18. Ace
EIGHTEEN
ACE
I wasn’t sure whether it was the sun peeking over the top of the eastern city skyline that woke me up, or if it was rolling over to find an empty spot in the bed beside me.
“Goldie?” I called. My voice echoed through my loft. Maybe Ethan was right and this place could use a few rugs and some stuff on the walls. I swung my legs over the edge of my bed and stepped on two condom wrappers. They crinkled as I peeled them from the bottom of my foot. My head pounded and felt like it was being squeezed into a helmet that was two sizes too small, but I couldn’t stop from smiling, even though it fucking hurt my brain to do it.
My semi-hard dick led the way to the kitchen sink. My morning wood was never impacted by a hangover, and today was no exception. I didn’t bother getting a glass, and instead, slurped water directly from the faucet. I splashed my face and dragged my wet hands through my hair. My heart sunk when I noticed that the bathroom door was open. My place was open concept, so unless Goldie had crawled into a closet somewhere, she was gone.
“Goldie?” I called again, hoping that I had somehow missed her. Of course, there was no response and I sauntered over to the door where she’d taken off her boots. The only evidence that she’d been there was a small bit of dried road salt on the floor.
I couldn’t believe she’d left without saying goodbye, but a snippet of our conversation played in my brain. We were keeping this thing between us a secret—for now.
My bedroom smelled like vanilla and sex. I tucked the corner of the sheet under the mattress and noticed a note on my nightstand. She printed in lowercase letters,
ace,
i didn’t want to wake you up. i have sessions all day today. for your game against miami, you will need to do the michigan.
xo goldie
p.s. morton will be jealous that i got to see you.
Wednesday was our away game in Miami. Why was she telling me to practice the fucking Michigan? I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead.
The bet.
My heart sank. I wanted Goldie to be right so I could lose and bury face in her sweet pussy the next time we were together. The Michigan was a trick shot. A gimmick. It wasn’t something I would ever attempt in a game.
I set the note down on the nightstand and went into the bathroom to start the shower. Just thinking about eating Goldie had turned my morning semi into an oak tree—total hardwood. My thoughts ran to our night together and her eyes looking up at me from behind those cat-eye glasses.
Gripping my shaft, I shot my load onto the wall of my shower after only a few pulls. I used the hand-held showerhead to rinse off the tiles. My stomach churned. The hangover from hell wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
I hoped that Goldie was feeling better than me. As I washed my hair, I wondered how her day was going. What players was she interviewing? Did she go home to walk Morton? Did she regret what we did last night?
I’d never been so into a woman before. I wished that I could be out in the cold, walking Morty with her. I wanted to strut down the street with my arm slung over her shoulder. I wanted the cameraman at the arena to zoom in on her while the onscreen text read, Ace Bailey’s girlfriend .
We had to keep this secret for now, but I didn’t like it.
My stomach cramped and I clamped my hand over my mouth. The hot water was making me nauseous. I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair and turned the temperature to cold, while I tried to figure out how to convince one of my linesmen to do something totally stupid: practice the Michigan.
It wasn’t going to work, but I was going to do it—for her.