three minutes on the clock. My lungs burn, and my legs are screaming, but I don't let up. This is it—my last game. My last time wearing this jersey, skating on this ice with this team.
The buzzer sounds.
We lost. Four-two. Not a blowout, but not close enough to feel like we had a real shot either.
I skate to center ice with my teammates for the handshake line. The other team is gracious in victory. I shake each hand mechanically, my mind somewhere else entirely.
When we break apart, I stand at center ice for a moment.
Just stand there, taking it all in. The crowd is sparse—it always is for women's hockey—but I can hear a few people cheering anyway. My dad didn’t come tonight.
I told him not to bother. He’s seen enough of my games; this one was not worth the effort.
My teammates are already skating toward the bench, but I need this moment.
Four years. Four years of early morning practices and late-night study sessions. When I add it all up, it’s been almost twenty years of bruises. Wins and losses. Two decades of loving this game, even when it didn't love me back.
My eyes sting, but I'm not crying because we lost. I'm crying because it's over. It’s the end of an era. I’m not looking back. I’m looking forward. I have a bright future without hockey, and I’m okay with that.
"Come on, Webb!" one of my teammates calls from the bench.
I skate over, taking my time. Coach gives me a nod when I step off the ice. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't need to. She knows what this means.
In the locker room, the mood is subdued but not devastated. We all knew this was coming. We've known for weeks that playoffs weren't in the cards this year. Still, ending my career on a loss stings in a way I wasn't prepared for.
I strip off my gear slowly. I fold the jersey carefully and set it in my bag, running my fingers over the number one last time.
Teammates come over, offering hugs and congratulations. It feels strange to celebrate the end of something. But that's what this is—an ending.
I shower quickly, letting the hot water wash away the sweat and the ache. When I'm dressed again in jeans and Declan's hoodie that I stole from his room this morning, I grab my bag and head out.
I scan the parking lot and see him. Declan steps forward, carrying a bouquet of white lilies.
And dammit, I start crying. He says nothing and simply pulls me into his arms. I feel ridiculous.
“I know, baby, I know,” he murmurs.
And then I don’t feel so ridiculous.