Chapter 8
Sasha
I won us the game tonight. End of February, away in Portland, Maine for the last road game before March, and I put the puck top shelf, glove side, with forty seconds left.
Third win in a row. The Portland crowd went dead silent and the guys mobbed me on the ice and it was the best feeling in the world — for about two hours.
Now I’m in the hotel hot tub with my phone in one hand, jets pounding the bruise on my ribs from a second-period check, and I’m thinking about Aaron Kelly.
We’ve been untouchable since October — on the ice and off it.
Ad campaigns, sponsorships, social media, all of it rolling since that first shoot in Chicago.
But between the schedule and the rules and the constant presence of teammates, we’ve barely had any time alone.
Aaron and me on the same line is the best thing that’s happened to college hockey, and every team in the conference knows it.
My shoulders are wrecked, my left knee has been tight for weeks, and the hot water is the only thing keeping my body from falling apart.
The rest of the team sneaked out twenty minutes ago to find a bar, which is a direct violation of Rafferty’s pregame orders.
I don’t care. Let them go. The whole pool deck is empty and dark and I have a better idea.
Me: Hot tub. Now. Whole team is gone.
Aaron: It’s midnight, Sasha.
Me: Are you scared? Aaron Kelly, rule follower, afraid to sneak downstairs.
Aaron: I’m not scared. We have a 5 AM bus.
Me: You just helped me win the last game before break and you want to lie in your hotel bed staring at the ceiling? That’s sad, Aaron Kelly. Very sad.
Aaron: I’m not staring at the ceiling.
Me: You were about to. Come downstairs. Nobody will know.
Aaron: Coach said lights out by midnight.
Me: Coach’s entire team is at a bar right now. You and I are the only ones following the rules. Come break one with me.
A pause. I watch the screen. Thirty seconds. A minute.
Aaron: Screw you. Be there in 5.
I put my phone on the dry edge of the tub and sink lower until the water hits my chin.
That’s my boy.
The glass door opens and Aaron walks in wearing a hotel robe over his swim trunks, hair damp from the shower, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and also like he couldn’t stay away.
My favorite version of him.
He stops at the edge. Looks at the water, looks at me, looks at the door he just came through like he’s measuring the distance back.
“Nobody’s coming,” I say. “Whole team is downtown getting wasted.”
“This is still a terrible idea.”
“It’s recovery. Our bodies are sore. This is sports science.” I tilt my head. “You should know this, Dr. Kelly. Premed, yes? What do they teach you in those classes?”
He stares at me. I stare back.
He drops the robe on a chair.
“What are you even majoring in?” he says. “I just realized I don’t know.”
I watch him — I always watch him, but right now there’s nobody I have to look away for.
The lean muscle across his shoulders. His collarbone.
The way his stomach tightens when the cold air hits it, and the dark trail of hair below his navel that disappears into his swim trunks.
His skin is flushed from the shower, and there’s a bruise on his left hip from a hit he took in the first period that he didn’t mention to anyone. I noticed. I always notice.
He catches me looking. His ears go pink.
“Stop,” he says.
“Stop what?”
He climbs in on the opposite side and sinks down to his chin and groans — tired muscles hitting hot water — and my whole body pays attention.
“Communications.” I shrug. “It was the best choice for something that wouldn’t interfere with hockey and would let me improve my English.”
“God, that’s good,” he says. Eyes closed, head tipped back against the edge, neck exposed. Water laps against his collarbones. His lips are parted.
God, I want to put my mouth on his neck.
“You are very —” I tilt my head, searching. “What is the word. Distracting. You are very distracting with your shirt off, Aaron Kelly.”
“Good game tonight,” he says.
“Good? I scored the winner.”
“I had two assists.”
“On other people’s goals. I had the goal. The goal that mattered. Top shelf, glove side, forty seconds left.” I tip my head back. “That goal is going on highlight reels, Aaron Kelly.”
“It was a decent shot.”
“Decent.” I splash water at him. It hits his chest and he flinches and gives me a look that could strip paint. “You are impossible. I would like to see your decent top-shelf snipe with forty seconds left.”
“Somebody had to feed you the puck.”
“And I’m very grateful. I’ll mention you in my interviews.”
