26. Stone
STONE
I’m pretty sure I hate her.
The image of Wren putting on Archer’s jersey, with his last name blazed across her shoulders, is burned in my mind. I mean, it’s like she wants me to be unable to concentrate.
It takes a few hard hits to get my head in the game. But as soon as I’m still, catching my breath on the bench, I find myself scouring the stands for her. Or, alternatively, glaring at Archer.
Poor asshole has no idea why I’m giving him the stink eye.
Evan drops into the spot beside me. “Dude.”
I glance at him, then back to the players on the ice.
“Channel all this rage into the game.” He elbows me. “It’s the least you can do.”
I take a breath. He’s right. I have an outlet that I haven’t been using. I focus on the way Wren makes me feel—in a word, pissed —and get up without responding. I move down the line to stand in the door. When our other left wing skates to the wall, I seamlessly take his spot on the ice.
Evan’s idea works. I skate faster, play harder. I chase after the puck with single-minded fury, beating out my opponent time and again. I hop over a player’s stick and pass to Sully, who gives it right back to me. My attention is already on the goalie, who flexes and drifts forward to meet me.
I snap the puck forward. It rebounds off the goalie’s arm block, flying toward Grant.
Grant to Sully, back to Grant. Across to Evan, who rejoined us at the last change.
A D-man for the other team is right on me, and I shove him back.
He pushes into me again. I grunt out a swear and inch in front of him, just as Evan slips the puck to me.
And without thinking, I take the shot.
Instinct and drills, along with countless hours of practice, has created muscle memory that I can rely on without a thought. So when the puck sails under the goalie’s knee a second before he drops it, and the light behind the goal flashes red to signal a goal, I’m not really surprised .
But I do let it be a momentary balm to my anger.
I raise my hands and am immediately swarmed by my teammates. The celebration feels distant. I’m happy, but not really. I just want to bash in the goalie’s face or the guy who keeps getting in my space.
Evan pats my helmet. “Way to channel.”
I roll my eyes.
The game restarts, and I’m hot. My blood is singing. The other team gets the puck and heads toward our goal. I target the player who has possession and slam him into the boards. The hit is fucking jarring, the plastic mouthguard saving my teeth from clacking.
“What the fuck is your problem, Foster?”
The D-man grabs the back of my jersey, keeping me from chasing after the puck. It’s long gone anyway. It slung around behind the goal. Taylor takes it up away from danger, away from Archer in the crease.
I whip around and shove the asshole off me. “My only problem is you, dickhead.”
He pushes me back. A sharp jab of his hands and stick across my chest. I rock back on my skates. He wants a fight? Me, too. I ditch my stick, my gloves, and he mirrors me. We circle each other, and I sneer at him.
“Fucking coward,” I call. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
He lunges at me. We grapple, and I distantly hear another whistle being blown. The roar of the crowd blends with the blood rushing in my ears. He knocks my helmet off, and I do the same to him. I drag him closer and hit him square in the mouth.
His head snaps back, eyes going wide with anger.
When he hits back, it’s like a fucking hammer across my cheekbone.
I let the momentum shift my weight, and I use him to keep me upright.
We trade shots like that until blood fills my mouth.
I think it’s coming from my nose. Either way, he tires before I do, and with one heavy twist, I slam him down on the ice.
I land on top of him, but hands immediately grab for me, pulling me up and away.
I spit blood and run my hand under my nose.
“Penalty box,” the ref yells in my ears. “Now.”
My nose smarts, and my eyes water. I glance back at the other guy, smirking as he climbs back to his feet. He scowls in my direction.
Distantly, the crowd’s approval seeps in. I’m escorted into the penalty box and sit heavily, only registering the fans clapping and cheering around me once the official closes us in.
My teammates return my items. Stick, helmet, gloves. I fist-bump Evan, who hides his smile with a quick shake of his head. My old coach used to say, “If you’re going to fight, don’t embarrass me by losing one-on-one.” I’d like to think I made him proud.
I look across the announcers’ booth to the other penalty box, where the other guy sits. His hands are running through his hair, and he seems a little stressed out, to be honest.
“First fight, Mary?” I yell over to him. “You hit like a virgin.”
He ignores me.
I lean back in my seat and smile.
Who knew a fight would take the edge off?
* * *
The girls—Wren and her new waitress friend—wait for us in the atrium outside the locker room with some others.
Our team pulled off the win, six to three. I’ve been bestowed with a gold Burger King crown, courtesy of the guys for my hat trick. Evan scored one, and I have no idea who scored the other two.
A win is a win. Another saying my old coach had. No matter if it’s by one or by five, you stay fucking humble.
So when the congratulations pour in from the fans, aka college girls wanting to get in our pants, I shrug it off.
I’ve only got eyes for Wren and the blasted jersey she’s wearing anyway.
When I finally get up next to her, she barely looks at me.
Game on.
I run my knuckles up her arm, across her shoulder and under her hair. She shivers when I grip the back of her neck lightly.
“Excuse us,” I interrupt Abby. Ally. Whatever her name is.
She frowns at me. Wren does, too. But I ignore both and use the pressure on Wren’s neck to steer her away from the crowd.
“Stone—”
“Don’t talk.”
We round the corner, and I yank open the first door I see. Storage closet.
Whatever.
