14. Hudson
HUDSON
Practice turns ugly in the first drill. Pucks in the corner, battle out, finish on the net. Travis hooks my hands and chirps in my ear. I shrug him off, win the puck, turn up ice. He slashes my stick. Coach blows it dead.
“Keep your sticks down,” Coach says. “Again.”
Next rep, Travis rides my hip after the whistle. I bump him off legal and hard. He doesn’t get the message. He shoulder-checks me three strides later when the puck’s gone. I spin, chest hot, hands up. He grins through his cage like he just made varsity.
“Edwards, cut it out.”
“It’s practice,” he says, all teeth. “What’re you so bent for?”
Damn kid.
We reset. He leans his stick across my pants on the draw.
I knock it away. Puck drops. We skate. He crowds my line at the blue, tangles skates, and we both go down.
I pop up fast. He takes his time, smirks, says something about “old legs.” I grab his jersey, and he bats my hand away. That’s enough to light me up.
Coach’s whistle shrieks. “Harris. Edwards. Boards. Now.”
Son of a bitch.
We coast in. I can feel the room watching. Coach plants himself in front of us.
“Hudson, cool off. You’re getting too aggressive with the kid.”
“Kid?” Edwards says the word like it’s an insult.
“He started it. He’s hooking, slashing, running his mouth.”
“Then skate through it,” Coach says. “He’s testing you. Don’t give him what he wants.”
“I’m not some kid!” the kid barks.
“He has to learn to keep his stick down,” I say. “I can teach him. One way or another.”
“This isn’t a fucking debate,” Coach growls. “Edwards, you sit too. Harris, take the afternoon. You’re done.”
“I’m fine! I can skate.”
His voice darkens. “You’re done, Hudson.”
Travis tries not to smile. He fails. I stare at him until he looks away.
I toss my stick on the rack, drag a towel over my face, and head to the room.
The guys don’t say much. Fitz throws me a glance that means don’t take the bait.
Rocco ties his laces tighter and looks at the floor.
I shower hot and fast, pull on sweats, and get out before the rookie decides to say something shitty.
Home is quiet. I lock the door behind me, stand a second, try to bleed off the leftover heat. But it sticks.
I head to the kitchen, or for today, my laboratory. I get out my setup, hoping to use it to calm down. Melter, pitcher, wicks cut and ready, tins lined in neat rows. Honey-cedar oil.
I don’t know why making candles works for me. But it does.
I check the temp. It’s in the safe range for skin play and for pouring. I don’t plan to play here all by myself. I plan to pour and breathe. I stir slow, steady. The scent hits the room in a clean way. I set wicks, heat the tins, test a drop on my wrist, pour the first round.
“Hey,” a voice says behind me.
I jerk. The pitcher slams the tin, jumps, and a sheet of wax sloshes over the rim. It hits the counter and my hand. It’s warm, not too hot, but it shocks me. I bite out a curse and set the pitcher down hard.
“Sorry,” Meg says, hands up. “I thought you heard me. I didn’t mean to spook you.”
I shake my hand and flex my fingers. “You’re fine. That was on me.”
She steps in. “Let me help.”
“It’s okay.”
But she’s already moving. Paper towels. A bowl for scraps. She scrapes wax toward the pile with a plastic spatula, works fast, calm. I rinse my hand in cool water and come back with a trash bag. We slide the cooled sheet off the counter and break it into pieces. It cracks soft.
“What are you using today?” she asks. “It smells good, but I can’t place it.”
“Honey cedar. It’s good for the locker room.”
“It’s good for any room.”
We toss the wax scraps. I wipe the edge. She runs a cloth with cleaner over the spill and dries it. Her shoulder bumps mine. I step aside so she can reach.
“You okay?” she asks without looking up.
“Practice got chippy. Coach benched me. Told me to cool off.”
“Edwards?”
“Yeah.”
“He started it, right?”
“Doesn’t matter. I still almost put him on his back with gloves on.”
