16. Stone
STONE
I should’ve known that damn rumor was going to bite me in the ass.
One little mention of Sticks moving into the hockey house, one tiny insinuation that she’s paying for the space in more creative ways…
It didn’t seem to get a foothold, but suddenly it seems like every guy and their fucking father are looking at Wren like she’s walking around naked.
She hurries off to where-fucking-ever, and I head to the arena for hockey practice. The cold air is a welcome distraction as soon as I walk into the building. The locker room smells like old sweat and cleaning solution, but it brings a smile to my face, nonetheless.
There’s nowhere I’d rather be than on the ice.
…Except for today.
Today, my thoughts are pulled toward Wren and that fucking kiss. And the lacrosse jackasses trying to get her to move into their house.
“Foster!”
Someone crashes into me.
I grunt under the impact, losing my footing and going down hard. We’re not in full pads today, and an elbow to my gut drives the wind from my lungs.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s Grant. Our enforcer and D-man. He’s thick as shit, and his weight keeping me pinned to the ice does nothing but enrage me. I slam my fist into his side, and he lets out an oof .
“Get off,” I growl.
He jumps up and tosses his stick down, glaring at me. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.” I leap to my feet and drop my stick, too. It’s either get rid of it or bash him over the head—and then I’d be in deep shit.
“Yes, you do. You look awful. You’re playing like shit.”
“I’m fine,” I insist. “You’re just a moron who doesn’t know how to skate.”
“You skated into me !” he yells. “Jesus, man, we’re on the same team.”
I roll my eyes.
“What’s the problem here?” Coach barks, skating to a halt between us. His gaze bounces from Grant to me. “Foster? Marvin?”
Sometimes I forget that Grant has a terrible last name.
“Sorry, Coach,” we both utter.
He shakes his head. “Not good enough. You’re both done for the day. Get off my ice.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Grant grabs my arm and drags me with him. Evan pushes my stick into my chest, and I catch it on reflex.
The whole team is staring.
Grant sighs as soon as we’re in the locker room, and he makes quick work getting out of his gear. While I just…sit there.
“Speak,” he demands. “The circles under your eyes are dark enough to convince me you’ve been punched in the nose. Why are you falling apart?”
I grit my teeth.
It’s not in my nature to talk. Especially not about feelings. Dad used to say that emotions are dangerous. Let them leak out all over the place, and I’ll have nothing left for hockey.
Okay, he didn’t say the last part. My coach when I was fourteen said it, probably in an effort to stop me from picking fights with guys twice my size. He wanted my anger on the ice, and that was exactly what he got.
He used to call me Stone-Cold Killer. I’d smile at the time, but somehow it morphed into my whole fucking personality. Cold in every aspect—except when I’m around Wren. Then, it seems like I’m burning up on the inside.
“I haven’t actually been sleeping.” The words are out before I can stop them.
Grant goes still.
“I’ve been sitting outside Wren’s room every night.”
He glances at me, but I get the sense that he doesn’t want to scare me off. “Why?”
“Because she has nightmares, and I’m pretty sure it’s my fault.” No, it’s definitely my fault. “I just don’t want her to think she’s alone.”
“She is alone,” he points out. “She was in your room, but you freaked out, and now she’s sleeping in a little closet.”
I scrub my face. “Yeah.”
“And you’re sleeping on the floor outside her room because…?”
“Maybe it’s what I deserve,” I say quietly.
“Nah.”
So easy. I stare at his back and try to come up with a reply. Nah . It’s not what I deserve? According to Wren, I should be rotting in Hell. So that’s what I’m busy doing. I’m fucking punishing myself.
No one asked you to sleep outside my door . Her words haunt me. Her face haunts me. That fucking kiss haunts me.
If you asked me two weeks ago if Wren Davis moving out was a good thing, I would’ve said hell yeah . I would’ve packed her shit into garbage bags and tossed them out on the front lawn to be picked up by whatever new arrangement she organized.
But now…
No.
I force myself into motion, unlacing my skates and changing into my street clothes. Once I’m done, I nod to Grant and follow him outside.