“Your interviews where you act like you single-handedly won the game?”
“I will say ‘Aaron Kelly made a serviceable pass that I turned into brilliance.’ Direct quote. You can put it on your wall.”
He laughs. A real one. It echoes off the tile and the empty room and I want to make him do that again. Preferably with less clothing on.
“Eleven and three,” he says, shaking his head. “Can you believe this season?”
“Yes. I can believe it. I predicted it.”
“You predicted eleven and three.”
“I predicted we would be the best team in the conference and I was right.” I stretch my arms along the edge of the tub. “Three in a row heading into the break. The press is calling us the best team Ashford has had in a decade. You know what that is? That’s me. And you, slightly.”
“Slightly.” He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Diego already texted me four times tonight.”
“Only four? He texted me seven. He’s lining up another sponsorship — some athletic gear company wants us for a holiday campaign. That’s on top of the sports drink deal and the podcast.”
“And the social media thing.”
“And the social media thing.” I grin. “We’re famous, Aaron Kelly.
Have you looked at the numbers? There are fan accounts dedicated to our rivalry.
People make videos breaking down our shifts against each other.
Diego said we’ve generated more media coverage than any college hockey program this season. ”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s money. For both of us.” I look at him. “Your family is getting what they need?”
His face changes. Softer. “Yeah. The sponsorship checks — it’s making a real difference.
My dad doesn’t have to take every job that comes in anymore.
He can actually rest when he needs to.” He pauses.
“I couldn’t have done that without Diego.
Without this whole —” He gestures between us. “The rivalry thing.”
“The rivalry thing,” I repeat. “You mean the part where we pretend to hate each other and America throws money at us.”
“Yeah. That part.” He almost smiles. “It’s working.”
It’s working. The hockey, the fame, the money, all of it. And underneath all of it — this. Him and me in the water at midnight with nobody watching.
“All because of you,” Aaron says. “You’re the one the cameras love.”
“The cameras love both of us, Aaron Kelly. You just don’t enjoy it.”
He’s quiet for a second. Eyes closed, head back, water on his skin, throat exposed. He looks good wet. He looks good all the time but right now is making it hard to think.
“Hey,” he says. Eyes still closed. “Can I tell you something?”
“Always.”
He opens his eyes. Sits up a little. The water shifts around his chest. “Meghan’s been texting me.”
It takes me a second. “Your ex-girlfriend.”
“Yeah.” He drags a hand through his wet hair.
The ends curl against his forehead and he pushes them back, restless.
“My mom must’ve run into her and told her I transferred.
She couldn’t believe I didn’t let her know we’d be at the same school.
Classic Colleen Kelly move — she loved Meghan.
I think she’s been waiting for us to get back together. ”
“Your mother is trying to set you up with your ex-girlfriend.”
“That’s what Irish-Catholic mothers do.” He almost smiles. “They find a nice girl and they don’t let go.”
His fingers are tapping the edge of the tub. He’s working up to something.
“Are you going to see her?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He stares at the water. “I like her a lot. I do. She’s a good person and we had a good thing in high school. But I don’t want to mislead her, you know? I can’t — I’m not going to pretend there’s something there when there isn’t. That’s not fair to her.”
“We could be friends again,” he says. “I’d want that. But she’s going to want more, and I can’t give her that, and I can’t exactly tell her the real reason.”
The real reason. He’s not going to say it. Not out loud. But he just told me he’s turning down the girl his mother picked out for him, and he’s telling me about it, half-naked in a hot tub at midnight. I know what that means even if he doesn’t.
“She’ll understand,” I say. “If she’s as good as you say.”
“Yeah.” He exhales. His shoulders drop an inch. “Yeah, I think she will.”
He looks at me for a moment longer than he usually lets himself. Then he looks away.
I give him a second. Then I stretch my arms along the edge of the tub and say, very casually, “So. Lily Rafferty called me yesterday.”
His head turns. “What?”
“Coach’s daughter. You know Lily.”
“I know who Lily is.” His voice sharpens. “Why is she calling you?”
“Because we had a very good time when she visited her parents last Christmas.” I keep my voice light.
Easy. Like I’m talking about the weather.
“She wanted to catch up. See how the season is going. She’s in New York, finishing her ballet degree.
