Chapter Eight Randall
A thumbs up emoji? What the hell is wrong with me?
The picture of Elise blowing me a kiss while wearing my jersey left me speechless. Way to impress a girl, Haughland. I’m officially an idiot.
“That was a great period,” Sergei, our biggest defenseman, says to me while I scowl at my phone. “Why do you look like you’re about to pummel someone?”
“I don’t,” I snap, like I’m about to pummel someone.
I had sent a locker room staffer to the section where Elise is sitting to deliver one of my jerseys. The only reason I let a goal in was because I saw the number on her upper arm when she turned slightly. It was a sucker punch, the wrongness of Lance freaking Jefferson’s name anywhere on Elise’s body.
“Heads up and pay attention,” Coach Zach yells. “Good work out there but we need to beat them to the puck, win those battles at the corners. Gordon, you’re taking Ron’s spot at the second line. Stay close to Mansour. Shut him down.”
Gordon nods. “You got it, Coach.”
“Randall, keep challenging the shots. Cut those angles. That last one was a tough rebound. Tighten up. The rest of you, keep up the forecheck! Now let’s go and kick some ass!”
We shuffle to refit our equipment. Everyone waits for me to go out first, which is tradition for the Mavericks locker room. The goalie of the game hits the ice first and the second goalie walks out of the locker room behind everyone. Tonight, Jeremy is taking my usual seat on the sidelines. I don’t mind being his backup one bit, though no one could keep me from the net tonight.
The first five minutes, I’m peppered with slapshots from the blue line. My guys do a decent job of keeping my sight line clear, which means pushing two-hundred-pound men out of my way. A puck you expect is one you can stop. Usually, anyway. Midway through the second period, the momentum shifts, and we convert a powerplay to tie the game.
The game is at a fever pitch, the tension thick in the air when Mansour slips out of Gordon’s check and speeds toward me. All his teammates surge behind him like a pack of hungry wolves. I square off, the noise dimming and my focus tunneling to the puck. Mansour gets to me in lightning speed and cranks up. I sense the moment he considers the pass. That split second of hesitation costs him, because now Gordon has caught up.
He passes to another teammate, and I slide to make the save, but the shot is deflected by my own defenseman’s stick, changing the trajectory. It lifts and is about to go over my shoulder, but I tilt my head, hoping to get a piece of it. I hear as much as feel the impact of a hard flying object hitting my reinforced helmet. The puck soars sideways. At the corner of my eye, I see Sergei fight off a brute to get possession. When he blasts the puck across the rink and out of our zone, I let myself hear the thunderous roar of the arena.
A goalie has a number of resources at his disposal: a long stick with a thick blade, a netted glove for snatching pucks out of thin air, padding to serve as armor. All of these are maximized when natural reflexes and acute awareness slow the game down. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s happening tonight.
Sometimes, I experience what I think of as a beach-ball night. It’s when the puck—small, fast, unpredictable—behaves like a large and lazy beach ball that can be swatted away with ease.
Each shot comes at me like it’s in slow motion. We win three to one.
After the team’s post-victory huddle, I practically run to the shower, eager to get out of the arena and meet up with Elise. I’m not a superstitious man, although I can’t deny the boost I felt seeing her cheering for me.
“Saw your girl out there,” Gordon says from the shower stall beside mine.
“She’s not my girl.”
“Right,” Sean butts in from my other side. “You almost threw a dart in my eye when I tried to help her with her game.” I swear my teammates are mind readers sometimes.
“We’re having fun,” I say.
“For now,” Gordon says before submerging his soapy head under running water.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“At some point, casual won’t be enough for her.”
“You don’t know Elise,” I snap, although the thought still sticks.
Is that how things will eventually play out? Nah, it’s not possible.
We’re alike, that’s the beauty of it. Neither wants to play games. All the sex without the commitment. We could make matching t-shirts.
“She texted me that she’ll be at Pint House after the game. You guys coming?”
“The drama queen gonna be there?” Gordon asks, trying to seem casual but failing. It’s obvious he’s got a thing for Lily.
“Only one way to find out,” I answer.
Half the team tags along. We don’t have practice till two tomorrow so I’m feeling good about the rest of the night, which I plan to spend with Elise.
