Chapter 17
The last few weeks have been a whirlwind for me. I’ve been brushing up on my skills, traveling from city to city, covering teams that are on a hot streak, reporting on their triumphs and challenges, and trying to wrap my head around what it means to be able to play hockey, even though it still feels like a foreign language sometimes. Unfortunately, or maybe, fortunately, none of those teams have been the Phoenix Red Wolves until now. Tonight, the New Jersey Reapers, currently at the top of their game, are hosting Arizona at home. It is a high-stakes game, and with how Elliot and the team have been playing, it doesn't look good.
Elliot has been lingering in the back of my mind since I last saw him. I can't shake him or the way his eyes bore into me when he looked at me. The thought of it sets me on fire while simultaneously chilling me to the core. Every time his name crosses my thoughts, a surge of heat rushes up my neck, flushing my cheeks with a rosy hue. The memory of his eyes, dark and magnetic, haunt me, tugging at the edges of my consciousness like an invisible thread.
So, I find myself caught in a constant battle between the scorching flames of desire and the bone-chilling fear of seeing him again. Days have turned into weeks, and the longer it's been without seeing him, the easier it has gotten. I keep myself busy, but the thought of Elliot still lingers, refusing to fade away. Based on Elliot's reaction the last time I saw him, I can only assume that he doesn't want to see me as much as I don't want to see him. I want to hate him, and I'm pretty sure I do hate him. But there is this little ember of lust for him deep within me that won't go away.
My day has been relatively quiet since getting to New Jersey. I know that will change sooner rather than later. Any minute now, I will have to encounter Elliot, but until then, I focus my time on the Reapers. I stretch out my interviews to delay the inevitable. I stand in the Reapers' locker room, microphone in hand, ready to interview their head coach, Paul Richards. From my research, he is a seasoned veteran with a keen eye for strategy and a knack for turning struggling teams into contenders. He has been with the team for a few years, and this year seems to be theirs.
"Coach Richards," I begin, "tonight's game against the Red Wolves is highly anticipated. What do you think are the key factors to securing a victory?"
He gives a thoughtful nod, his eyes sharp with focus. "It's all about maintaining our defensive strategy and capitalizing on our scoring opportunities. The Red Wolves have a strong offensive line, but their defense has been shaky. We'll be looking to exploit those gaps while keeping their top scorers in check. Our power plays need to be on point, and we can't afford any unnecessary penalties."
I follow up, "And what about their goalie, Elliot St. Germain? He's been struggling lately. How do you plan to take advantage of that?"
Coach Richards smiles slightly. "We'll be putting pressure on him early, testing his confidence. If we can rattle him, it could open up the game for us."
My interviews are going so well. It’s a nice change, and I feel a surge of satisfaction as we wrap up. Yet, even with the success of my interviews, there is a sense of unease about speaking against a certain goalie bubbling underneath my consciousness.
By design, I run out of time before the game to interview any of the Red Wolves players. Now we are only five minutes into the first period, and Elliot is playing like shit. There is no way to sugarcoat it. As I watch from my spot in the press box, it is clear that tonight's game is going to be a disaster. I might live to regret not getting their interviews over with before the game. The entire team is struggling on all fronts, but Elliot St. Germain is having one of the worst performances I have ever seen. According to someone beside me, it is the worst of his career. He keeps missing saves he should've made in his sleep. His reactions are sluggish, and his confidence seems to have not gotten on the plane to New Jersey.
The Arizona fans, usually a roaring wave of support no matter where they are, have turned tense and frustrated. Every time a puck slips past Elliot, the groans and sighs from the fans grow louder. It's not all his fault—the defense is practically non-existent, and the offense isn't capitalizing on the few opportunities they manage to create. But as the goalie, Elliot is the last line of defense, and tonight he is failing. The game drags on painfully, without a single goal. The final nail in the coffin comes with an incredible shot from the Reapers that sails right past Elliot's glove. I watch as his shoulders slump as he skates off the ice. Even from the press box, I can feel the weight of another loss pressing down on him.
As much as I don’t want to, I know I have to face him. It's my job to get his comments postgame. On my way down the hallway toward the locker room, the team's PR manager warns me about Elliot's foul mood. How much worse can it be, comparatively speaking? I wait outside the locker room, watching the players file out, their faces grim and tired. I get clips from anyone willing to talk to me. Thankfully, the Captain, Ford, treats me with kindness, understanding that this is not only the worst part of their job but also mine. Nothing about having to rehash a series of mistakes is easy for the players or for me. The more games I've covered, the better I've come to understand this.