She sets the cloth down and leans against the counter. “You have a reputation. Everyone wants to be the one who gets under your skin. They fish. You don’t bite.”
“I bit today.” I don’t like the oily feel of guilt that comes with admitting that.
“Coach did the right thing.”
“I know.”
She watches me stir. “Want to tell me what’s under the anger?”
“Stupid fight two weeks ago. I still feel it in my quad. Then the kid beat me in a speed test by a hair’s breadth. He chirped about it. I should have laughed and skated. Took the bait instead.”
“You’re allowed to be human. You’re not allowed to bleed for a rookie with a mouth.”
I snort. “Copy.”
She looks at the melter. “You make these when you want your hands to be good.”
“Yeah.”
“If the wax is under control, then you are too.”
I pour the next round. My hands don’t shake now. The room smells better. The air gets quiet. She knows me too well.
Her eyes go to my wrist, where a faint line of wax dried earlier. She reaches out and touches the edge of it. Her fingers are gentle. “Too hot?”
“No. Soy. Low temp. Safe for skin if you’re careful.”
She looks up, pupils a little wider. “Show me.”
I kill the melter and pour a small amount into a clean tin to cool it a little more. I test a drip on my wrist again and hold my skin under it. Warm. Safe. I take a breath. “Stop is hive. Slower means slower. If you hate it, we move on.”
She opens the top button of her shirt and pulls the neck wide an inch. “Here,” she says, touching the dip at her collarbone.
I lean in and kiss the place she pointed at. She shivers for me. “Okay?”
“Good.”
I pick up the tin, tip it just enough, and let one drop fall. It lands and spreads. She gasps and then exhales. I watch her face. “Too hot?”
“No. More. Slow.”
I give her one more drop an inch over. It travels to meet the first and cools. She closes her eyes. I wait. She opens them and looks at me. “More.”
I drip a small line across the top of her chest, careful. She watches the path. I put the tin down and trace the cooled edge with my fingertip. Her breath hitches.
“Still okay?”
“Don’t stop.”
But I set the tin aside. “I need to kiss you.”
“Yes,” she says, immediate.
I step in and kiss her, slow at first because I don’t trust myself when I’m running hot. She leans into me, hands on my sides. I let the kiss deepen and lose myself in her.
She grips my shirt and pulls me against her. Wax flakes at the edge, catching on fabric. I slide my hands around her waist and lift her onto the counter. She settles there, knees open, ankles hooking at my back. I stand between and hold the curve of her hips.
I map her again with my mouth and hands, the same way I did in my room, but without the patience of a lesson.
This is not patient. The square of skin warmed by the wax is soft now under my mouth.
She makes a sound into my ear, and it hits the center of me.
I yank her shirt open and buttons fly across the kitchen.
“More wax,” she says.
I tip the tin and let a few drops fall along the line of her shoulder, then down the inside of her arm. She watches it, pupils blown. I smooth the trail with my palm. She shivers and pulls me harder to her.
Her hands go to my waistband and works me free. We don’t need words for a minute. We just move. My shirt flies through the air; her jeans are shucked off.
I brace her back with one hand and slide the other to guide myself, and then we’re against each other in a way that makes both of us breathe wrong. She arches. I hold her hip and adjust one inch at a time until the angle is right. Until we move together.
I keep the pace she gives me. I hold on so I don’t go too hard, but that’s for two strokes, tops. I need this. She needs me too. She grips my shoulders and finds a rhythm that works for both of us. We kiss and break and kiss again. The counter edge digs into my thighs. I don’t fucking care.
“I want…” she starts, and can’t finish.
“Tell me,” I say.
“Faster, Hudson,” she says. “Please!”
I go faster. She meets me, every time. She hides her face in my neck and says my name, and I lose the last of my careful. Her wet pussy squeezes on me. It’s all I can do not to come right the fuck now. But not until she does.
Not until she’s begging for it. “You’re close.”
“Yes,” whimpers out of her ragged throat.