“Want to get a drink?” he offers.
Which is how we end up at Shadow’s.
Wren is busy with other tables, her dark hair coming loose from her braid in chunks that frame her face. She looks as tired as I suddenly feel, but she keeps moving.
Another waitress brings us beers. Grant and I sit in silence while I watch Wren. She disappears into the kitchen and comes out a few moments later with a tray of plates. Once they’re down at a table, she tucks her hair behind her ear and goes right on to the next thing.
“Dude.”
I scowl and turn back to Grant.
His expression is stoic. Not happy, not mad, just carefully blank. But the corner of his lips pulls up when he says, “You’re so screwed.”
“You’re telling me,” I mumble.
“We’ve got our first preseason game on Friday. What will it take for you to be ready?”
I sigh. “I’ll be ready.”
He scoffs.
Wren’s panicked voice draws my attention back to her. It only takes me a split second to find her in the crowded bar—it’s like I never actually stopped keeping tabs on her while talking to Grant. Some guy’s holding her wrist, even as she tugs back.
I see red.
I’m out of my chair before Grant can get a word in, striding across the room. It isn’t until I get closer that I realize it’s another group of guys from college. Football assholes, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really give a shit about what sport they play—just that they’re touching Wren.
“You should really let go of her.” I stop beside her and glower at the guy.
“Oooh, your tough fuck buddy has come to rescue you?” The guy sneers.
His friends laugh.
I tilt my head, then lunge for him. I grab the back of his head and yank forward, slamming his face into the table. There’s a satisfying crunch , and Wren slips free. I release him and back away. He pushes upright. Blood pours from his nose.
“That was a warning.” I point at him. “You go ahead and spread the goddamn word that Wren Davis is off limits.”
“Stone—”
I whirl on her. “Save it, Sticks.”
Her face is flushed, her hair wild. I have the indescribable urge to go caveman on her. Toss her over my shoulder, carry her outside. Fucking ravage her just to lay claim on her.
That’s not how this works .
“You need to leave.” She grips my arm.
It’s only then that I realize the place has gone silent.
Grant comes up and guides me out. Wren follows.
“You’re a monster,” she calls. “All your talk about me being the selfish one. You just want me gone by any means necessary—”
“No.” I whirl around and point at her. “All I want is to play hockey! And I can’t seem to do that with you fucking with my head.”
She stares at me. She has the audacity to look hurt by that. “You’re kidding me.”
“You jeopardize everything I want!” I jerk out of Grant’s hold and stride past her. Fuck this. I break into a run. I don’t even care where I go—I just can’t stay here.
I hate her.
I hate her.
I hate her.
Say it enough times and it might become true.
* * *
I’m just dozing off when Wren’s door cracks open. The past week, she’s cried in her sleep every night. But she’s only emerged a few times. And in those times, we haven’t spoken a word.
Evan and I are currently not speaking either. He’s still pissed about the photo, and me being an insensitive ass, and also for not clearing the air with Wren. Any time he sees us in a room together, he scowls like I’ve broken his favorite pet and leaves as fast as he entered.
The light from Wren’s phone sweeps over my outstretched legs, up my chest, and finally lands on my face. I squint up into it, more than a little confused about why we’re breaking the pattern.
“Why are you still here?”
I shrug and raise my hand, blocking the light.
“Is it because you feel guilty?”
“I don’t fucking know.” My head thunks against the wall. Then, “Yeah, maybe I do feel guilty.”
She hesitates. But only for a second. “Good.”
I accept that.
She moves down the hall. The fridge light illuminates the kitchen for a brief moment, then recedes into darkness. I wait for her to come back and retreat into her room, but instead…she stops beside me.
Then she slides down the wall and sits next to me. She holds out a bottle of water.
“This is not a truce,” she warns.
I smile and take it from her. “I wouldn’t dream of that.”
But one thing is sure: Wren isn’t safe on her own.
Clearly. I’ve already planned exactly what I need to do.
I’ve already contacted my advisor and asked to switch into her Personal Finance class.
Easy . Same professor, same work, different time of day.
