10. Hudson
HUDSON
The arena is frosty like always. The cold resets my brain, and right now, I need that.
Practice grounds me. Until Coach blows the whistle and everyone turns.
“Speed test for left wing. Goal line to goal line, full gear, five reps. Best average time gets top slot. Second gets the next line. Third rotates. Edwards, you’re in the pool. ”
Travis looks like a kid who just got moved up. He nods so hard his helmet shifts.
I roll my shoulders. I know how this goes.
I’ve won this test every season. My legs feel hot and ready.
Then I push off for the warmup, and the right quad whispers those old complaints.
Hitch from a stupid fight two weeks ago.
I knew not to take the bait. I took it anyway.
Now regret is a knot in the muscle that won’t let up.
Coach holds his whistle, ready to blow. “Line up. Clock’s hot.”
We line up, and I look straight ahead. I don’t look at the bench. I don’t look at Travis. I keep my stick loose in my right hand and drop into the stance that makes the first three strides count.
Whistle screams.
First rep is clean. I explode, open my stride, keep my chest down. Cross the line and glide into a stop that sprays to the boards. I look up at the clock. Good time. Not my best. Quad holds but complains.
We reset. Whistle. Second rep bites. Travis and I are even until the last ten feet. I feel the hitch. It’s small, but it costs me. He hits the line a fraction before me.
The fuck?
Third rep. I tell the leg to shut up. It doesn’t. I push through. The last three strides aren’t clean. I cross, glance up. Travis by a hair again. Rocco clocks me and raises an eyebrow. Fitz keeps his face blank.
Fourth rep. I win it. It hurts. I don’t show it.
Fifth rep. I miss by a blink. The clock doesn’t care about my reasons.
Coach reads out the averages. “Edwards, 11.97. Domenico, 12.56. Hellebore, 12.12. Harris, 12.01.”
12.01. Fuck. When did I get old?
I bite the inside of my cheek. Not a big loss, but it’s not the size of the loss that matters. It’s a loss. Coach marks the board. “Edwards starts first line left. Harris on the next. Rotations as usual.”
Travis looks stunned. He nods and doesn’t say anything. Good. The room chirps but not hard. It’s practice. We eat this and skate. That’s the job.
I take a lap and lean into the boards in front of the trainer. He pats the bench. “Sit.”
I sit. He pokes the quad. “Tender?”
“Fine,” I say.
He levels a look at me.
“Fine enough.”
He wraps an ice pack to the muscle with that sticky fabric. I hiss once and then shut up. Coach blows again. “Edges. Let’s go.”
I push off with ice strapped on. It burns in a way I can use.
We do edges, small space. I keep my stick down and my mouth shut.
Travis misses a cone and corrects. He’s fast, raw power, needs skill.
I hate that this is the day he gets to be faster than me.
I hate that I let a nobody drag me into a fight that didn’t matter, and now I’m skating right of a kid who took advantage of it. I hate that this is on me.
After practice, in the room, I peel the tape and toss it. The quad throbs. I tell myself I’ll get treatment later. Fitz drops onto the bench next to me. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
Rocco ties his shoes and says nothing. He knows better.
Travis comes by and says, “Good reps.”
I grunt.
He moves on. He’s not stupid. He doesn’t gloat. That helps.
I shower fast. When I’m dressed, I pull my phone and text Meg: You free to ride along my route? I’m headed to the pick-up.
She replies before I can lock the screen. Yes. Meet you there.
I breathe easier.
I drive to the Meals on Wheels kitchen. The loading dock smells like steam and coffee.
Volunteers roll hot bags to the tables. I check my list. Same route as last Thursday.
Ms. Delaney first, then Mr. Pitts, then the twins.
I sign for the cooler and the hot bag. I’m tying the strap when Meg walks in, hair twisted up.
“You’re mad,” she says, reading me in one second.
“Practice wasn’t great.”
“Want to be mad on the route, or you want me to talk you out of it?”
“Ride and see.”
She nods. “Okay.”
We load the car. I put the hot bag in the back seat, and she climbs in with the clipboard. “You drive. I’ll announce.”
Traffic is what it is. I breathe and let the light cycles do what they do. She reads the first name. “Ms. Delaney. Lobby buzzer’s broken. She’ll yell. Don’t flinch.”
“I never flinch.”
She smirks but doesn’t comment. The smirk is enough.
We park half on the curb because there’s nowhere else. Divide and conquer—I get the heavy bags, she gets the doors.