Had enough of the quickies we’ve managed lately. Don’t get me wrong; every minute inside her is incredible. But it might be nice to take our time. Maybe sleep in at the hotel tomorrow. That is, if I can finally convince her to stay overnight. Call in room service in the morning. Or I could have her for breakfast. She’ll make an exception for breakfast in bed, I’m sure of it.
Elise is a beacon as soon as I enter the bar. She isn’t even facing me, but I know the shape of her back and the tender dip between her shoulder blades. She’s wearing a red dress with a low back held up by delicate crisscross straps. With her long dark hair in a swinging ponytail and her kick-ass boots, she’s the hottest girl here.
My hand slips around her waist easily. She snaps her head back but then relaxes when she sees me.
“Hey there, Haughland,” she whispers and gives me a peck on the cheek.
I tilt her chin up and give her a real kiss on the lips. She stiffens for a second and then slumps her softness onto my chest, opening her mouth for a single glide of our tongues.
“You’d have been screwed if it wasn’t for Randall,” Lily says to Gordon, drawing our attention. “Hardly saw you on the ice, come to think of it. Were you even there?”
“I was there, sweetheart,” he drawls with a smirk. “Too fast and dazzling for you to keep up, though. Don’t worry about it. Not everyone has hockey IQ.”
“Are you sure you’re using the concept of IQ correctly?”
“What, you think I’m all beauty and no brains?” Gordon asks to continue the teasing.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t think about you at all,” Lily quips to the amused hollering of the table. These two are a hoot.
“Randall, do you think we can talk? Just the two of us?” Elise asks.
“Yeah, let me get a drink real quick.”
“I got you this, actually,” she said, holding up a pint of beer. “It’s an amber ale, like the one you had the first night.”
Could this girl get any better? “Thanks,” I say, indulging in a hearty gulp. “How about you? Need me to get you something?”
She takes a sip from mine and something about the intimacy of us sharing a drink makes my cock press against my zipper.
“I’m good for now.”
She leans over to touch Lily’s arm, probably to say where she’s heading. A wordless, telepathic message passes between the two of them before Elise tugs my wrist and pulls me deeper into the bar.
We slalom between people to navigate the crowd. Our hands are linked, but that doesn’t stop every guy we pass from giving her a glance. They’re checking out the hint of cleavage at the V of her dress and the absolute certainty that she isn’t wearing a bra. She should not have removed my jersey. Speaking of which, where is it?
Past the bathrooms, Elise pushes out the door of a back exit. It leads to a patio that will probably be open for business next weekend now that the weather is nice. Tonight, the chairs are stacked and we’re alone.
My restraint falls away the second the noise from the crowded bar is muffled by the shut door. I pull her to me and press my erection against her stomach. My hands massage up her back. She sighs like I unloaded a burden she’d been carrying all day.
We kiss the way I’d been wanting to for days, ever since I left her at that theater and realized I couldn’t even wait to remove my jacket before we had sex. My need is so strong, it’s insatiable. The only source of satisfaction is more of Elise, but more of her is exactly what makes me hungry.
These are all complicated thoughts that shut down once she sweeps her tongue in my mouth and grips my hair so hard it’s nearly painful. But as with everything with Elise, even the sting feels good.
When we come up for air, we’re both breathing hard. I walk us to a darker corner of the patio and cradle her smooth back with one arm, while my hand roams up her sides and cups a tender breast.
“Jesus, Elise, you gotta warn me when you wear a dress like this.”
“Why?”
“It drives me fucking crazy how beautiful you are. I can’t decide if I want to stare at you all night or cover you up so no one else sees you like this.”
“There’s a third option, you know,” she says teasingly.
“You mean the one where I rip it off so I can fuck you? I was too classy to mention that one.”
Her laughter tinkles in the night air. “You were amazing at the game. I don’t know much about hockey, but I know you made the difference. You won it for the team.”
“You in my jersey must be a lucky charm.”
“You don’t need any luck, Randall Haughland. You’re incredible all on your own.”
Something gets stuck in my throat at her words and the way she’s looking at me like I’m the best hockey player in the world. Here’s the thing: I’m not.
Fans watch and analyze the superstars. Commentators pay attention to the supporting cast. Coaches place their units according to need and talent. But between players, we assess each other against each other.
It isn’t some misplaced humility for me to say that the top players of the Mavericks are better in their role than I am in mine. And our goalie? Jeremy Lopez is bound to win the Vezina Trophy one day for the best goalie in the league. I’m replaceable. He’s not.
