Chapter 13 #2
There’s a pause, and I watch her shifting again, brushing hair from her face, biting down on that puffy bottom lip. “I’d like to see you too, but–”
“Yeah, we’re busy,” I cut in, trying not to sound disappointed. “I know.” We just look at each other, through the phone, through the silence. The urge to be with her intensifies.
“I mean,” I push on, “I could probably get away next weekend…”
That wakes her up. I can see it on her face when she sits straighter. My eyes dart down to the teasing dip of her cleavage, the darkened outline of her nipples as they press against the cotton. My fingers twitch. “You’d come to Atlanta?”
“Why not?” I grin. “I could drag Reid with me, or Axel. For once, we don’t have hockey practice or games. We could hang out and wait for you to finish your show, and then you and I…”
I don’t finish the sentence. No way to say what I mean without laying it all bare. The things I want to say, the things I want to do–they sit heavy on my tongue. Jesus. This girl has me fucking tied in knots.
“Let me see what I can work out,” she says finally.
“Don’t go to any trouble. We’ll figure it out. Road trip, right?”
“Sounds good.”
In the background of her side of the call, I hear faint movement, maybe the hum of the road under the bus tires. Then she notices the noise bleeding into mine. “Is that Axel again?”
I roll my eyes, glancing toward the window where the house lights flare with shadows. “Eh, the guys are throwing a party.”
“Why aren’t you down there?”
“Guess talking to you seemed like the better way to go.” I stretch out, propping up on my elbow, making it clear I’m in no rush to leave. “I mean, you’re alone, I’m alone…we could make this interesting.”
“Smooth,” she says dryly.
My eyebrow arches. “You travel for a living, and it’s well documented that you’ve been in relationships. Don’t tell me you’ve never had phone sex.”
“Fair,” she admits, though her voice softens like she’s not sure she should give me that. “But something tells me you have other, real-life opportunities to hook up at the moment.”
I can hear the faint thump of bass as the rhythm changes and the squeals of girls when their favorite song comes on. She knows they’re here. Knows they’re available.
“I’m not interested in them,” I say with more intent than I plan.
Her brows lift, skeptical. “No?”
I remember what Shelby said, how if I’m going to make a play for Ingrid, I need to be serious. So why the hell am I beating around the bush? “I got a taste of you, Angel. I’m not going to be satisfied until I get more.”
Her lips part, just slightly, her chest rising as though the air has been stolen right out of her. “Is that how this works? Jefferson Parks always gets what he wants?”
“Pretty much.”
The flush runs up her throat, blooming across her cheeks. It’s impossible not to picture it spreading lower, down her collarbone, over the pale swell of her breasts, painting every inch of her in that same delicate pink. The image makes my mouth dry and my pulse hammer.
She catches the way I’m looking at her and gives me that grin–wicked, teasing, like she’s the one with control here. She is. We both know it. “Good thing I’ve made a career out of not giving guys what they want.”
My laugh comes out low, rougher than I mean it to. “Guess I’ll just have to convince you I’m not like the other guys.”
Her eyes narrow, amused, sparking with challenge. “Good luck with that, Parks.”
And damn if the way she says my name doesn’t make me want her even more.
The season is over, and we’ve got the trophy, the rings, the bragging rights. I’m certain that I should be coasting on a high, not sitting outside Coach Bryant’s office with Reese, both of us staring at the door like it’s about to eat us alive.
“Any clue what this is about?” I ask, leaning back in the chair with my legs sprawled out.
“Nope,” Reese says, twirling my championship cap in his hands. “But if it’s bad, it’s your fault.”
I snort, but when Coach calls us in, neither of us is laughing.
The office has looked the same since I got here freshman year: plaques, photos, the faint smell of coffee that’s been sitting too long in the pot. Bryant gestures to the chairs across from his desk. We sit.
He studies us a moment, then clears his throat. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you in here, and no, you’re not in trouble.”
He’s joking and we both know it, but old behaviors die hard.
“I’ve been a member of the board of a non-profit designed to identify and cultivate young athletes coming from high-risk environments. Over the years, I’ve linked many of the young men up with local hockey programs.”
“You mean like the foster care program that Reid was in.”
“Exactly.” His chair creaks underneath him. “This year few young men are in a position to transfer from a junior college program into something bigger, and I’ve offered them a spot on the team next year.”
Reese’s brows go up. “Okay, sure, anyone we know?”
“Probably not.” Coach leans back in his chair, like he’s bracing himself. “These boys come from a specific high-risk community.” He finally decides to stop beating around the bush. “They were part of the Serendee community before it was shut down.”
Reese blinks. “You mean the cult?”
Bryant’s mouth tightens. “I’d rather not use that word. But yes.”
Cult is exactly the right word. Everyone in Wittmore knows about Serendee–at least the surface version.
Started by a Wittmore environmental science major twenty years back.