Elliot emerges next, his hair still damp from the shower and his entire body vibrating with anger. His jaw clenches as his dark eyes meet mine with fury. I brace myself as I approach him.
"Elliot, can I get a few words about the game?" I ask, my voice steady despite how anxious I am inside. He shoots me a look that could kill me. "Make it quick," he snaps.
I don't flinch. "What do you think went wrong out there tonight?"
"Everything," he growls. "We couldn't get it together. Simple as that."
"Do you think the loss falls more on the defense or the offense?" I press on, knowing I am pushing my luck.
"It falls on all of us," he says through gritted teeth. "We're a team. We win together, we lose together."
I nod, sensing his patience is wearing thin. "What do you think needs to change before the next game?”
Elliot takes a deep breath, clearly trying to control his temper. "We need to figure our shit out and play like we want to win."
I thank him for his time as he turns away without another word, heading toward the exit. I watch him go, feeling a curious mixture of pity and irritation. He is a mess, and it is affecting the whole team, but I push the thoughts of him out of my head and keep working until I have enough material.
Despite having another game in less than two days, I hear some of the team talking about hitting up a few bars after the game. I know it's their way of coping with the loss. One of the guys from the Red Wolves even invites me out to meet them, but I politely decline. I doubt that would go over well. Elliot already has a reputation for partying hard when things are going well. I can only imagine how much worse it will be when things go south like this. I can imagine him at the bar, knocking back shots, trying to drown his frustrations in alcohol. Probably taking some girl home with him. No thank you, I don't need to see that. It’s probably safer for me to steer clear.
I pack up my stuff and head back to my hotel room. My brain is running wild, unable to get my thoughts off of Elliot. His anger, his shark-like eyes, the way he looked at me with such hatred—it all swirls in my mind. And the more I think about it, the more pissed off I get. My phone alert breaks my concentration as I get a text from my camera guy, inviting me to go out with them to meet up with the Arizona guys.
You know what, maybe I should play with fire after all and give Elliot a piece of my mind. I text him back quickly that I'm in and get changed, throwing on a pair of tight jeans, a cropped turtleneck, and thigh-high black boots. We are in New Jersey in January, after all. I need to stay warm but also look hot. I pull my on-air curls into a high pony and head down to the lobby to meet my coworkers.
News of Elliot's wild night out spreads quickly as my phone buzzes incessantly with alerts even before our car arrives. Rumors of him getting into fights and causing a scene are already circulating. I groan inwardly, dreading the potential fallout. Maybe I shouldn’t do this? Running into him again could be a disaster. The tension between us is already too much to handle, but adding alcohol to the mix is a recipe for disaster. As our car picks us up and we make our way to the bar, I keep quiet, trying to focus on anything but the impending confrontation. The prospect of facing him tonight is enough to make my stomach churn.
I linger at the entrance of the bar, taking in the tense atmosphere. The players are on edge, snapping back at any Reapers fan that comes their way. The frustration is evident upon entering the room. Ford spots me and comes over to greet me, offering a small sense of welcoming energy amidst the chaos. Despite my nerves, I know I need to talk to Elliot. He has to get his head out of his ass and stop taking his self-destruction out on me. This cycle of anger and resentment is dragging both of us down, and it is time to confront it head-on.
Ford leads me to a table in the back where Elliot is seated with a few of the other guys. His sharp, angry eyes follow me as I approach. He looks worse than he did earlier. Is his eye swollen? Apparently, the reports were true, he is in a fighting mood. Once I get to the table, instead of sitting down by Ford, I stay standing a few feet away.
"Elliot," I say, trying to sound as non-confrontational as possible. "Do you mind if I talk to you for a minute?"
He stands quickly but makes no move forward, his expression turning murderous. "What do you want now?" he asks, his voice rough.
"Just get over yourself for a second," I say, stepping closer. "I have a few things to say, and you are going to listen."
He laughs bitterly. "Fine." He stalks past me and down the hallway. I follow him into the darkness, my heart pounding in my chest. The dim lighting and the muffled sounds of the bar create an eerie atmosphere, making the tension between us even more palpable. He stops halfway down the corridor, turns, and leans against the wall, waiting for me.
"This is not exactly what I meant when I asked for a private conversation," I say, my hand gesturing toward the men's restroom sign above us.
His eyes narrow at me as he snaps, "Vous me tuez, Anatife." The irritation in his tone is unmistakable as he opens the door to the bathroom, peeking inside before pushing me into the bathroom and following behind me, locking the door after it shuts.
The sudden change in setting is disorienting. "What the hell is your problem?" I demand, crossing my arms over my chest as I face him.
"My problem?" he retorts, his voice rising. "You're the one who can't seem to leave me alone, always pushing and prodding."
