Chapter Twelve
My ill-advised text message taunts me.
That one A.M. text is only surpassed in frustration by Brad’s four A.M. response.
This reply is the height of hypocrisy. Brad was caught with his literal pants down that night at Fluke’s.
He’d argued that we weren’t “really” dating so it was fine for Livvy to blow him in the bathroom. If that was the case, it wouldn’t matter if I’d been screwing other guys.
I dwell on my response until late in the morning.
There’s also the obvious—we aren’t dating anymore. His texts have slowed to only once or twice a week, begging for my return but not making any promises. It’s typically something to the effect of, we both know you need me so help us both.
Every time, I throw back a comment about how I won’t return without knowing I have an indisputable place. That typically kills the conversation.
But what really bothers me, what irks me at the highest level, is that we’d been doing so well fueling his jealousy.
In love and war, controlling the conversation places you in the highest position of power. Deciding priorities secures the win.
We had been waging a shadow war to push Brad into taking an action he’d believe was his own idea. He’d beg for me back and offer a concrete commitment, and I’d phrase it when I did like he’d convinced me.
Now, though, I’m on the defensive and having to convince-slash-remind Brad why he wanted me at all.
There are very few skimpy outfits in my closet, but I pair a thong, a short flouncy skirt, and a cute, lacey bra to snap a few salacious pics.
Once they’re edited, I study the screen entirely too long, debating whether to use them.
It feels like cheating on the Wyatt Pack to hit send.
Bah. Instead of going nuclear, I wander the house for things to add to the guys’ accounts. They’re out all day today, which leaves me totally unsupervised.
As I pass through room after room, I tidy up as I go. I’m not really cleaning so much as fidgeting for the greater good. I use Trick’s canned air to dust the variety of trophies in his office.
And then genius strikes.
Pulling up his account, I take a long shot of the built-in bookshelves filled with awards, memorabilia, and all manner of hockey lore and legend.
The lighting isn’t ideal. I throw open the curtains to allow the daylight to stream in and focus in on one item in particular.
A glass box surrounds a hockey puck with a faded silver signature along the edge. A quick online search explains that Lenny Grakowski was a prolific defensemen in the eighties and nineties. There’s no plaque on the display, so I have no idea why this puck is important other than that Trick put it in the box.
I still snap off a few pictures of it and throw them all up on Trick’s socials. Instead of a traditional caption, I add a few interesting facts about Grakowski and post it up. I also engage with Vin’s and Mason’s accounts so he’ll get more of their posts when he’s scrolling his feed.
Not that I’ve ever seen him on the feed, but it’s an option at least.
For Mason, I do a good ole’ fashioned text block and add his last season’s stats in the minors. Most of his feed is ab-heavy thirst traps—which, fair. But if he wants to reform his image, he needs to pretend like he’s more than man meat.
With Vin, though, I take a different approach. Instead of going full promo mode, I snap a picture of his hockey bag in the laundry room. I add a sepia filter and vignette to it and caption it, A Day in the Life. I then go around snagging a few more of the small messes the guys leave behind.
Satisfied that I’ve earned my salary, I lounge on my very favorite couch and scroll my timelines.
I have a solid hour before meeting Jolie for dinner.
And I’m all dressed up in a way that cannot leave the house.
The full-length mirror in Mason’s room is meticulously clean. Not a speck or streak to be seen.
That’s perfect because I face away from it, cross my legs at the ankles, and bend all the way forward. I fall against his bed twice, but with a bit of balance, I position the phone precisely in front of the naughty bits and let the timer do the rest.
The position is awkward, but it shows off the lean muscle in my thighs. A viewer’s eye chases straight from the straps of my heels, up the back of my legs, and zeroes in on the black rectangle surrounded by skin.
The one hand holding the phone contrasts starkly with my fingers wrapped mid-thigh with nails digging into my skin. The thong strap cutting north above the phone makes it clear that the fabric beneath barely covers anything. The short skirt sticks into the air and creates a background for the curve of my ass.
I don’t take naked pics. The closest I ever get is a cleavage shot for a tease. All of the pictures I’ve exchanged with Mason have been fake.
Well, they were from the internet. So, still fake but believable.
There’s beauty in the image, though. The woman in the photo is confident. She pursues what she wants and only goes as far as she’s comfortable. She bares it all while still leaving the functional equivalent of a censor bar.
Also, she’s fucking hot.
I desperately want to be her.
Sprawled out on Mason’s bed, I stare at the image and reread the text chain with Brad too many times.
I’m just not ready.
His words pace circles in my mind.
The salacious picture urges me to make use of it.
I want to send it. It’s fucking hot.
I shouldn’t.
It’s definitely going to send the wrong message.
It’s obviously me.
If my face had been visible in any way, I’d never have even saved it in my camera roll.
I send it anyway. The swoop is irreversible.
For a solid thirty seconds, I lie there and fret that I’ve fucked up the whole scheme.
The trill of the phone startles me out of my spiraling so severely I physically jump. I hit the “accept” button without checking the screen, but I know who it is.
“Fuck, Izzy. I nearly crashed my car,” Mason says on the other end.
“If you don’t like it, then delete it.”
“It’s my new wallpaper.”
“Mason, don’t you fucking dare!”
“Home screen, not lock screen. No one can see your gorgeous ass but me. And maybe the guys when I’m feeling vindictive. Are you still in my room?”