Because if there are assholes harassing her in my class, there will definitely be some in hers.
Just thinking of that angers me.
I got her full schedule, too. She’s taking crazy-as-fuck science and math classes that made my head spin just reading the names.
I was going to see about transferring in, but fuck that.
But I can be in the same hallway when her class gets out…
and happen to be walking in the same direction of her next class.
If she were to ask—which she won’t. Because I’m stealth incarnate.
“You look like you’re plotting something.”
Okay, maybe not.
I eye her. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Exhausted.”
Her smile . Her sad, tired smile nearly does something to me.
My dick has a not-so-subtle reaction. I cover my groin with the water bottle before she can notice its rise.
Guess I’m not drinking that .
“So…” I shift. “You’re tired, but you won’t go to bed.”
She nods slowly. “And you’re tired, but you sleep out here.”
I scoff. “I get plenty of rest. I can sleep anywhere.”
“Stone.”
“Sticks.”
Her elbow drives into my side, fast and hard. “Don’t call me that.”
“Well, I like it, Sticks .”
She jumps to her feet. “Why can’t you just—”
“Why do you take it so personally? It’s not a bad nickname. Sit back down, Wren.”
I tug her hand, insistent that she actually sit . Because I don’t want this to be over. Our weird, middle-of-the-night temporary truce. But when I do, she comes almost too easily.
And she lands on my lap.
We stare at each other for a beat, both surprised at the position we find ourselves in. I mean, in what world would Wren Davis ever actually touch me?
But she doesn’t move, isn’t trying to scramble off of me, and it’s messing with my head. Especially with the way she’s glaring at me like she wants to claw my eyes out.
I should not be attracted to her. I should not be attracted to her. I should not—
“You really fucked me up by kissing me.” Her eyes narrow. “So this is just me repaying the favor.”
I’m shocked into stillness when Wren kisses me. I can’t even reciprocate. I’m just… She just…
My brain clicks together almost as soon as Wren gives up. She pulls away.
I don’t let her get that far. I slide my hand around the back of her neck and draw her forward, crushing her lips to mine.
It spirals into a mad frenzy. She’s grabbing at my clothes, my hair.
I bite her lip and taste blood in my mouth, and she whimpers.
Not in a way reminiscent of her nightmares, but of pleasure.
It goes straight to my cock.
I’m sure she feels it pressing between us. Her fingers tug my shirt up and skate along the skin above my shorts’ waistband, sending goosebumps coasting up my back and down my arms. I grip her hair harder, tilting her head to the side and leaning up into her.
When she palms my dick through my shorts, though, I see stars. I dip my hand into her shorts, dipping under her panties. Her slight intake of breath is the only tell that my fingers are affecting her.
She’s soaked, though. I linger on her clit, then inch down and dip my fingers into her pussy. I want to taste her in the worst way. But I’m too focused on the noises she’s making as I finger-fuck her.
Wren rolls her hips forward, grinding her clit on the heel of my palm.
“That’s it,” I whisper against her lips. We’ve stopped kissing and are just pressed together, open-mouthed and chasing pleasure.
“Fuck,” she groans.
I bite her lower lip, tugging until she kisses me again. Harder. I’ve never been this turned on just by touching someone. Her hand is still on me, rubbing through my shorts. But that takes a backseat when she suddenly arches her back.
Her muscles tighten around my fingers.
Her orgasm face is something I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.
When she comes down, I carefully pull my hand away. My fingers are wet, and her eyes are dark. Pupils dilated.
I lick my fingers clean and imagine it’s her pussy.
One day I’ll have her spread open for me to devour.
But the moment seems to fade, even with my raging hard-on drawing ninety percent of my attention. The shift in the air is clear enough.
She stands shakily, using the wall over my head for balance, and steps away.
Retreating.
“You know what they say,” I call to her before the door closes between us.
She pauses, and I grin.
“An orgasm a day keeps the nightmares away.”
Wren rolls her eyes and shuts the door. I reach for my water bottle and uncap it, chugging half. I lower it and resign myself to another night on the floor.
Because fuck . That was unexpected.