She said she might come home again this year for the break. ”
Aaron goes still. His hand stops tapping. His jaw sets.
“Cool,” he says. Flat.
“She is a lot of fun. Very pretty. And she’s a very fit ballerina, so —” I let the pause hang. “Very flexible.”
“Great. That’s great for you.”
He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the water, at his own hands, at the tile. His jaw is doing the thing where the muscle jumps right below his ear. His shoulders have climbed back up.
“I was thinking,” I say, “if she does come back to Hartley, maybe I should —”
“Do whatever you want, Sasha.” Short. Clipped. His fingers are gripping the edge of the tub.
There it is.
His mouth is saying I don’t care. But his jaw is tight, his shoulders are up, his knuckles are white on the edge of the tub, and he won’t look at me.
You’re jealous. You don’t want me with her. You want me.
That’s all I needed to see in his face, the jealousy. It’s why I didn’t tell him over a text.
I move through the water. Slow, so he can see me coming. So he can stop me if he wants to.
He doesn’t stop me.
I settle in front of him, close enough that my knees bump his under the surface. The water is hot between us, my skin against his skin. His breathing has changed — shorter, faster.
I bring my hand up. Water drips from my fingers as I touch the side of his jaw, and his breath catches so hard I can hear it over the jets. His skin is hot and wet under my hand. His pulse is hammering under my thumb.
He stares at me. Green eyes, wet hair plastered to his forehead, that stubborn mouth pressed into a line.
I kiss him.
Not soft. Not careful. I kiss him the way I’ve been wanting to kiss him since I watched him climb into this water and make that sound.
His hand comes to the back of my neck and grips hard, pulling me in, and his other hand finds my ribs under the water and presses flat against the bruise there and I don’t care — I don’t feel anything except his fingers on my skin and his mouth opening under mine.
I tilt his head back with my hand on his jaw and kiss him deeper and he makes a sound against my mouth — quiet, almost frustrated, like he’s been holding it in all night.
His tongue slides against mine and his grip on my neck tightens.
I can feel his chest rising and falling against mine, fast, unsteady.
I push him back against the wall of the tub and he lets me.
His legs wrap around my waist under the water, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel every inch of him through the thin fabric of our swim trunks.
I bite his lower lip and he gasps and the hand on my neck tightens, nails digging in, and I think this is what I need. Desperately.
His back arches off the wall when I roll my hips against him. I swallow the sound he makes and want more of it, want all of it — every sound he makes when he stops holding back —
A door slams somewhere in the hotel.
We both freeze.
Voices. Loud, drunk, echoing down the hallway on the other side of the glass partition. Laughing and shushing each other and completely failing at being quiet.
“— dude, shut up, Rafferty will —”
“— the bus is at five, we gotta —”
“— who took my room key, I swear to God —”
The team. Back already. The guys are back earlier than I expected. That, or time has been passing faster than I realized.
Aaron shoves me backward so fast water sloshes over the edge of the tub. He’s across the hot tub in a second, putting three feet of churning water between us, both hands in his hair. His chest is heaving.
“Go,” he says. “Separate exits. You go through the pool door, I’ll go through the gym.”
I’m still breathing hard. My whole body is buzzing. “Aaron —”
“Go.”
I go. Grab my towel, slip through the pool entrance, take the stairs instead of the elevator. I’m grinning like an idiot the entire way up to the sixth floor.
I don’t care about the timing. I don’t care that the drunk idiots cut it short. I don’t care that almost as soon as I fall asleep it will be time to get on the bus with a bunch of loud, annoying hockey players bragging about our win.
Because Aaron Kelly just kissed me like a man who’s been starving and just figured out I’m the best thing on the menu.
Because when I said another girl’s name, his whole body called bullshit on his mouth.
Because he’s somewhere in this hotel right now with the memory of my kisses fresh in his mind, and he is thinking about me.
Not Meghan. Not Lily. Not anyone else.
Me.
I lock my hotel room door, drop onto the bed, and stare at the ceiling.
I’m winning. Not the games — I don’t care about the games right now, and I scored a top-shelf game-winner three hours ago, so that’s saying something.
I’m winning him. And he’s starting to let me.