21. Thick As Thieves #2
I accept his gesture, and the lived-in anxiety that has followed me ever since our rendezvous in the kitchen flakes off in the presence, ironically, of the one person who instigated it in the first place.
Just thinking about the way Sutton worshipped me with a devout tongue and a prayer wrapped in desperation brings me to a fever pitch that directly cancels out the ominous chill circulating through a ventless room.
We shouldn’t be unsupervised. There’s literally nothing stopping him from picking me up, planting my butt on the table, and going back for sevenths. I’d give “hands-on journalism” a whole new meaning.
Come on, Lake. Just ask him a few questions. Get what you need from him and save the risqué stuff for the bedroom. You can control yourself, can’t you?
Pish, yeah, totally, Inner Me.
Flipping to a clean piece of paper in my notebook, I begin the interview, slightly more flustered than usual since Sutton is squeezing my palm and shining his megawatt smile right in my face.
“Do you have any pregame rituals that help with the nerves?”
Unlike his other teammates, Sutton genuinely brightens at the question, and I can’t take all the credit for it. He loves to help people out of the kindness of his heart. Given that interactions have become strictly transactional in this day and age, the public could use more people like him.
I don’t doubt that this question has been asked a million times before, but Sutton responds as if it’s the most introspective thing in the entire universe.
“As hockey players, a lot of us are superstitious. Me included. Some of the guys wear their lucky underwear, some of the guys pop a handful of their favorite candy, and I recite five things I’m grateful for to put the game into perspective. ”
“What do you mean ‘put the game into perspective’?”
Either Sutton has prepared extensively for this interview, or he’s just made for the spotlight.
I tend to think the latter, though he would disagree with me.
He’s so certain about himself—so unafflicted by humanistic vices for a person who’s been through his fair share of trauma. It’s inspiring. He’s inspiring.
“We take games very seriously. For a majority of players, their careers depend on whether or not they perform to a scout’s expectations.
Pressure comes with the territory, and a lot of times, it can cloud self-judgment.
I’m not impervious to pregame jitters. I like to remind myself that whether we win or lose, the world will keep spinning.
Success isn’t linear, you know? As a team, sometimes we suffer, but the hardships we overcome only make us stronger. ”
My jaw practically slams against the table. For someone who’s inclined to act like the world is ending when the slightest inconvenience comes my way, Sutton’s mindset is very eye-opening. No wonder the guy is always calm.
“What are you grateful for?” I ask.
His hand voluntarily—or involuntarily—squeezes mine, and warmth settles in the bottom of my gut like sediment sinking into a lake-dwelling forest of algae. Anticipation has its finger on the invisible trigger, and my heart rattles in the brittle amphitheater of my chest.
“I don’t know how interesting of an article this would make, but I’m—there’s this girl, yeah?
She’s stunning, and she has this smile that takes the wind out of me every time I see it.
Her hair is like gold silk, she smells like farm-fresh strawberries, and don’t even get me started on her personality.
She’s my silver lining when days are dark. ”
Goddammit, Lake. Crying on the job is definitely not professional!
I nod robotically, trying to blink back tears while looking like I’m not totally destroyed by his confession. All the saliva in my mouth seems to have evaporated, and the heat that courses through me is back for the kill, intent on plastering the armpits of my tight button-up to my underarms.
My voice trembles. “She sounds amazing.”
“She is. You should meet her sometime. I think the two of you would get along great.”
I don’t get the chance to respond before Sutton crooks his finger and beckons me closer like he has some juicy dirt that would greatly enhance the quality of my article.
Foolishly, I withdraw my hand to lean forward, and his fast reflexes allow him to grab my tie and pull my body halfway across the table. The chair underneath me shoots out and screeches against the floor, my balance suspended in Sutton’s grasp.
I freeze as if I’m some defenseless prey caught in the eyeline of a hungry predator, while all those previous, sappy emotions bow for their curtain call.
I try to maintain some semblance of calm, though to little avail. “Care to provide a name, Mr. Whittaker?”
The nearly horizontal position of my body plus the strain of displacing my weight makes my cleavage burst against the neckline of my shirt, and Sutton’s eyes follow the curve of my neck with carnal desire, as if he’s mentally marking off every pit stop he can suck a hickey into.
“She knows who she is,” he drawls, his tone mutating into a growl that instructs me to press my thighs together. If anyone walked in right now, they’d get a face full of my lace-clad ass. My pencil skirt is school-appropriate, but not in this capacity.
Fuck, I need him to lay me on this table and have his fill.
“I hope she knows how much of a cock-tease you are,” I jest.
He leans in far enough that his lips skim the shell of my ear. “Au contraire, I think she fucking loves it.”