Chapter 9 #2
I shake my head. "Nah. I'm just going to give myself a little mini-massage."
We walk over to the bench. Well, actually, I limp. But we sit down and I hand Gordie's leash over. He settles at our feet, ever the protective guard dog, as I pull my foot up onto the bench and start rubbing it with practiced strokes.
"Hey, have you seen the new video Coach Savard posted?” Indie asks.
My hands freeze. Indie and I actually met at a figure skating rink when we were younger. She never trained with him, though she knows I did.
But I’ve never confided what Coach Savard did to me. Not to Indie. Not to anyone.
Indie pulls out her phone, showing me, not realizing that seeing him makes me naseated. "I was watching a video that my cousin sent me about learning to figure skate. She’s so cute. Anyway, after the video, a new one popped up with your old coach and a new girl. It's kinda... weird?"
My stomach drops. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." Indie wrinkles her nose. "Sorry, but he gave me the creeps with a capital C. Watch."
She cues the end of a performance, a girl of around twelve or thirteen skating smoothly to a stop and holding her hands up in a finishing gesture, before skating toward her coach.
My stomach feels like it's made of lead as I take in his easy grace, dark track suit, and piercing gray eyes.
She barrels into him, hugging him, and he seems amused by the affection.
The girl beams up at him with complete reverence. She wears an oversized pink bow in her hair. That was one of Coach Savard's preferences. He reaches out and gives her bow a gentle tug while he looks her in the eye.
"That was very beautiful, chérie. Your body tells the story, just like I asked. What else can your body say?"
I shudder, feeling the blood drain from my face. "She's really young. Younger than I was when he started coaching me."
As Indie nods in agreement, the girl surprises Coach with a kiss on the cheek. I turn the video off and push the phone toward Indie, drawing in a sharp breath.
"Where's the video from?"
Indie sighs. "Bellingham."
I slide her a glance. I've never told Indie outright about Coach Savard's propositions. Nor about the fight we got into right before I fell in nationals and ended my career.
But I think she knows.
"He's still so close. It's like he is starting over with someone new. It's..." I struggle to find the right word. "Distressing."
I watch the video again. There's something in their dynamic I almost recognize. They are close, just as I was close with him once. Then I push that feeling away.
It's nothing. Coach was always like that with his skaters. He was like that with me and it was fine. It was coaching, it was his way of building confidence. The girl is probably thriving.
Right?
"Especially because she's so young," Indie agrees. "That's weird, right?"
Both of my hands have gone still in my lap. That stillness is something my body learned a long time ago, in rooms where reacting wasn't safe.
I blow out a breath. "Not really. Figure skating coaches usually start around that age. I had a coach that moved away when I was fifteen, leaving me in the lurch. Coach Savard was supposed to be the best of the best, so I jumped at the chance to sign on with him."
Indie seems to wait for half a minute for me to say more, but when I don’t, she just nods. "I thought you’d be interested since you trained with him. That’s all."
"Yeah." I swallow. "Do you want to walk back? My ankle says that it's time."
"Sure." She strikes up another topic of conversation, telling me how her straight edge roommate and her party-every-day roommate get into fights all the time. Indie watches, sometimes with popcorn.
I giggle as we walk back. At the dock gate, I cock my head. "Interested in some reality TV?"
"Always!" Indie grins. "But I'm going to have to raincheck. I need to pick up Terra."
That's her little sister. I nod. "Next time.”
"Excellent." She gives me a hug, then walks toward her car.
Sighing, I punch in the gate code and slowly walk back to Thorne's house. Without Indie here to distract me, I'm all alone with my thoughts of Coach Savard, wondering whether he’s telling that little girl the same things he told me.
You have gorgeous legs, chérie. Strong thighs. I bet your boyfriend loves that, no? And then, Oh no boyfriend? Someone would do well to teach you how to act around a real man.
I shudder. Men that pay attention to me always want something from me. In fact, the only men that have never wanted anything?
My brother and Thorne.
Most men aren't capable of being kind without an agenda.
The rest of the evening, it’s just me and Gordie. I spend ten whole minutes house hunting; I widen the perimeter of my search, look for roommate situations, even text Indie about getting an apartment together.
indie
I would but I need to be here to watch Terra.
I’ll ask around tho!
Yup. I shut my laptop and pat myself on the back. At least I tried.
Resolving to continue looking for a new place tomorrow, I settle in front of the big TV and order a pizza. Extra-large, extra mushrooms and ricotta. If I'm the only one here to enjoy it, I might as well have what I really want.
Then I binge the scariest true crime documentaries that Thorne’s premium cable package has to offer. A few times, I find myself checking the time.
Where is Thorne?
Around 9:30, I turn the TV off with a yawn. There's still no sign of Thorne. Don't know why I'd find that in the least bit surprising.
I store the leftovers in the fridge and head for bed.
The hallway upstairs is quiet. I move through my routines, brushing my teeth and washing my face, then I change into an old Seattle Havoc T-shirt.
I climb into bed, remembering that Thorne actually gave me this shirt when my brother first joined the team five years ago.
Turning my head, I give it a deep sniff, even though I am the only person that's worn it. Wishful thinking that maybe it'd somehow smell like Thorne.
I flick the lights off and settle back into my pillows, closing my eyes. As soon as I do, I feel restless. Tossing, turning, stuffing pillows under my head and between my legs.
The image of Thorne sleeping in the next room pops into my head, unbidden. Sure, I'm pretty certain that he's out volunteering for charity or sponsoring some kiddy hockey team. But in the dark, dirty corners of my mind, he's thinking about me.
Not just thinking about me, but horny for me. Picturing what I look like naked. How my tits feel under his hands. How the silky skin of my inner thighs feels as he parts them and runs a fingertip down my hot, aching slit.
I’m fucking soaked already. My face flushes.
I made a rule about dating hockey players. I made it for good reasons. But there’s nothing in my rule that says I can’t fantasize about hockey players.
I really shouldn't be doing this, but I rub my clit and moan. “Thorne… God, Alex…” I imagine him kissing my thighs, rubbing his face against my pussy. I picture coming for him, gushing, maybe even squirting. Sure, it’s never happened in real life.
But Spicy BookTok says it’s a strong possibility with the right partner.
Would he love the way I taste? Would he devour me like I’m a five-star fucking meal?
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck.” The thought of looking into his eyes while I unravel for him pushes me over the edge. With one hand circling my clit furiously, my hips rocking, and my free hand plucking at my left nipple, I shatter. “Alex!”
I lie there for a moment, sweat beading at my temples. I’m vaguely annoyed with myself for getting off thinking about Thorne, a man who kissed me once and then went back to pretending I don’t exist. Lame.
I need to get a grip. I need to stop thinking about Alexander Thorne, the Havoc’s golden boy.
I’ll get over him… preferably by getting under another guy. That’ll show him.