Chapter Sixteen
Rhodes
I’m fucked. I haven’t stopped thinking about her mouth for the last two days, and it’s a problem. Monroe Abrams is a serious problem.
Because now I know what she tastes like, and it’s not just a fantasy in my head. I know what she sounds like when she’s gasping against my lips and grinding her hips against me. What it feels like when she’s not fighting to pull away.
And I want more, because I’m greedy like that.
It’s not just a passing thought, either. It’s a hunger. A distraction. A permanent fixture in my head, taunting me every time I close my eyes.
Her tongue was in my mouth. I chased her moans with mine.
And I swear to God, I can still feel it. Still feel the way she gasped when I tugged her braid. Still feel her breath, hot and uneven, when I kissed her neck, ran my hands down the sides of her body.
‘Slow,’ she said. I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to be capable of slow considering I’m halfway to proposing marriage and all we did was make out. I’m pretty sure if she ever lets me closer than that, I’ll be on my knees in more ways than one.
She needs someone in her corner. I want to be in her corner.
I want to text her during the day just to hear her bitch about whatever is pissing her off.
I want to bring her dinner after my practice because I know she forgets to eat when she’s working on her schoolwork or clinic plans.
I want her to snark at me just so I can kiss the attitude off her lips. I want to bring her around my friends.
I should back off and let her have her space. I told her I’d be patient and I’m not a liar. She’s going to drive me crazy, but she isn’t going to scare me off. I’ll let her call it whatever she wants if it lets me get closer. This is my long game.
I stand in my shower and look down at my hand wrapped tightly around my cock, hard at the thought of her.
My jaw clenches at the memory of our tongues tangled together, and it aches.
I kissed her so hard I can still feel the imprint of her lips against mine, the phantom press of her tongue against my teeth.
My fingers flex, squeezing my dick, and it pisses me off that it’s not her skin under my hands instead.
The water is scorching hot, but it doesn’t burn away the fact that I still want more.
I’m trying to be respectful. I am really trying—but my brain won’t stop picturing what her smart mouth would look like wrapped around other parts of me.
I close my eyes, and all I see is Monroe—red hair fisted in my hands, hazel eyes gone dark, gasping my name. My body tenses, pleasure snapping through me like a live wire, and I come so hard my legs shake.
I stand there in the shower, letting the hot water wash my body clean, and I take a deep breath.
I need to get ready for my game tonight and head to the rink. I want Monroe there to see me play. I want her in the stands.
Preferably in my jersey.
I towel dry off as I muse over how I can get her a McKnight jersey delivered before the game starts in a few hours. I shoot a text off to Kelsey to see if she can work some magic in four hours or less.
Rhodes (2:30pm): Kels, I need a favor.
Kelsey (2:30pm): What’s up, McKnight?
Rhodes (2:32pm): Might be out of your scope of work but I need you to get a McKnight jersey to someone before the game tonight. With a note.
Kelsey (2:33pm): Send me the address.
I quickly type in the address and write out what I want the note to say to Monroe. I’m putting the ball in her court. In her arena? Whatever. It’ll be up to her to show.
But damn do I want her to.
My phone buzzes, and it’s the group chat. I shake off my nerves over Monroe and try to get my head in the game.
Finn (2:35pm): It’s game day, boys. Everyone hydrated?
Callum (2:36pm): Does beer count?
JD (2:37pm): No. Jesus Christ.
Tyler (2:38pm): I hope you puke in the first period, King.
Beck (2:39pm): Let’s fucking GO.
Rhodes (2:40pm): Cal, do not pregame with beer. We can clinch the playoffs.
Finn (2:43pm): Ok, dad.
Callum (2:43pm): You never let us have any fun.
Tyler (2:44pm): That Stanley Cup has our name all over it.
JD (2:45pm): Fuck yeah.
Callum (2:45pm): Is Monroe coming tonight?
Rhodes (2:48pm): Maybe. It’s a home game. Her dad is the coach.
Finn (2:49pm): YAY! We’re getting a new mom!
Beck (2:59pm): Locker room in 20.
Callum (3:00pm): Rhodes, you gonna score one for your lady?
Rhodes (3:01pm): I’ll score one for your mom, King.
I shut off my phone screen and finish pulling my stuff together for the game.
* * * *
The locker room is buzzing with energy as soon as I walk in. Skates clatter against the floor, the smell of menthol and sweat hang in the air. Every game we win puts us closer to the Conference Finals in May, then hopefully? The Stanley Cup.
I lace up my skates, tuning out the usual pre-game chaos. Beck tosses a tape roll at Finn’s head, Tyler’s blasting whatever EDM mix he’s convinced is “elite warm-up music”, and JD’s got his earplugs in, doing his pre-game meditation. Callum is stretching with our physical therapist, Jessa.
“Does Monroe have a jersey?” Beck asks, nonchalantly.
“Uh.” I hesitate. “I might have sent her a jersey.” I wanted every guy in a thousand-mile radius to know Monroe was off the market. Not available. Mine. Even if it wasn’t official. I wanted my name on her back so badly it was driving me crazy.