I press our foreheads together and hang on. When she goes, it hits her all at once. I feel it and I say, “Good pet,” because I can’t not.
She shakes, and her body goes loose. “Please, I’m right there, oh fuck!”
I push harder, faster, anything that gets her there.
She bites my lip and growls as she comes on my cock and drags me there with her, every tremor of hers echoing in my body until we go still again.
I hold her steady and finish with a hard breath I try to swallow and fail.
I rest my head on her shoulder and breathe until my body remembers how.
We stay there a minute and do nothing. No words. Just air. The room smells like honey cedar and sweat.
“Water,” I say because it’s a very safe word. Safer than anything on my mind. Too sensitive to pull out, but I have to. It’s intense, and I pass her a paper towel as soon as possible for cleanup.
I grab the bottle and hold it to her mouth. She drinks. I drink. I wet a cloth and wipe the wax flakes off her collarbone and the cooled lines from her shoulder.
She touches my jaw. “You okay?”
I nod. “You?”
“Yes.” Her cheeks are still pink. She looks good like this. I don’t say that. I think it too loud.
We stand there and look at each other. I pick a fleck of wax from her sleeve and flick it into the trash.
“I need to say something,” I say.
“Okay.”
“I’ve liked you since middle school. Not the way you like a teammate. The other way. I didn’t say it because I didn’t want to break us.”
She blinks and then laughs once, small and shocked. “Since middle school?”
“Yeah.”
“I had no idea.” She looks at my face for a long time. “I always thought you three saw me as a sister.”
“Never. Not me, anyway.”
Her eyes go wet and she looks away so she doesn’t have to apologize for that. “I’m—okay. I don’t know what to do with that. It’s not bad. It’s just…new.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything with it. I needed to say it out loud once.” I rub my thumb on the edge of the counter because I need my hands to do something, or I’ll say shit I shouldn’t.
She takes a breath. “When I asked about our practice sessions…”
The phrase hits me in the ribs. Practice sessions . Like that’s all this is.
I keep my face still. “Yeah?”
“I just—Luke said boring. I wanted to prove I wasn’t . ”
“I know.”
“I’m not saying this right. When it comes to hooking up, I’m trying to pace myself so I don’t wreck the one part of my life that works. You three are the part that works. I can’t lose that.”
“You won’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise I’m not going to burn it down on purpose. I can promise I’ll check my temper and my mouth. I can promise I’ll say what I mean and ask you what you want.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I want to tell her I’ll take crumbs. I hate that I’d take crumbs. But I know I will. I’m too far gone for her to pretend I won’t.
“You’re not boring,” I tell her. “You never were. That’s bullshit.”
She swallows. “Thank you.” She reaches up and kisses me soft. No tongue. “I need to go back to the shop. Dana’s courier might swing by with more questions.”
“Understood.”
She hops off the counter. I steady her waist when her foot slips and release her fast so she doesn’t think I’m grabbing her to keep her. She smiles at that and pushes my shoulder once. She gets her bag and heads to the door. She stops there. “Hud.”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t know,” she says. “About middle school.” She looks at me in a way that makes the room smaller. “Thank you for saying it.”
“You’re welcome.” My voice is not nice. It’s too rough. I clear it.
She leaves. The door clicks. I stand in the kitchen and breathe.
And breathe. And breathe.
I look at the counter and the tins and the cloth in the sink and the wax bits we missed. I clean it all up and finish the batch. I set the wicks for a second round. I test the temp and pour steady.
Practice sessions.
I light a test candle and let the honey cedar burn. The apartment smells good again. But it doesn’t feel good.
I’ll take what I can get. I’ll take the kitchen and the wax and the counter and her mouth saying my name and her hand on my jaw and her yes when I ask.
I’ll take rules and check-ins and aftercare and cleaning up the mess.
I’ll take sleeping on the floor when I have to and in her bed when she pulls me there. I’m in too deep not to.
I chose this. I can’t bring myself to regret it.