Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Mollie
Like someone suddenly hits a button on a factory line, my work life starts up, jolting me into a week of frenzied meetings and on-ice filming sessions.
It feels weird. Most of the summer, I only worked four or five hours a day.
And most of those days included seeing the handsome captain who makes my heart beat faster.
By Friday afternoon, I’m tired. Team management is hyping up Konstantin Kuznetsov and wants every TikTok to be about him, getting fans excited to see a new face on the ice this season. But my shoulders are drooping, my legs throbbing, my head feeling full to bursting with info.
I get a text from Alex, who has saved himself in my phone as ICE KING.
ICE KING
Want to go on a date with me?
My heart starts pounding, my tiredness forgotten. The fact that he even asked me out is shocking. The first time, he shut me down hard.
So yeah. Obviously, I’m in. But I wonder what changed for him? What made being seen in public with me suddenly worth it?
me
Sure. When?
ICE KING
Be ready at seven. Wear one of your little dresses.
Tonight? Oh god. Am I nervous?
My mind spins as I head home. Well, to Alex’s house. Not my actual home, no matter what he said to me earlier. I’m still trying to wrap my head around demand that I not move out as I find Gordie’s leash and take him for a walk.
Gordie looks up at me with an expression of mild sympathy.
"Don't look at me like that," I tell him. "I'm fine."
I’m just going on a date with Alex Thorne, captain of the Seattle Havoc. And if Beck finds out about it, he’ll have a coronary. No big deal.
A date. What does that mean in Alex’s vocabulary? It could be literally anything. It could mean a museum visit. It could mean bowling. It could mean he's taking me to some extremely exclusive underground supper club that requires an elaborate secret knock and a blood oath to eat.
By six-thirty, I've landed on a short blue dress, a soft cream sweater, and my white Converse. Comfortable, but not sloppy. Cute, but not trying too hard.
Alex is waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I come down. He’s dressed up just a little, dark jeans, a heather gray T-shirt, and a black Havoc hoodie that makes his blue eyes pop. He could be taking me on a private jet or to an arcade, it’s impossible to tell from his clothing.
“You look amazing,” he tells me.
I blush. “Thanks. You do too. It’s rare that I see you out of sweatpants or hockey gear.”
His eyes crinkle. “Thought I would do the damn thing. You only get a first date once, right?”
Those words out of his mouth… I’m going to have to fan myself here in a second. “You sure about this?”
“It’ll be fun. I promise.” He offers me his arm. "Ready?"
"You could just tell me where we're going."
"I could, but that would ruin the anticipation." He looks down at me with a smirk. “Don’t worry, Freckles. I’ve got you. I promise.”
The cinema is a converted Victorian building tucked between a wine bar and a tailor's shop in Capitol Hill, the kind of place that requires knowing it exists to find it.
The marquee out front is old-school, with individual letters you have to climb a ladder to change.
Tonight, it reads: PRIVATE SCREENING—GODZILLA—THE 1954 CLASSIC WITH SUBTITLES
I stop walking.
Alex walks two more steps before he realizes I'm not next to him and turns around. He's doing the thing where he's trying not to look smug and failing completely.
"You rented a movie theater?” My heart pounds.
His lips quirk. "For the evening, yes."
"I can’t believe you remembered my comment about Godzilla."
"You did say I was old enough to remember Mothra."
The laugh that comes out of me is loud enough that a couple walking past turns to look. I grab his arm to keep myself upright because my legs have genuinely stopped working. He stands there and lets me laugh at him and the smug look gets worse and worse the longer I go.
"Stop looking so pleased with yourself," I manage.
"I'm not sure I can."
"You have approximately thirty seconds before I revoke all smug privileges."
He grins. "Thirty seconds is plenty."
I kiss him in the lobby, partly because I want to and partly because it's the only way to wipe that expression off his face.
He makes a low sound against my mouth and pulls me in by the waist. For a moment, I forget that we're standing in front of a very confused ticket booth attendant who is pretending to look at his phone.
When we break apart, Alex steers me inside with his hand at the small of my back. It feels extremely date-ish.
What would the me of one year ago say if I told her where I was today, and with whom? She’d probably tell me to go back to reading fanfic.
The screen is small and perfect. Maybe forty seats, all of them empty except for two in the center with a small table between them that has a bucket of popcorn and two drinks that are definitely not from a concession stand.
One of them is a French 75. I look at it and then look at him, my words coming out tight. "You called Olivier?"