I’m probably the least important person on the team aside from the kid they pulled up from the minors because Simon, one of our veteran right wingers, is still recovering from knee surgery. Even the goon on the fourth line is more critical than I am. He only plays ten of a sixty-minute game, but when I’m not on net, that’s ten more minutes than me.
My point is, this girl who knows nothing about hockey is making me want to be better at it. To deserve a little of that adoration she’s handing out like candy on Halloween.
“Can I keep your jersey?” she asks hopefully. “As a memento of the game?”
“You’ll need the jersey. I expect you to wear it to every game from now on.”
Her mouth opens and nothing comes out. Then she does the last thing I expect. Elise wiggles out of my arms and steps back. I feel the night air swirl between us, colder than it was five minutes ago.
“C’mere, you’ll freeze.” Or I’ll freeze, because an icy tingle makes the hair on my forearms stand.
“I’m good. I brought you out here because I have to tell you something.”
“Sure,” I say casually, although there’s a tapering of her voice, a hesitation that I’ve never heard before.
“My play, I mean, a play I wrote—”
“You wrote a play?”
“Yeah; anyway, it was picked up by a local theater company. To be part of their summer program.”
“Congratulations!” I exclaim proudly. I reach out and hug her, which she allows before pulling away again.
“Thank you. It’s just that, well, this changes things for me.”
“I get that. It’s a big deal.”
“The reason I keep things casual, as you know, is because I’m not really built for a serious relationship.”
“We think the same way. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. We have fun. It’s been great, hasn’t it?”
“Amazing. It’s been amazing, Randall. You’re great.”
Ignoring the knot clogging my throat, I ask, “Why does that sound like a bad thing right now?”
“I should be clearer. I’m sorry.” She worries her bottom lip before continuing. “Here’s the thing—this is our last date. Tonight is, er, tonight is our last date.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I’m distracted by the sheen on her mouth. I shake my head to refocus. “Did you say tonight is our last date?” It’s such a ridiculous thought, saying it out loud doesn’t make sense.
“If that’s what you want. Maybe there’s someone else you’d rather leave with. Obviously, I’d understand.”
Wait a minute. I didn’t lose focus for that long. What the fuck?
“Are you kidding me? There’s no one else I want to leave with.” I scowl because the words taste foul in my mouth. “Seems I’m missing about ten steps, so you’re gonna need to back up. Unless…unless there’s someone you’d rather leave with.”
The foul taste in my mouth turns out to be bile. Thinking of Elise leaving with someone else tonight makes me sick.
“No! No, of course not.”
We’re staring at each other, breathing hard but not for fun reasons. Shit, this is not at all what I expected. If I’m hearing her correctly, this is the opposite of what I expected.
“I don’t date or get involved with anyone when I’m in production. That’s been the case in the past, but this, this opportunity to direct my own play, it’s ten times more important to me. Please tell me you understand.”
No, I don’t, but I let the words sink in. We’re not even really together or involved in an official way. It’s not like I’m asking for more than she’s been willing to give. Everything has been perfect. She’s perfect: a woman who loves sex and hates commitment.
“You won’t have time to get together as often. You wanna focus on work. I get that. I freaking respect that. What I don’t understand is why you’re talking like we’re never seeing each other again.”
“After tonight, we shouldn’t be seeing each other again.”
“At all?”
To avoid eye contact, she looks over my shoulder and mutters, “At all.”
I pause to process details.
After tonight, we shouldn’t be seeing each other again.
“We shouldn’t” is more complicated than “we won’t.” She doesn’t sound persuaded by her own argument. If there’s one thing you learn from being raised by a lawyer, conviction is the foundation for intention. Elise is barely convincing herself.
We have tonight. A few hours are all I’ll need to fix the misunderstanding and get us back on track.
“You said this is our last date. It isn’t finished yet.”
“No, it isn’t.” Her gaze locks on mine. “If that’s what you want.”
“What I want,” I say slowly, pulling her close and whispering in her ear, “is to have you under me with your legs open and my name on your lips.”
Her breath hitches and her body melts.
I tilt her chin up so she can’t miss my intention. “Say it,” I order gruffly.
Her smile is a mix of affection and anticipation. Brushing her braless top over my chest, Elise offers up what I want. “Yes, sir.”