Ms. Delaney is her usual charming self. “You’re late.”
“It’s eleven on the dot.”
“You’re late, and my espresso machine is broken. It’s a bad day.” Her eyes go to Meg. “You brought help.”
“Temporary.” Meg smiles. “I’m learning from the best.”
“Hah,” Ms. Delaney says, and opens the door wider. “Bring it in. Put it on the counter. Don’t scuff the floor.”
I don’t scuff the floor. I set the tray down, open the lid, announce the contents. “Chicken, collards, roll, fruit cup.”
She sniffs. “Last week’s chicken was dry.”
“Tell me if this is too. I’ll make a note. See you next Tuesday.”
Back in the hall, Meg bumps my shoulder with hers. “You didn’t flinch.”
“I’m learning.”
“Was that a ‘See-You-Next-Tuesday’ reference you threw at her?”
I snort a laugh. “Caught that, did you?”
She giggles, and damn, it’s hot. “Well done.”
Next stop is Mr. Pitts. He tries to give me ten dollars for bringing the paper with his lunch. I push it back across the small table, like always. “You pay with stories. Tell her about the year the Orioles almost killed you.”
“This is Meals on Wheels, not StoryCorps,” he grumbles, then launches into the story anyway. Meg laughs at the right place. He glows. He eats. It’s good to see—the old man is too skinny.
We hit the twins next. They open the door in matching pajamas and matching suspicion. “How many fights this week?” one asks.
“Practice doesn’t count,” the other says.
“Agreed,” Meg says before I can answer. She angles her head at me. “How many, not practice.”
“One,” I say.
“That’s not true,” a twin says.
“He’s right, it’s not,” the other says.
Meg cuts in. “It’s one. I’m the judge. Food’s hot. Let’s get you fed.”
They roll their eyes and obey.
We run the rest of the route without anything weird. We knock, we hand off, we answer questions, we take notes for the office. She keeps the clipboard neat. She adds small comments I forgot to write last week: cat needs vet list; sidewalk ice at 1312; doorbell stuck 3rd floor.
She’s good at this. I knew she would be.
My head stops chewing on the ice times and starts lining up what matters. Food delivered, names remembered, the kid at 4D who needs a second milk because his grandma is dehydrated again. I cool off without thinking about it. It’s automatic.
That’s what Meg does to me. Always has.
On the way back to return the bags, she looks at my leg when I hit a red light, and it holds. “You good?”
“Quad’s tight.”
“You should have let the trainer do more.”
“How do you know I didn’t?”
“I know you.”
We drop the bags at the dock and sign out. The coordinator thanks us and hands me a stack of flyers for next week’s shelter event. Meg tucks them into her tote. We walk to the car and stand there a second.
“You want to hang out, or do you need to go back to the shop?”
She looks at my face and decides something. “Hang out,” she says. “I want to talk.”
Shit. “Okay.”
The drive is quiet. I put my hand on the back of her seat when I back into our spot. We go upstairs. The apartment smells like lemon cleaner and pancakes from this morning. The place is empty.
She kicks off her shoes. “You alright?”
“I’m better now.”
“Good.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
She sighs deep. “I think I need an extra pillow. I didn’t want to say anything to Oliver, because you know how he is?—”
“He’ll buy you a pillow store.”
She giggles again. “Yeah. I’ll have to buy one when he’s not home, just so I can sneak it in. He can never know.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” I don’t pace. I want to. I sit on the edge of the couch and rest my elbows on my knees. “I want to ask you something.”
“Then do it.”
“Pleasure mapping. The other night, everything happened fast. This time, I want to go slow. I ask. You answer. You can stop it at any second. I want to know what you want , not what you let somebody do.”
Pink rises in her cheeks. She takes a breath. “Yes.”
“Say it again.”
“Yes. I want that.”
“We set terms. Lights on enough to see. Water on both sides. Hive means we stop. Slow means back off. You can use my name to move me. I’ll ask you questions. If I ask too much, tell me. We don’t use pain. We don’t test. We don’t push.”
“Yes,” she says.
“Clothes stay on or off, your choice. We start wherever you want to.”
“The bedroom.”
I nod once and take her hand, leading her to my bedroom. “What would you like first?”
She looks at my hands. “Start with kissing.”
“Okay.”
I don’t crowd her. She steps closer. I touch her face with the back of my fingers. “Here?”
“Yes.”
I put my mouth on hers, soft pressure. I hold it. She opens a little and I match her. I pull back a quarter inch. “More?”