I push Wren in ahead of me and close us in, flipping the lock with my free hand. She clicks the light on, a single bulb over our heads. It buzzes a little, angry with disuse.
“Listen…” She sounds nervous. There’s a flutter in her voice that wasn’t there before. That’s not usually there. She licks her lips. “You seem mad.”
“That was your intention, wasn’t it?”
I’m glad I ditched the cup in my pants as soon as I got back to the locker room. My hair is damp, but I’m clean. I changed into a t-shirt, sweatshirt, and jeans. And now, my cock is stiffening in my pants before we’ve even done anything.
Pure anticipation.
Because I thought about how I might like to make Wren Davis pay me back, and there’s only one acceptable answer.
I step forward, and she goes backward. A game of cat and mouse in a tight cage. It doesn’t take long to trap her against the back wall, kicking aside a mop bucket and cleaning supplies.
“Wasn’t it, baby?”
She swallows…then nods.
I grasp her hips. She makes a noise in the back of her throat, but she doesn’t stop me from running my fingers up under the hem of Archer’s jersey.
I push it up, up, up. Exposing her pale stomach and the cropped tank she put on under it.
Over her breasts, barely concealed by the thin top and her lacy bra, until I get it over her head.
I throw it toward the mop bucket, smirking at the splash of it hitting dirty water.
“No girl of mine is going to wear another guy’s jersey,” I say quietly. I run my finger across her collarbone.
“Well, the good news is—I’m not your girl.”
I stop.
She stares at me with wide eyes. I’m casting her in shadow like this, blocking out the pretty green and brown of her eyes.
“You’re mine, Wren Davis. What more do I need to do to prove it? Fuck you in front of Evan? Get my name tattooed on your skin?” I cup her jaw, forcing her head up. “Or your name on me? Now that sounds tempting…”
“Stone—”
“Where do you want your name, Sticks?” I adjust myself. Jesus, talking about marking myself for her has me harder than ever. “On my dick? Across my chest? My knuckles, maybe?”
“You’re talking crazy.” She steps forward. “You can’t just do whatever you please and declare that I’m yours. That’s not how this works.”
“Turn around,” I order.
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
Because I’m done playing games. Without warning, I spin her to face the wall. She lets out a gasp, and I yank her hips back toward me.
“Enough fucking questions, Wren. Hands on the wall.”
She complies, and it gives me another rush.
I take my time dragging her pants down. I get them to her ankles, and I run my hands up the outsides of her smooth legs. To her panties.
“Don’t—”
I rip them off.
With my teeth.
She groans as the fabric slides out from between her thighs, and I drop it from my mouth. I can smell her arousal. And a quick check, slipping my finger through her center, confirms it.
I stand back up and finally undo my jeans. My dick twitches as it’s unleashed, and I cup her butt cheek.
“When I fuck you in this dirty storage closet, Sticks, there’s exactly one name you’re going to be screaming.”
“Archer’s?” she sasses.
Smack .
My palm connects with her ass, and she nearly jumps a foot. I grip her hips and slide into her a moment later, and we both groan.
“Keep your hands on the wall,” I bite out.
She has to lean forward to reach, and I go with her.
Bending over her like an animal. Her muscles squeeze at my dick, and I run my hands up her back.
I unclip her bra and wrap my arm around her, palming her breast. My other hand fists her hair.
I tug until her head comes back and her gaze is on the ceiling.
“Fuck,” she groans.
“Shut. Up.” Each word is punctuated by a thrust, by a twist of my fingers on her nipple.
She’s so fucking wet I have no problem sliding in even deeper, hitting a new angle. I take out my anger, my frustration, my loathing of this hold she has on me, on her cunt.
Just because she’s mine, and I’m hers, doesn’t mean I don’t hate her for it.
“I’m close,” she pants. She pushes harder against me, her hips bucking.
I bite her shoulder. My hands are everywhere. Breasts, throat, hair, my fingers sliding into her mouth. I’m fucking possessed, and her sharp cries only egg me on faster.
She might be close—but I’m closer. And I make no move to touch her clit to help her along. My balls tighten, and I grind to a halt inside her. Pleasure detonates up my dick, up my spine, when I come hard.
After a minute, my vision returns to normal.
I slowly remove my fingers from her jaw.
I guess I covered her mouth. And now she’s breathing heavily, just like me.
The nape of her neck is damp, her short dark hairs curling there.
I push the rest of her hair over her shoulder and run my finger down her spine.
Just to see her shiver.
I pull out slowly and turn her around.
“I didn’t come,” she says.
I smile. I kneel in front of her and tug her pants back up. Before I get them all the way secure, I slip my finger into her. She makes some noise, choking it off, and my smile widens.
“I know,” I say simply.
And then I’ve got her pants buttoned and her tank top mostly righted. It still bares her stomach, and her bra is painfully visible.
I shed my sweatshirt and shove it at her. It has my name on it, at the very fucking least.
“Archer’s jersey—”
“He’ll pay the fine to get a new one.” I wave my hand. “Or you will. Either way.”
I pick up my fallen cardboard crown, planting it back on my head.
She glowers at me. “And not letting me finish? Is that punishment?”
I unlock and open the door, letting much more light flood into the small room. As small as it is, it’s bigger than the space she was sleeping in. Good thing she’s never going back there.
I steal a kiss from her lips as she moves past me. “Now you’re getting it.”