Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
ELLIE
A thin layer of sweat covers my whole body as I stop trembling. Am I dreaming? I’m not sure—at least, I don’t think I am, anyway. Not anymore.
My legs are tangled in my duvet, and I feel … hot, and … satisfied. Like I’ve just—oh, my God—I didn’t, did I?
I tentatively reach out to pat the stretch of bed next to me and when my fingers find nothing but the cotton fitted sheet, I exhale in relief.
I’m alone.
But that must mean…
I kick off the quilt and roll onto my back, willing myself to wake up properly. But the dream still clings to me—so vivid it plays out in front of my eyes. Mike’s face, smiling back at me as I?—
No.
Don’t think about it.
It was a dream .
Just a dream.
But my eyelids feel heavy. So very heavy.
They droop closed and his face, and his hands—rough and huge—slip back into view as he grips my hips.
I’m peering down at him, my eyes roaming over his skin, toned and bruised in patches.
There’s a yellowy-purple mark on his right rib that I want to touch … I want to soothe.
But I can’t.
He’s just out of reach even though he’s beneath me, and the more I try, the further he seems to move away.
“Does your bruise hurt?” I say.
Not really sure why I’m asking such a dumb question, but he doesn’t answer anyway. He laughs instead. A sound so real that when I force my eyes open, I still hear it, hung in the air like it’s last night all over again.
But it’s not last night. It’s Sunday night and I’m alone in bed having a sex dream about Mike—except there’s no way I should be having a sex dream about Mike.
But I did.
The more I try to abandon the memory, the more it sticks. Replaying, almost in slow motion: his lips on mine, his hands … that feeling in the pit of my abdomen that sort of simulates butterflies but also doesn’t. It twists, unsettles.
I don’t know if it’s anticipation or regret.
Maybe both.
Maybe neither.
My eyes flutter closed, and the dream resurfaces.
I’m stuck in a limbo of wanting to experience it again but also not wanting to either. And for the third time, I pry my eyes open, but instead of staring up at the ceiling, I sit up and shake my head.
My phone tells me that it’s close to midnight, which means there’s at least seven more hours of turmoil. Seven more hours of—wait.
My mind races, re-tracing the moments before I woke. That feeling. That sensation which had me shivering with satisfaction. I mean, it’s never happened before, but that doesn’t mean it’s not normal … right?
I unlock my phone and tap the icon for the search engine. Letting my fingers do all the work.
‘Is it normal to have an orgasm in your sleep?’
My heart thumps harder as I wait for the results to load because if it isn’t normal, then I need to stop sleeping; that’s my only solution.
… an orgasm while asleep, also known as a nocturnal orgasm or sleep orgasm … common phenomenon … particularly during periods of sexual arousal or when not sexually active.
Well, I guess that explains it.
A conclusion that it probably wasn’t anything to do with Mike and more to do with the fact that it’s been a while since I’ve had sex or even a self-induced orgasm.
Relieved, I toss my phone down on the bed next to me, and roll over, settling myself back into position to fall asleep.
I lay for a few moments, afraid to close my eyes out of fear that I’ll relive the dream all over again.
But I don’t need to close my eyes to see him, stretched out on the bed while I straddle his thighs—my imagination is consumed.
Except, in this vision, I’m not shying away like I typically would, nor am I insisting I keep my bra on.
I’m fully naked—exposed. And there’s an encouraging look on his face as he takes in every inch of me.
He’s enjoying himself.
He smiles at me, and my eyes are drawn to a small scar near his lip. Did he always have this scar, is it new?
The mental image of Mike I’ve conjured has me sitting back up in bed and reaching for my phone—tapping his name into the search engine, curiosity getting the better of me; why it matters is a mystery.
My heart flutters when the results load and his entry on the hockey database website returns a mugshot next to a snapshot of him in his hockey gear, mid-skate .
Okay, so I wasn’t imagining the scar on his lip. I got an up-close look at it last night when we were in my kitchen … faces together and vulnerabilities exposed.
It starts on his lower lip and travels down towards his chin, disappearing under the stubble of his beard.
The more I think about it, the more I wish I’d asked him how he got it. How did he get it?
Before I realise what I’m doing, I’ve moved to the social media page of his hockey team, set on finding the ‘before the scar’ moment—curious to know if there’s a point in time I can identify.
As I cycle through the photos, I take in his expression on each one in turn as I study the photo for the scar.
I guess I never realised how different he looks when he’s concentrating.
I mean, he’s usually good looking, but there’s something about the way his eyes focus, like they’re brighter somehow, that makes him appear more … something.
A video loads next, and I spot the coppery-brown of Mike’s hair.
There’s a section of the video where he takes his helmet off and runs his fingers through his hair and I feel my own fingertips tingling with wonder. Is his hair soft or coarse? And most importantly, why do I care?
I shake the thought away, but it lingers—especially as the next clip plays and a warmth spreads through my chest.
A clip of him during a practice session—scar present and accounted for.
There’s a microphone cabled into his jersey or something because everything he says is audible, and I take several minutes to realise I’m smiling along with the people he’s interacting with.
He’s goofy, but everyone seems to love it.
Just like the Mike I remember from school—laughing, joking, completely in his element.
But then my eyes drift down to the comments section beneath the video, and the warmth in my chest fades.
86 comments .
And none of them are talking about the clip. They’re all asking the same thing: if anyone knows why something got deleted on the forum. Comment after comment, people are speculating about what was said—but it’s the one posted just twenty minutes ago that makes my stomach drop.
‘Forget that … have you seen what’s on there now?’
I load up the fan forum in record time, immediately seeing what they were referring to; a new forum post.
Bettsy the playboy.
My blood thumps a little harder as I notice the username ‘IlovetoPuck29’.
Subject: Bettsy the Playboy
I just wanted 2 come on here 2 WARN every1 about Michael Betts (no. 6!!!) again bc this man is such a walking red flag.
The guy thinks a home cooked meal is plain pasta and a side of ketchup … I mean… no thx mate. And what made the whole thing worse? He’s obsessed with himself. Thinks he’s Gods gift to women. He spent the whole nite watching hockey highlights of himself.
What makes this even more tragic is his attachment issues.
He said that he cant commit bcuz he’s ‘married to the game’ and he’s too busy focusing on his abs to put any time into having a gf.
But … get this… he took my friend out a week later 2 make me jealous and she even said he denied going out wiv me before.
STAY AWAY!!! The only player he is, is an actual player not a hockey player.
I roll my eyes. And I’m not sure if it’s because of the dream or the fact that I’m delirious from exhaustion, but a swell of emotion builds inside me and before I can think through the consequences, I’m clicking the ‘create an account’ button intending to have my say.
Turns out, all I need is an email address, a screen name and to answer the question ‘who is the current captain’ which is a straightforward thing to find out thanks to our old friend, Google.
I draft a reply to the original poster, demanding concrete evidence and begging the general populous of the forum to consider the post at length for what it is—a pile of crap. And, for good measure, I add a hashtag: ‘#justiceforBettsy’.
I stare at my draft for several minutes, wondering if I should post it or if I should keep myself out of the drama, but the seconds tick away and the compulsion I have to get involved only grows.
I count to three.
And then I hit ‘post’.