“More.”
I give it. I keep it slow. I feed her what she asks for and not more. Her hands find my shoulders. I wait. She squeezes. I touch her waist. “Here?”
“Yes.”
I run my hands under her shirt to the smooth, warm skin at her sides. I don’t rush higher or lower. I move over the places that are safe ground and wait for her to tell me where to go.
“Neck,” she says, voice steady.
I slide my mouth from her lips to that spot under her ear. I kiss there, then closer to her throat. “Pressure okay?”
“More. I won’t break.”
I add a little. She breathes. Her hands go to my hair. She tugs once. I check. “Good?”
“Good.”
We stand like that for a minute and breathe together. I step back and look at her. “You want more touch.”
“Yes.”
“Over or under?”
“Under.”
We sit on the edge of the bed. I take her shirt off slow because I want every part of this to feel chosen. I look at her face, not her body. “You’re okay?”
She nods.
I kiss her again. I put my hand on her chest, between, not on. “Here?”
“Yes.”
I spread my hand and feel her breathing. I stay until her breath smooths. “Lower?”
“Yes.”
I move down her stomach, flat of my hand. “Here?”
“Yes.”
“Lower?”
She nods. “Yes.”
There’s a part of me that will never be tired of hearing her say yes. But the darker part of me enjoys demanding things. “Words.”
“Yes, lower.”
I edge my hand down, inside her waistband. I don’t move until she pushes against my fingers, trying to angle herself to me. Impatient little pet. “Tell me where to touch you.”
“My…you know.”
“Say the words, pet.”
She swallows hard. “My clit.”
I stay slow and watch her face the whole time. She’s wet already just from the talking, the slow pace, all of it. I change the angle a little and when her jaw goes loose, I tease, “Like this?”
“Yes.” Her voice shakes for me.
“Show me how you like it.”
Her hand closes over mine, and she shows me the pace. I keep it. I don’t do more. I do exactly that. Her eyes go unfocused. Her mouth opens. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” My cock aches when she whimpers.
When she starts to shake, I keep steady.
When she reaches for me to pull me closer, I lean into her shoulder so she has weight to hold.
When she shudders and gasps, I say, “Good pet,” because I know what praise does in her head.
I feel her ride it down. I don’t stop touching until she moves my hand.
“Okay,” she says, still breathless. “Stop.”
I stop, remove my hand, and lick my fingertips clean. Fuck, she’s sweet. I get the water and put it in her hand.
She takes another sip and hands me the cup. That hand trembles. She touches my jaw. “Your turn.”
“Not needed.” My cock strains in my jeans in protest.
“I want to. You know what I like. I want to know what you like.”
My throat goes dry. “Hands. Kissing, while you touch me.”
She kisses me, and everything else fades. She works her mouth down my neck, asks, “Here?” with a look, waits for my nod, and gives me more. When she reaches for my waistband, she meets my eyes.
“Yes. Please.”
She laughs once when I say please, and then she does what I ask. I close my hand over hers and show her the pace I like. Her hand is so small and soft. She watches my face. I try not to say anything dumb, but at this point, I’m at her mercy. My balls throb a warning.
“Look at me,” she demands.
I do. She speeds up a fraction when my breathing changes. When I clench my jaw, she says, “You’re okay?”
I nod. When I’m there, I say, “Now,” and she keeps the rhythm until I groan and shoot a mess onto her warm hand. She slows it down and holds me steady through the end.
We breathe. She gets me water while I try to recalibrate my brain.
“More?” she asks. “Or rest?”
“Rest.” Before I let my nerves get the better of me, I ask, “Will you stay in here tonight?”
After a moment, she quietly says, “Yes.”
So, I lay a folded blanket on the floor next to the bed and set a pillow down. I put my hand on the mattress. “I’m on the floor tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because I have a head and I don’t always use it. I want you to sleep. I want to sleep. I don’t want to grab for you at three a.m. because I had a dream and mess you up.”
She looks at me for a long second. Then she slides toward the edge and reaches down for my wrist. “Get up here. Just to hold me.”
“Meg.”
“Hudson.”
I know that tone.
I climb in and stay on top of the covers. She tugs until I’m under them. Stubborn. She puts my arm around her and drags my hand to her stomach. I settle my palm there.
I fall asleep holding her and wake up in the same position, and the first clear thought that comes to mind is doom. I’m gone for her, and I’m not pretending otherwise.