They called it a “sustainable utopia.” Living off the land.
Growing their own food and butchering their own meat.
Sewing their own clothes. Blah blah blah.
But underneath? Whole different story. Tim Wray, the founder, was a fucking creep.
He had them all hooked into this breeding program-slash-free labor ring.
Guns. Drugs. Sex trafficking. The whole thing was unbelievable.
His own kid blew the whistle a few years ago.
After that, the Feds raided the compound.
It was pretty much shut down by the time I got here, but the legend was still being passed down, not to mention the documentaries Twyler forced us to watch.
The members dressed in plain, old-timey clothes, with blank stares.
The women covered up head to toe. You’d catch them walking down Main Street, going in and out of their “recruitment office.”
“So you think they’re ready for D1?” I ask because none of that adds up to ice rinks and slap shots.
He nods. “These boys are good. Really good. Good enough to carry on the legacy you built.”
I exchange a look with Reese and ask, “Why bring us in? We’re not even gonna be here next year.”
“I know that, dumb ass,” Bryant snaps, though there’s a twitch of a smile under the gruffness.
“I need a few guys with nothing on the line to take some time with them on the ice, maybe show them around campus and help them get comfortable. Welcome them in. Ease them through it. I’ll have a few of the rising seniors there, too. ”
Reese adjusts the brim of his hat. “Sure, Coach. We’d be happy to.”
Coach’s eyes soften. “They’ve been through a lot. But you two know as well as anyone–hockey can be a great unifier.”
Reese nods. I do too, though my mind is stuck on those old images of blank-eyed kids in hand-stitched clothes. A new batch of teammates, coming from that? It’s weird. Unexpected. But maybe Coach is right. Maybe hockey really can fix anything.
The package is delivered by courier the next evening. He bangs on the door hard enough to rattle the hinges, and Reese is the one who answers it, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“It’s for you, J.”
The house is full–the seven of us congregated for dinner.
The music Reid picked is humming low under the buzz of conversation.
It feels like everyone’s trying to soak up these last weeks before everything changes.
Tonight we made dinner together, us guys and the girls, crammed elbow to elbow in the kitchen.
They cooked, we cleaned, a rhythm we’ve fallen into without thinking.
Reese holds the door open as I cross the room, Axel feeling up Nadia in the middle of the room. My shirt sticks to me where I swipe my wet hands down the front of it.
“Hey, man,” I say, taking the little electronic box the courier thrusts out and scrawling my signature across the screen. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He pivots, already heading back down the steps.
“What is it?” Axel asks, releasing Nadia, as I shut the door with my foot.
“Not sure–” I start, but then my eye snags on the stamped and embossed wings in the corner of the package. A sharp jolt kicks through me. “What the fuc…”
I barely have the thing open and the badges in my hand before the room goes apocalyptic.
“She sent us passes?” Shelby blurts, wobbling like her knees just gave out. Her cheeks go pale; she looks seconds from fainting.
I nod, dumbly, as Nadia swoops in, snatching the stack of lanyards right out of my fingers with a gasp.
“What else is in there?” Twyler’s voice cuts in, pitched so high it almost cracks.
“Tickets, box seats, backstage passes–” I unfold another sheet of paper, my throat dry, and then look up at the wide-eyed faces staring back. “Directions for getting on her private plane.”
“She’s flying us down?” Reid demands, his jaw slack. “Dude, what did you do?”
I shake my head, heat crawling up the back of my neck. “Nothing. We’ve just been talking.”
I told her I wanted to see her, and fuck, she made it happen.
They exchange a look, an unspoken chorus of disbelief passing between them.
“Seriously.” I raise my hands. “Swear on it.”
I know what they think–that I’ve got her dickmatized or whatever word they’ll toss around later.
Normally, I’d let them speculate, grin and lean into the legend.
But not this time. For once, I’m playing it slow, trying not to burn it down before it even starts.
And maybe–it feels insane to even think it–maybe it’s actually working.
She wants to see me.
Axel squints, tugging at the hoop in his eyebrow, his voice flat with suspicion. “So you mean, for once, you didn’t sleep with a woman, and she rewards you with all this?”
“I guess so. I mean, I did–” I cut myself off, swallowing the memory. No way I’m telling them about the fingerbang during the victory party.
Reese smirks, but no one notices because the girls don’t give a shit, already falling into a discussion about Shelby getting off work, and Nadia figuring out her outfit and what she can wrangle Twyler into that isn’t black jeans and a hoodie.
And me? I just stand there in the middle of it all, pulse hammering, trying to act chill when the truth is I’ve never felt more unsteady.
Because this–her–feels bigger than anything I’ve let myself want before.
And if it all goes south, I don’t know if I’ll recover.
But I started this. I left her that note, and for some crazy reason, she responded.
I’ve never been afraid to take the chance–to shoot my shot–and I’m sure as hell not going to pull back now.