Chapter 12 #2
I’d smiled so big that Roxy, my makeup artist, had to touch up my lipstick. I don’t care, the game is back on.
IngFlock: What about “Mellow”?
Jparks23: Good one, but nope. You’re bad at this game. You should quit.
IngFlock: Never. I’ll crack the code.
Jparks23: Good luck tonight.
IngFlock: What are you doing tonight?
Jparks23: Playing video games, eating some of Nadia’s Kolaches, and replaying how sexy your face looked last night when you fell apart on my fingers.
The words still hum through me as I step under the stage lights, the crowd’s roar crashing over me like a wave. Jefferson has a dirty mouth. He’s bold and not afraid to say what he’s thinking.
It’s different, and for a woman who cycles through the same days and nights, the same heartache and pain, it’s enticing, enthralling. It should have just been a one-off, but sitting here texting with him? I think I may want more.
“What the hell was that?” I barely hear Madison as she accosts me the second I’m off stage.
The fans are losing it in the arena, their screams and shouts bouncing off the rafters.
Me? I’m not finished yet. This is the part of the show no one sees.
I’m immediately surrounded by people. Costumers, makeup, hair, and physical therapists.
I’m sweaty, vocally spent, and about to crash.
I’m handed a smoothie filled with enough calories, vitamins, and electrolytes to keep me from passing out after a three-hour-long workout.
Glancing over at my friend, I know that Madison’s question isn’t an admonishment. No way. I know what happened on that stage. It may have been the best show of my life.
“That was epic. Fucking incredible.”
Doctor’s orders keep me from responding. I rest my vocals for two hours after each show. And truthfully, I have no way to answer the question. I was just filled with new energy. A desire to bring it all onto the stage. I kept thinking about Jefferson and the team, how they owned that game.
I want to own my game, too.
Back at the hotel, I limp straight to the recovery room. The trainers are already waiting with a professional level set up. There’s an ice bath, a massage table, and a doctor ready to tape and check the blisters on my feet. Glamorous, right? This is the part no one sees on stage.
My phone buzzes right as I lower myself into the tub, a hiss escaping through my teeth. The trainer holds up the phone, and Jefferson’s name lights up the screen.
Like a teenage girl, I yelp, wave for it, and accept the video call.
His handsome face appears on the screen, those sharp cheekbones carving up the screen. “Hey–wait, where are you?”
“Ice bath.” I punctuate this with an exhale. “Post show recovery.”
“Wow, that’s hardcore. We have the same thing at the arena.”
“Told you I was tough,” I reply, trying not to flinch when the cold water bites at my skin.
“Never doubted it, Angel.”
I’m smiling, even though my teeth are chattering. “So, what’s up?”
“So this statement about us…”
My stomach drops. “Oh god, you saw it.” I press my hand over my face. “I just told Madison to smooth things over. Hopefully it didn’t cross any lines.”
He chuckles, low and unbothered. “I guess there are worse things than being called the ‘The handsome enforcer that led his team to a Frozen Four Victory.’”
“Wait, read it to me.”
Jefferson’s lips quirk as he scrolls through his phone. “You ready?”
“Hit me.”
“‘Is Ingrid Flockton Off the Market? Frozen Four Sparks New Romance Rumors,’” he begins.
“‘Speculation has run wild since international pop star Ingrid Flockton made a surprise appearance at the Frozen Four in Chicago last weekend. Fans weren’t sure if she was there for a friend, family, or something more. Those questions heated up when Flockton was spotted at Wittmore’s Victory Party, where she hit the dance floor with Jefferson Parks, better known as the handsome enforcer that led his team to a Frozen Four Victory.
’” He emphasises the last line and gives me a wink that threatens to warm me up in the cold bath.
He continues. “‘Seeing them together, you couldn’t miss the sparks,’ a source at the party shared.
‘They weren’t hiding it—they looked like they were in their own world.
’ So… are they an item? Did Parks take home more than the trophy? ’”
I wrinkle my nose. “Oh jeez. Is the rest of the team mad you were singled out like that?”
He shakes his head. “Not mad. Jealous probably. They’re all petty bitches.”
“That is not what we sent in,” I say quickly, cheeks burning even though he can’t see me. “So don’t get a big head. They embellish everything for clicks.”
“You sure?” His voice turns cocky, that grin growing wider in my imagination. “Because every time I talk to you, my head gets bigger.” His eyes darken. “At least the one in my pants.”
I nearly slip in the tub. “You did not just say that.”
“I think I did.”
I groan, but the sound melts into laughter before I can stop it.
“Time,” Carlos calls. I’d forgotten he was here.
“Thank god. Hold on.” I set the phone face down and let Carlos help me out of the tub. Cold water rushes down my body. My skin is pink, but I feel invigorated, and a moment later I’m wrapped in a warm robe and led to my suite. Once I’m alone, I open the video again.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes.” There’s a covered plate, and I carry it over to a cozy chair. Propping my phone on my water bottle, I open the lid, revealing my dinner. The next thing he says surprises me.
“You were incredible tonight.”
I look up from my salmon and rice bowl in surprise. “You watched?”
“I don’t think I’ve missed a show since the tour started.”
It hits me again. He’s a fan. Which makes it hard to know what is real and what isn’t.
Ingrid, my inner voice speaks up, that orgasm was one million percent real.
But that’s the thing about Jefferson, every encounter, every text, phone call, dance on a crowded floor; he’s genuine. Talkative. Sweet. Raw. And yeah, undeniably sexy.
So slipping into conversation with him is easy.
We talk about everything. I tell him about the show–the way it’s blocked and choreographed, how every step has to look effortless while hiding the fact that I’m counting beats in my head.
I explain how I choose the songs for the set list, the push and pull of tempo, how the ballads have to be placed just right to give both me and the crowd a breather.
I even let him in on the endless debates about costumes, how many backup outfits I carry in case something rips or malfunctions.
He listens like every word matters. Then, with a little prompting, he tells me about Wittmore–about how it’s important for him to get his grades based on merit, not by just being another college athlete, about the exams and final projects he has left and the way hockey bleeds into every corner of campus life.
At some point, he leans away from the camera, bangs on his wall, and yells for Axel to turn down the music.
The sudden flash of irritation makes me laugh.
But then the shift of his body catches me off guard.
The camera tips just enough to reveal the pale slope of his shoulders, the cut of muscle across his chest. He’s shirtless, sprawled against the headboard of his bed, the glow of his lamp painting his skin in warm tones. The sight steals the air from my lungs.
Any lingering chill from my bath vanishes as heat licks through me, slow and insistent.
My robe suddenly feels too heavy, too warm.
I tug at the collar, my fingers brushing the hollow of my throat as I force myself to keep talking like nothing’s changed, like I’m not imagining what it would feel like to be the one lying against him instead of watching through a screen.
“When can I see you again?” he asks, after I’ve yawned for the third time. The way he says it is like he already knows the answer, but needs to hear it anyway.
I sigh. “Not for a while. I’ve got two straight weeks down south. Charlotte, then three nights in Atlanta, another four in Florida…”
He groans, shoving his hand through his hair, giving me a peek of his rounded bicep, black ink branded into the smooth skin. “Guess I’ll just have to keep calling and texting.”
“I guess I’ll keep answering,” I tease back.
He licks his bottom lip and my mouth parts.
The heat between us is charged, even through the screen.
Maybe because of it. I feel as if he’s standing right in front of me.
And the ache blooming in my chest feels dangerous–like wanting more is the first step toward heartbreak.
Staring back into those blue eyes, I have to decide if Jefferson Parks is worth the risk.