He shrugs. "I called Indie."
"The fact that everything is blowing my mind right now is annoying. You’re not supposed to be great at hockey and also at sweeping me off my feet.”
“Well.” He clears his throat. “I, ah, you know. Wanted it to feel special.”
“It feels special,” I say. “Even if you’ve pulled this magical cinema date off with other girls.”
“You think I would go to this much trouble for anyone else?” Alex makes a face. “I haven’t had a reason to pull out all the stops before now, Mollie. But I’m trying to impress you. Is it working?”
God, is it ever. Gone is my anxiety about what this date meant in Alex’s vocab. There’s a sincerity in his gaze that puts me at ease.
He’s really pulling out all the stops for me.
“Yes,” I blurt. “It’s amazing. Thank you, Alex.”
“Good, good.” He picks up my French 75, offering it to me.
I accept it and settle into my seat. He sits next to me, his big body warm where it touches mine.
The 1954 Godzilla film opens with a specific grainy black-and-white gravity that old films have.
Alex stretches his arm along the back of my seat.
I lean into him without making a decision about it.
His thumb traces a slow circle on my shoulder.
The cinema smells like old velvet and popcorn, and very faintly like his cedar and soap.
God, I’m so gone for this guy. I’m fucked.
He tosses a couple of pieces of popcorn into his mouth, his attention on the screen. I lean my head on his shoulder and whisper. “This is really nice, Alex.”
“Shh.” His lips curl up but he doesn’t look away from the flickering screen. “Watch the movie.”
I roll my eyes but comply, happy to share this experience with him. Somewhere around the forty-minute mark, though, his hand moves from my shoulder to my thigh.
“Alex!” I murmur.
"Eyes on the film," he says, very quietly, and his fingers slide to my inner thigh.
"We're literally the only people in this building," I hiss.
"Doesn't matter." His mouth is at my ear. "Be my good girl."
And oh, how I desperately want to be that.
The thing about Alex Thorne is that he takes his time.
He's been doing this all summer and I still haven't fully calibrated to it.
His fingers trace slow circles on my inner thigh, moving toward where I want them and then retreating, over and over, until I'm squirming in my seat and gripping the armrest just to have something to hold onto.
He keeps his eyes on the screen and occasionally comments on the film like he's not currently dismantling my entire nervous system.
“Interesting practical effects for 1954.” His fingers drift higher.
“The metaphor for nuclear anxiety is pretty on the nose.” I bite down on my lip hard enough to feel it.
“You okay over there, Freckles?” He’s wearing that smirk again.
"You're the worst," I breathe.
"You're doing so well," he murmurs. My pussy throbs and I gasp. “You like that, hmm?” he asks. “Praise seems to turn you on. You like being my good girl.”
“Fuck, Alex.”
“I love how you say my name.” His fingers finally find the fabric of my underwear and he goes very still for a moment, just resting his hand there, feeling the heat of me through the thin cotton.
Feeling how wet I am. It’s mortifying how he’s trained my body to want him.
I groan and he makes a low noise of approval against my ear.
"You’re so hot and ready for me, aren’t you?"
"Don't," I beg. “Please, Alex.”
"Don't what?" His fingers move slowly, tracing my seam through the wet fabric, and my hips shift toward him against my will. "I haven't done anything yet."
He's right, and it's infuriating. I grip his knee hard enough that he exhales.
He takes his time with this too, rubbing slow circles through the fabric.
The wet spot on my panties grows and grows, but I'm past caring about dignity and just need him to do something about it.
When he finally shoves the fabric aside, I have to stifle my moan.
He strokes me slowly, bottom to top, just once, like he's taking inventory. I stop breathing entirely.
"Tell me what you want," he says quietly. His voice is completely steady, which is deeply unfair.
"You know what I want."
"Tell me anyway."
"Alex." I turn my head toward him, and he's watching the screen like he's genuinely interested in the film. His two fingers are resting against me without moving. Just there, just waiting. "Please?"
"Please what? Please finger fuck me, Alex? Please make me come?”
My entire body flushes. “Please… please finger fuck me.”
“Say the entire thing.” He glances at me, his blue eyes dark with lust. “Say my name.”
I sound vaguely irritable when I huff, “Please finger fuck me, Alex.”
“You’re going to be so good for me, aren’t you?” He rewards me immediately, picking me up and helping me move over to his lap. I settle my back against his chest, my ass against his cock.