"I'm sick of this," I say, letting my frustration run wild. "You hate me, you take all your anger out on me, and you blame me for your self-destruction. It's not fair."
His expression hardens. "Oh, really? You think you know what it's like for me?"
I step closer, refusing to back down. "Yes, I messed up those first few interviews, but you need to get over yourself. Your losing streak, your anger issues—those are on you, not me."
His eyes flash with anger. There is something else there, too, something that makes my insides quiver in the best possible way. "You think it's that simple?" he growls, towering over me. "You have no idea what kind of pressure I'm under."
I stand my ground, my heart racing. "Maybe not, but I know that blaming me isn't productive!"
He runs a hand through his hair, exasperation clear on his face. "You think I want to be like this? You think I enjoy not being able to focus? To constantly be distracted. For every fucking thing to make me think about you. Do you think I like that?"
For a moment, I'm stunned, stuck in a silent standoff, our breaths coming in short, heated bursts. The space between us crackles with a volatile mix of anger and something far more dangerous. Without warning, Elliot grabs my arms, pulling me close.
"You think you can just tell me to get over myself, and that will just fix everything? That I'll get back to being able to play hockey. That I won't constantly remember those fucking noises you make when you come," he hisses, his face inches from mine.
I can feel the heat radiating off him, the raw energy exploding between us. "No," I whisper, my voice trembling. "But fighting with me isn't working either."
Elliot stares at me, his eyes blazing with an intensity that makes my knees weak. In a sudden, dizzying moment, his lips crash into mine. The kiss is hard and desperate, a collision of anger and lust that leaves me breathless.
My body reacts before my mind can catch up, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. His grip on my arm tightens, his heartbeat pounding against mine. With a bruising force, he turns me around, pulling me back against him. His hands roam my body, his mouth on my neck. I can distinctly feel his length hardening against me. His tongue runs alongside the shell of my ear as his hand skirts up the back of my neck into my ponytail, pulling it tight.
His other hand moves painfully slowly down my body. Elliot flicks open the button of my jeans with ease. In the moment, I choose not to think about how he is such an expert at it. Instead, I focus on the feeling of his fingers sliding down my body into my underwear.
His thick fingers toy with the edges of the fabric, and I feel a rush of wetness coat me. I know he can feel it, too, because he moves his palm over me, pressing into my core and growling into my neck. "Fuck, do you get this wet just for me, Ma Jolie Anatife?"
I try to answer, but words escape me. I'm only left with whimpers as his fingers slide under the fabric down to my clit. His index and middle finger frame my clit, spreading my arousal as they slide up and down, making me incredibly sensitive. Elliot breaks his attention from my neck, bringing it to the mirror in front of us. Making eye contact with me as he slides his middle finger deep into my slit.
His intrusion makes me buckle against him. It has been months since anyone has touched me like this. His firm arm pins me to his body as he strokes in and out of my center and watches my every reaction. Studying my expressions and my sounds, taking in everything that he can get from me. Elliot adds a second finger and continues to thrust his fingers into my cunt at a punishing pace. He brings his mouth back to my ear lobe, giving it a tug before moving my head by my ponytail so he can capture my mouth.
His hand continues to move as much as it can while inside me and confined within my tight jeans. Using his palm, he pounds into my clit with each thrust of his fingers. I break our kiss and whimper, "Oh my god, I'm so close." Elliot uses his other hand to move my head back so that my eyes are locked with his in the mirror.
"Watch yourself come on my fingers," he says, pressing his erection into my back. His fingers never waiver in their pleasuring of me.
I reach behind me, bracing myself on Elliot's thighs, unable to move an inch but afraid that I will lose sensation in my legs before he is done with me. "Yes, right there. Keep going!" I shout, holding nothing back. Elliot chuckles behind me, grinding into me as he adds a third finger. He puts the full pressure of his palm on my center, curling his fingers deep inside of me, hitting my inner walls, making me fall apart. My orgasms spasms through me, my limbs struggling to steady my weight.
When I am finally stable, Elliot pulls back, both of us gasping for breath, our eyes locking in a silent understanding. The anger is still there, but it has been eclipsed by something far more powerful. I watch in the mirror as he sucks my arousal off of his fingers. Watching him makes me want to jump his bones.
"Ziggy," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, "Don't look at me like that, or I won't be able to stop."
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of desire clouding my brain, but I don’t want to lose this feeling. I button my jeans, grab my purse, and unlock the door. "We can go back to hating each other afterward, Elliot." I say, my voice unsteady. Because, fuck it, if I don't feel his cock inside of me soon, I’m going to combust.