Howie
I thought signing with the Fury was the happiest I’d ever be, but it turns out living with Ella Rujkowski, and just getting to be with her, is way better.
We took things to the next level last night, and today, when Ella comes home from her shift, I wait for her in bed.
She climbs in beside me like we’ve always slept together, and we make out for a while before she falls asleep with her head on my chest. I lie there with the solid weight of her on me, and her breath against my collarbone, and I think: I could do this forever.
Ella sits on my lap wearing only my jersey.
It’s hot as fuck, but I told her she can’t come until she passes a practice quiz.
I’m not sure I’m going to make it. She’s on a roll, though, eyes pinched shut in concentration while I touch her everywhere except her clit.
She gets every question right while I tell her she’s brilliant.
Her cheeks flush, and she bites back a smile along with a moan when I let the side of my thumb graze her swollen little nub.
After she nails the last question, I slam the laptop shut, and she jams a condom on me so fast. We fuck right there on the couch, with her on top again, nipples poking out through the material of my shirt.
She comes twice with my hand between us, and I watch her face because I’m collecting these expressions like some kids store up hockey cards.
Ella has the day off, and I don’t have PT. We stay in the bedroom until the skin on my cock is sore. She sits cross-legged on the mattress, naked, while we recite drug interactions. I lick every inch of her body, and then I eat Thai food off her stomach while she shrieks that the noodles are cold.
After I lap up the last drop of sauce, she grabs me by the hair and says, “You’re actually a St. Bernard, aren’t you? Big and drooly, taking up the whole bed?”
“I’m sorry, but did you just compare me to a dog?” I splay a hand across her belly, finger jiggling her boobs.
She laughs. “I did. A dog that rescues people.” And nobody has ever thought of me as a savior. I have to be inside her, and I manage to be on top without too much discomfort in my knee.
The Fury physical therapist says my knee is progressing well. I’m almost at full flexion, and Anya says I could be skating again in a week.
When I get back to the condo, Ella is there, and I tell her the news, and she whoops. “We need to celebrate. I aced three practice tests in a row, so we’ve both had great days.” She stands in her socks and does a little shimmy that instantly makes me hard.
I tip my head toward the bedroom, and she giggles—giggles!
The next thing I know, we’re both in the shower with her bent over, clutching the built-in bench seat, and me standing behind her, thrusting slow and deep while the water pours over us.
The urge to tell her I love her is powerful, but the smile on her face is distracting, and after we both come, we kiss until the water runs cold.
Friday, I come back from PT, and she’s still at work. I notice her suitcase in the corner of the bedroom, still packed. Like she’s five weeks into a hotel stay rather than living somewhere. I hate it.
I do a quick inventory of my dresser and decide I can put my socks and underwear in one drawer so Ella can at least have one to herself. Women need space for private things. Everyone does.
While I’m at it, I rearrange the closet so it’s half empty, and I steal a bunch of hangers from Rookie’s room so that when she comes home, she sees the space as an invitation to stay as long as she wants.
I station myself on the couch and act engrossed in the game on TV when Ella gets home from work.
“Hey, B,” she trills, a new nickname that has my nerve endings fizzing in happiness.
I wave and stay put while she heads into the room to change.
I hear her pause, imagine her taking in the gesture.
And then I hear the sounds of suitcase zippers and pants being shaken onto hangers.
I limp to the bedroom and lean against the door frame, watching. She turns to me, a dress clutched against her chest and a smile splitting her face. “Did you do all this?”
I nod. “Cleared out the top drawer for you, too, if you want.” I lean into the room and flick it open, gesturing at the open space.
A tiny tear forms at the corner of her eye, and she brushes it away, smiling. Ella bends to grab a bundle of stuff from her suitcase and sets it in the drawer without saying a word.
"Bro. You good?” Rookie drops his road bag in the hallway and stares at me.
I'm on the couch, knee wrapped, watching film from the road games I missed. Ella is at work. The apartment is clean. The drawer is full of her clothes, and the closet has her shoes, and none of this is visible from the living room, but I still feel like I'm wearing a confession.
"I've been doing PT," I say. "Getting healthy."
"You look … rested." He squints. "Did you sleep?"
"On occasion."
He collapses onto the couch beside me, long legs sprawling, and starts scrolling his phone.
"We went one and two. Spinner had a hat trick in Carolina, though.
You should have seen it." He launches into a play-by-play, complete with hand gestures and sound effects, and I listen because these are my teammates and it’s my job to know this stuff.
Rookie’s energy and volume fill the room. I used to be the same way. The life of the party. The loud one. Now I'm sitting here thinking about how Ella fell asleep with her head on my chest, and I don't want to be loud anymore. I want to be quiet with her.
"We should go out," Rookie announces. "You've been cooped up in here for a week. Get some real food. Gianna's?"
"I don't know, man. My knee—"
"You can put your leg on a bench. Come on. I'll text the guys."
I should say no. I should stay on this couch and wait for Ella and preserve what little remains of this bubble. But saying no to Rookie right now, when he's looking at me with that oblivious golden retriever enthusiasm, would raise questions I can't answer.
"Fine," I say. "Meatballs sound great.”