“Cool. Hope she wears it, man.” Then a beat before, “I gave one to Sloane, too.” I snap my head up at him and catch his shit-eating grin. “Just kidding,” he laughs.
“It’s not funny, Larsson,” I growl. “That’s my baby sister.”
He snorts. “No Sloane. Got it.”
“Fuck off. Focus on the game.” I scowl, flipping him off.
“All of you, focus up.” Coach’s voice cuts through the noise.
The room falls silent. He scans the room, and lands on me.
“McKnight,” he says, tone unreadable. “You locked in?”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes flick between me and my grinning teammates. I wonder if he knows I have a thing for Monroe. If he does, he doesn’t call me out on it right now, which is great. I have a game to win. Playoffs to qualify for. A team to lead.
A girl to impress. If she shows.
I push all of that to the back of my mind and return the nod he gives me. “Good. Win this game, boys.”
I shove my phone into my locker, ignoring several more missed calls from my dad.
He’s becoming impossible to ignore these days.
The requests for money were becoming incessant, and I still hadn’t told anyone else that he was back and bothering me again.
Kelsey was finally getting me back into the good graces of the league media, the press was leaving me alone again, we were winning. I had Monroe.
Answering his call would ruin all of that, and I just didn’t have the bandwidth for it. I wasn’t sure Coach would either.
I shake my head, getting into my game zone. I’d think about all of this later.
Then we’re on the move, headed for the tunnel.
The arena is electric. It’s home ice and a full house, and the energy is crackling like static before a storm. This is where I thrive. I knew the first time I stepped onto the ice as a kid that this was it. I’d do anything to stay here.
I take my spot at center ice for the face-off. The ref whistles and the arena goes quiet, save for the puck that drops like a rock onto the ice.
And it’s game on.
We push hard out of the gate, aggressive on the forecheck, cycling through the zone with precision.
I know it’s a good game. I can feel it with every pass.
We’re working hard together, making the right calls.
Weston isn’t letting anything past him. JD and Tyler hold the blue line while Finn and Callum dig in the corners.
The visiting team’s goalie makes two quick saves, but we control possession.
Because of course we do. We’re the damn Wolverines.
Seven minutes in, we get a power play.
I plant myself in the slot, stick on the ice, eyes locked on the puck. Beck handles the point, feeding Jax along the boards. Jax threads a pass through the other team, right to my stick.
I fire the puck toward the goal and wait for what seems like an eternity. The goalie lunges toward it—and misses.
The arena erupts for the first goal of the game.
I skate to the glass, fists raised. Callum tackles me into the boards.
One-zero, Wolverines.
By the third period, the score is tied two-two. I am desperate to break the tie and sink this win. I keep looking in the stands for Monroe, but I don’t see her. I push the disappointment down in my chest and focus on the game. I hope I’m just missing her.
I’m exhausted, my lungs burning, my legs screaming, but I refuse to lose this game. Beck shoots me the puck and I take off, weaving through the sea of players.
I wait—wait for the gap, wait for the perfect second. If I’m patient, a slot always opens up. I wait one more moment.
Then I rip it.
Goal.
The crowd explodes and I get mobbed by my teammates, helmet smacks and gloves pounding my back. The only way it would have been better is if Monroe had been here to see it.
I let that fade to the back of my mind, though, because we just won and I can’t let my guys down. I skate to center ice, stick raised to the fans, adrenaline still buzzing under my skin. The cheers from the crowd feel absolutely electric. I’m buzzing with the high of the win.
Then—I swear I can feel her before I see her.
Monroe.
She’s in the first row near the tunnel, arms crossed, the tiniest smirk on her face like she’s trying not to smile.
It’s cute because she’s failing miserably.
I wonder when the hell she got to the game, because I’ve been scouring the stands whenever I had a free moment.
I decide I don’t care because she’s here now.
I rake my eyes down her body—oversized Wolverines jersey, black leggings—but my brain short-circuits because is it my jersey?
And because if it’s not McKnight, I might actually lose my damn mind.
I lift my hand, twirling my finger. Turn around. Now.
The boys are still skating around me, whooping for our win, but I can’t process anything beyond the clench in my gut and the pounding in my chest. I left the jersey for her, but did she put it on or did she wear one she already had?
She points to herself and feigns confusion. I sigh in exasperation.
“Turn around, Abrams,” I yell across the ice. She grins at me before turning around agonizingly slowly.
McKnight is blazoned across her shoulder blades like a brand. I exhale hard, relief crashing over me in a way I absolutely refuse to examine right now.
My heart is thumping wildly in my chest, and if it could speak, I swear it would be chanting mine, mine, mine.
She turns back around with a little wave and saunters out with the crowd leaving the arena. I’m still standing there like an idiot once she’s gone, unable to make my brain and legs connect long enough to actually move.
Finn hoots and hollers next to me, pointing at Monroe as she exits into a sea of people. “Told ya! New mom!”
Beck skates up next to us and chuckles, slapping me on the shoulders. “Oh, yeah. You’re fucked, buddy.”