“In your bed, actually.”
He groans. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Faster than ten minutes. Don’t move.”
Chuckling, I reply, “I have to get ready to go to dinner with Jolie.”
“Are you saying it wasn’t an invitation? Because the blue balls from this will cause permanent damage.”
I tsk at him. “It’s not my fault when you have performance issues.”
“I’ve never had performance issues or complaints. In nine minutes, I’ll be there to prove it to you.”
“I have to go, Mason. See you tonight.”
“Izzy, don’t—”
I hang up on him.
But I can’t keep the smile off my face. Mason is the perfect antidote for insecure Izzy.
The smile remains all throughout dinner.
My best friend barely notices and never asks me about my day.
The entire meal is consumed by flipping bridal magazines in the restaurant booth, cutting them up, and taping them into a binder.
I love Jolie like a sister. I’m excited for the wedding. Truly, I am.
Does it need to be the only thing we talk about?
I haven’t even had the chance to tell her about the social media gig with the guys. It’s a huge boost to my paltry savings.
At least part of that may be because I’m certain she’ll shit all over it because it has to do with them.
It’s ten grand a month for an hour of daily work. Who in their right mind turns that down?
Mason’s asleep in my bed when I get home.
Once undressed, I cuddle into his arms and make myself the little spoon.
“You are pure evil,” he mutters, half asleep. “Do you know the couch smells like you and sex? Pretty sure I should be sending you some doctor bills for shock and sprains.”
“Reasons you love me.”
He breathes softly, but a minute later he murmurs through his sleep.
“You’re going back to him. It’ll be torture when you wear his number and cheer his name.”
He nuzzles my neck and snores fully without saying anything else.
Fucking damn it.
* * *
Nine more days.
For nine long, agonizing days, the guys and I rotate around each other. My work cube becomes a small reprieve from the intensity of emotions.
They travel for two of them at an away game, and I both hate it and am relieved.
I’m afraid of getting too close to them, both for Brad and for myself.
They’re trying to be respectful. Their whole lives are hockey, day in and day out. It didn’t feel that way with Brad.
I’m a corollary to the center of their world, no more and no less.
My nerves are shot and I’ve become hyperaware of every microexpression and perceived slight.
Vin didn’t eat dinner. Does he not like my cooking?
I forgot to pack Mason his spare skate guards. He says he didn’t need them, but is he only being polite?
Why hasn’t Trick knocked on my door since that night?
I know why he knocked. He was being kind; that’s all.
We all recognize that I’m not staying and couldn’t even if I wanted to. Trick’s insisted on paying me weekly. That immensely awkward conversation conveyed the premise that, “we don’t know how much longer I’ll be here, so it’s best this way.”
Vin is in full blown sullen boy. He pouts around the house with his shoulders hunched and his head down.
Mason’s sleeping in my room most nights. In the irony of all ironies, we cuddle and occasionally kiss but it never goes beyond that.
I kicked him out the first time, then ended up in his room instead and we admitted defeat.
The single, shining upshot is that it’s affecting Brad every bit as much. He’s missed shots and failed to adequately argue calls in both of the first two games of the season.
He surreptitiously texts me from the bench to ask if I’m watching and tells me not to bother when I lie and say I’m not.
It all defeats part of the purpose of the pact, but it also serves part of it, and my head is too conflicted to reason out a new course of action.
All attempts at “practice” with the guys have ceased. The fundraiser is later today, and we are woefully unprepared.
All of this is why I’m standing here, in front of the door to the home gym I’ve only ever been in to clean.
Their trainer, I think his name is Estie or Eddie, already left five minutes ago. That means that Trick and Mason are done with their morning session. They normally come up right after.
The bottles in my hand are cold but it’s not as chilly as the reception I’m expecting.
Blowing out a breath, I fiddle with the knob and shove my way into the room.
Mirrors lining the far wall confront me with the abrupt realization I’ve invaded their sacred space. The guys are both circling on a mat on the other side of the room. Trick’s got hit pads on his hands while Mason takes swings.
“More,” Trick demands, and it has that alpha intonation that sends a frisson of energy up my spine.
“Don’t look at her,” he snaps. “Focus, Mason.”
I’m a little peeved at that, but it’s fair enough. I’m the intruder.
“What do you need, Izzy?” Trick asks.
“You can talk to her but I can’t even look at her?”
“Yes.”
Mason mutters to himself but continues the pattern.
One, two, dip, dip.
“I brought you water,” I say feebly.
“Leave it on the floor outside the circle,” Trick responds.
My toes dig into the mat like they’ll actually dig into the floor and keep me grounded.
I watch them circle each other for several minutes. Condensation on the outside of the bottles drips across my hand.
Trick has to give Mason several more corrections to remain focused.
“If you’re going to stand there, then you get to help,” Trick informs me. “Come stand behind me, outside the circle.”
“Erm, sure,” I squeak out and quickly do as I’m told. His eyes skim over me as I pass by.
“When was the last time you stretched?” he asks.
“Like, in a gym?”
“Yes, in a gym.”
“Weeks. Months. I haven’t exactly had time and my calves burn from cleaning the house as it is.”
“First, you should be stretching if you have muscle soreness, regardless of the cause. Second, I want you to stretch.”
“You want me to distract Mason.”
“Are you comfortable doing that?”