Gianna's is crowded. The back room is ours, per usual, though, and I have my leg propped up on a bench next to Spinner while Mayhem reads something on his phone and Jason inhales dry turkey meatballs like he’s been starved the whole week.
Other guys filter in and out. Cappy and Banksy stop by. Even Grentley makes an appearance, drinks a single beer in the corner like a vampire at a cookout, and leaves without saying goodbye to anyone.
The beers flow my way from all the guys. Gianna keeps them coming, and I'm on my fourth when Rookie tells a story about a fan in Florida who asked him to sign her chest, and he accidentally drew a dick.
"It wasn't accidental," Spinner says.
"It was! My hand slipped!"
"Your hand drew a full shaft with veins, Rookie."
The table erupts. I'm laughing, loose, warm. My knee doesn't hurt. The food is good. My friends are here. For a minute, I forget the weight I'm carrying, and I'm just Howie — life of the party, the one who makes sure everyone has a good time.
Rookie looks at me with glassy eyes. “We—” he hiccups. “Should not drive home, and you can’t walk with that knee, bruh.”
I shake my head. “That is correct.”
"Hey," he says, pulling out his phone. "Ella can come pick up your car. Save the dishwashers a trip." Warning bells ring in my foggy head, but he's already texting. "She's off tonight, right?"
"I think so," I manage, because my throat just closed. I know exactly when her shift ends, and which route she’ll take to get here from Mercy. Maybe she’ll bring her friends to flirt with Spinner again.
"Cool. I told her to meet us here, and she can drive your G-Wagon home." He pockets his phone, satisfied with himself. "See? I care about people.”
"That's … great, Rook."
Spinner orders another round. Mayhem closes whatever he's reading and folds his hands on the table.
I have another beer. This is a mistake. I know it's a bad idea while I'm drinking it, but the alternative is sitting here sober while Ella walks through that door and pretending she's just my roommate's sister, and I don't have the playbook for that right now.
Eventually, the door opens, and cold air sweeps in, and there she is.
She's in jeans and a sweater, hair down, and she looks soft and happy and so beautiful that the sight of her hits me like a stick to the jaw. My head snaps back just as hard. She scans the room, finds our table, and smiles, a polite, public expression, one that isn't for me.
Except it is for me. It's always for me now. I see the real thing underneath, the private warmth, the way her eyes linger on my face for a half second longer than they should.
"Hey guys," she says, dropping into the chair Spinner pulls out for her. "Jason said you need a designated driver."
“Just us roomies,” Rookie says, playfully punching her shoulder. “These other fuckers can get themselves home.”
"Hi, Ella." Spinner raises his glass. "How's circus school?"
"Still not a circus. Hi, Mayhem."
Mayhem nods. Watches.
Gianna brings a plate of food to Ella without being asked, and Ella thanks her.
I watch her eat a meatball, and I remember Tuesday on the couch and her victory shimmy in socks and the sound she makes when I'm inside her and her clothes in my drawer, and I am six beers deep, and my chest is too full, and my brain is too slow, and she's RIGHT THERE.
She reaches across me for a napkin. Her sweater brushes my arm. I smell her body wash — the fruity one, the one that lives on my pillow now — and something in my drunk, demolished brain just … stops working.
I catch her wrist. Pull her toward me. Cup the back of her neck with my other hand and kiss her.
Not a peck. Not a friendly thing. I kiss her the way I kiss her in the dark in our bedroom, deep and slow and sure, and for approximately two seconds the world is perfect because her mouth is on mine and her hand grabs my shirt and I feel her soften against me before—
She pulls back. Fast. Laughing.
"Okay, big guy." She pats my chest and gives me a push, her voice pitched for the table. "Someone's had enough." She turns to her brother, still laughing, steady as a trauma nurse. "How many has he had?"
"Too damn many," Rookie says, white-knuckling his grip on a beer bottle. "Dude, did you just kiss my sister?"
"He kissed Spinner on the Fourth of July,” Gianna offers from behind the bar.
"That's true," Spinner confirms, eyeing Gianna in a familiar way. "I have very soft lips."
The table laughs. Rookie rolls his eyes. The moment passes, absorbed into the noise of Saturday night at Gianna's, filed under "Howie got drunk and sloppy," which is a category with extensive precedent.
Ella settles in on the bench and eats another meatball and doesn't look at me. Her hand, beneath the table, finds my thigh and squeezes once. Hard. A message: you absolute idiot.
Fair.
Gianna comes by to collect keys, and Rookie waves her off. "Ella's driving.”
The night winds down. Spinner tells two more stories.
Rookie arm-wrestles Cappy and loses. Ella chats with Banksy and Cam, who apparently know about some charity event they want her involved with.
She's charming and easy, and nobody watching her would ever guess that she spent the week with my cock inside her while I said things about her body that would make a priest faint.
I'm gathering myself to stand when I feel the weight of a stare. Mayhem.
His arms are crossed, and his face is neutral, but his eyes say everything. This isn't the "be careful" from the bar two weeks ago. This is past careful. This is: I know.
I hold his gaze. He holds mine. The noise of the restaurant fades to static.
He shakes his head.
Then he stands, drops cash on the table, and leaves without a word.