Chapter 20
TWENTY
Lake
I take a shower, locking down the sliver of guilt as I stroke myself to completion, knees shaking after an angry orgasm.
Angry because I’m an idiot.
Angry because it doesn’t do anything to make my dick softer.
How can it?
I’ve got the smell of cinnamon in my nose, the memory of that slick cunt on my fingertips.
So, yeah, I can come.
But it doesn’t do shit to relieve the ache in my balls…in my heart.
Asshole with a conscience, all right.
I sigh and grab the bottle of body wash, go through the motions of cleaning up then shampooing and conditioning my hair.
Something Knox likes to give me a hard time about.
A high-maintenance pretty boy who conditions his hair and gets oiled up on photoshoots.
Both of which are true, but I think I’m far from high maintenance.
I just…like what I like, and I want to do shit my own way.
What’s the problem with that?
“Nothing,” I mutter, cranking off the water and reaching for my towel. “Absolutely fucking nothing.”
I dry off, get dressed, and hole up in my room as I review a few more contracts, book a couple more dates for meetings and shoots and sit-down lunches with potential advertisers who want to “put some feelers out and see if we’re a good fit.”
This is usually a sign of it being a pain in the ass for me, but money is money, and who knows how long I’m going to be able to play hockey.
I have to prepare for the future.
But hockey is still the bulk of my life now, which is why I have a game on in the background—a weird early start weekend game that I hate playing in myself because it messes up my routine, and if there’s one thing that hockey players—and professional athletes, in general—have in common, it’s a fondness and strict adherence to our pregame rituals.
From a certain workout or food to unwashed socks (I’m looking at you, Knox) to taking a nap at a certain time, we all have our quirks.
Early games fuck that up.
But, they’re also part of the life—so I’ve learned to deal.
Still have the lucky underwear, though.
So long as a tiny demon dog doesn’t eat them.
I grunt and narrow my eyes at the screen, not wanting to think about Steve or Nova or what happened in the kitchen, so I force my focus on the game, knowing we’ll be playing both of the teams in the coming weeks.
I always like to check in on my opponents, to see who’s really hitting their stride, what lines are working, who’s on a hot streak.
It’s also helpful to see what type of goals are going in, the shit the refs are calling, and yeah, the video coaches can pull all of this for me if I ask, but also, there’s a reason I play hockey.
I love it.
I love the speed and intensity. The way I feel like I can do fucking anything when the puck is on my stick.
There’s nothing like skating into the offensive zone all by myself, just the goalie between me and fucking glory.
There’s nothing like lining up and laying out an asshole, crushing him with an open-ice hit.
Especially if he’s been harassing our goalie or one of the smaller guys.
Because. Fuck. That. Shit.
I’m lucky. I’m big. I’m fast. I’ve got good hands, a wicked shot, and I can body most anyone off the puck.
I can take my own back—and have had to plenty of times over the years—and while dropping the gloves isn’t my favorite thing (I would rather save my hands for actual hockey and not punching fuckers from the other team in their hard ass heads), I do it as necessary.
I’m the player everyone hates to play against but loves to have on their roster.
Because I make a difference in games. Because I score and hit and fight and pass.
But hockey doesn’t matter right now when my stomach’s rumbling and I can’t ignore it any longer.
I’m that big guy. I need food.
Which means I need to deal with the woman who’s invaded my house.
Sighing, I stand up and shove my phone in my pocket, leaving the TV on, moving to the door and carefully opening it, listening, expecting to hear the snorting, grunting demon who didn’t break the skin on my ankle with his earlier antics, but who had left it aching with an array of scratch marks.
Asshole.
Even though I deserve the marks, deserve worse.
But I don’t hear any grunting or groaning or snorting or snotting or barking as I pad my way down the hall.
I don’t hear anything, and when I make it into the family room, I find it empty.
No smells of burning food.
No sign of the demon.
No Nova anywhere in eyeshot.
Probably taking the beast to the bathroom.
Only, when I peek outside, I don’t see her. Or the dog. And they’re not out front either.
I start to close the door, to keep the warm air in, and that’s when I see it—see them.
Footsteps leading away from the house.
I look up at the sky, see dark clouds closing in, feel the cold air getting colder by the second. I think of the woman on the side of the road in wet sneakers and a fucking sweatshirt, the woman on my kitchen counter in sweatpants and that same hoodie.
No gloves. No boots. No jacket or beanie or thick wool socks.
And footsteps—one set of human, one set of tiny demon—heading away from my house, moving down the driveway, moving into the street.
Christ, is the woman trying to kill herself?
I whip around, march to the mudroom, grab my boots, my jacket, a fucking blanket because, God knows, the fucking woman—and her little dog too—are going to be popsicles by the time I find them.
The wind begins to blow by the time I make it to the bottom of the driveway, freezing cold gusts that slice through my layers.
The snow starts to fall by the time I make it to the next block.
Harder before I get to the end of the street and spy Nova’s car still stuck in the snowbank, mostly covered now.
But empty.
Relief wars with irritation.
She’s not dumb enough to attempt to dig herself out in this weather, or hasn’t succeeded and driven off, gotten into a worse accident somewhere down the road.
But then the worry is back, clawing through me.
Because she’s not here.
And if she’s not here…
Then she’s wandering around fuck knows where.
During Snowmageddon.