29. Cash
Cash
Carter: Who keeps changing the group photo?
Me: me
Marcus: Why is it just Callahan’s forehead?
Me: because it’s inspirational
***
We spent eight days in Memphis with Coach Derrick, and the man used every single second of every single drill to remind us that we had poured a full liter of Gatorade onto his clean lobby mats.
Every time I missed a low blocker shot, he’d yell that my hands were too slick from truck-stop electrolytes. Every time Scottie tried to discuss contract structure, he’d look at her dry pullover and ask if she needed a towel before she stained his clipboard.
It was a grueling, agonizing week of physical punishment and relentless, old-school hockey chirping, but by the time we packed the duffel bags back into the Goalie-Mobile, my shoulder felt like solid iron.
The real problem hit us forty miles after we crossed the Arkansas border and made our way into Little Rock: an automated text notification from the agency’s booking service informing us that our reservation at the only decent lodge within a three-hundred-mile radius had been summarily canceled due to a plumbing failure.
“I can’t get a signal out here,” Scottie mutters from the passenger seat, tapping her phone screen with an aggressive rhythm. “The roaming data is dead.”
“Look there,” I say, nodding toward a low, flat-roofed building made of faded red brick at the end of the main drag. A small, weathered wooden sign out front reads: MUNICIPAL LIbrARY - EST. 1954. “They’ll have Wi-Fi. Even the ghost towns have a router.”
I pull the van into the empty gravel lot, the tires crunching in the quiet afternoon air.
When we step inside, it’s silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of an old refrigerator behind the front desk.
We walk up to the counter, our shoes thudding softly against the thin carpet.
Behind the desk sits a woman who looks like she could easily clear the crease during a five-on-three power play.
She’s easily six feet tall, with shoulders that stretch the fabric of her denim button-down shirt to its absolute limit, and arms that look like they’ve spent the last thirty years bench-pressing logs.
Her gray hair is pulled back into a knot so tight it looks like it’s holding her skull together.
“We need the Wi-Fi password,” I whisper, leaning in. “Just need to log on for five minutes to fix a hotel reservation.”
The librarian lowers her reading glasses, her eyes locking onto mine with the cold, unblinking intensity of a referee checking a controversial goal.
“Shhh,” she says.
She points a thick, scarred index finger toward a small plastic sign on the desk that reads: SILENCE IS A VIRTUOUS CONTEXT.
“This is a sanctuary of study, young man. Not a sports bar. The password is on the card behind you. Speak at that volume again, and I will personally escort you back to your automobile.”
Beside me, I hear a tiny, muffled snort.
I glance down. Scottie has her hand pressed flat over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a sudden, vicious wave of silent laughter at my expense.
Her eyes are crinkled at the corners, delighted by the fact that a six-foot-two professional athlete just got thoroughly intimidated by a small-town clerk.
“Don’t start, Sharky,” I murmur.
“SHHH!”
The librarian slams a massive palm flat against the desk. She glares directly past me, her eyes pinning Scottie to the spot.
“You. Miss. The giggling is entirely unnecessary. One more sound from either of you, and the network cable is being disconnected.”
Scottie’s laughter vanishes instantly, her face turning a bright, sudden pink as she straightens her shoulders. Her defenses are totally useless against a woman who looks like she could break a carbon-fiber stick over her thigh. She nods quickly, her mouth dropping into a tight, compliant line.
We grab the laminated password card and head straight for the back of the building, moving deep into the non-fiction stacks where the light is dim and the air is thick with the scent of old leather biographies.
In the furthest corner, tucked between two massive shelves of local history, we find a narrow table with two wooden chairs facing each other. It’s hidden from the front desk, isolated in a small pocket of shadow.
Scottie drops her laptop onto the dark wood, her movements incredibly careful. Her fingers barely make a sound as she types in the network key, her eyes darting toward the edge of the aisle like she’s expecting the librarian to drop from the ceiling.
I sit down across from her, leaning my elbows on the table. The silence between us is heavy, absolute, and suddenly competitive.
I slide my small notebook out of my back pocket—the one I usually use to track my training stats and crease angles—and lay a black pen on top of it.
I look straight across the table, my eyes locking onto hers, and raise an eyebrow.
No talking. First one to make a sound loses.
Scottie reads the challenge in my eyes instantly. Her mouth twists into a small, stubborn line, her gaze narrowing. She gives me a slow nod.
The first ten minutes are agonizingly slow.
The only sound in the entire corner is the faint click of her fingers against the keys as she navigates the regional hotel listings. The blue light from the screen hits her face, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw and the tiny, pale freckles across her nose.
I pick up my pen.
I write three words in large block letters, my pen scratching against the page with a sound that feels deafening in the silence.
I slide the notebook across the dark oak table until it rests right next to her mouse pad.
I WANT YOU.
Her fingers freeze. A tiny, faint flush of pink starts at the collar of her green sweater, creeping up her throat to her cheeks. She doesn’t look at me. She just reaches out, her hand steady, and slides the notebook back across the wood until it’s on my side of the table.
I smirk and flip the page.
I CAN STILL TASTE YOU.
I THINK ABOUT IT EVERY TIME I LOOK AT YOUR MOUTH IN THE VAN.
I slide it back.
This time, she glares at me across the table, her expression a mix of absolute fury and dark, dangerous heat. She takes her own pen from her bag, flips my notebook around, and writes in small, neat cursive right underneath my messy printing:
We are in a public library. Stop being a caveman and let me book the room.
I read it, my smile widening.
I don’t write anything back.
Instead, I lower my hands from the table. My shoes make no sound against the carpet as I shift my weight forward in the wooden chair, my long legs sliding beneath the narrow table until my knees are bracketed on either side of her shins.
Scottie freezes, her fingers hovering an inch above the keyboard.
She looks at me through her lashes, a warning flare behind her eyes, but she doesn’t move away.
She can’t. If she pulls back, the wooden legs of her chair will scrape against the floorboards, and the librarian will be down our aisle in two seconds.
I reach out under the dark table.
My right hand is warm as it makes contact with her bare knee. The skin of her leg is cool against my palm, a smooth, soft contrast to the rough, calloused texture of my goalie fingers.
I move my hand slowly, my palm sliding up the soft skin of her lower thigh. The fabric of her black skirt bunches against the back of my knuckles as I push it upward.
Her eyes fly to mine, wide and dark, her pupils dilated until the green of her irises is just a thin, burning ring. Her mouth opens slightly. Her fingers clench into the edge of the laptop frame until her knuckles go white.
I pick up my pen with my left hand, still keeping my right hand firmly planted on the warm inside of her thigh, and write a single line on the paper. I push it forward with my thumb.
DON’T MAKE A SOUND, SCOTTIE-GIRL.
She reads it, her jaw trembling. I can feel the tight tension in her muscles, the sheer, agonizing effort she’s making to keep her spine straight and her breathing silent.
My right hand moves higher, my fingers sliding over the smooth curve of her inner thigh, the heat between her legs instantly radiating against my palm. She is already warm, already damp through the thin cotton of her underwear.
A tiny, muffled sound escapes her—a soft, pathetic little gasp that she catches by biting down on her lower lip until the skin goes white.
I use one finger to slide the edge of her underwear aside, finding her wet, swollen clit. I trace it once, slowly, feeling her flinch against the chair. She lets out a shaky, desperate breath, her head tilting back as she stares at the ceiling.
I sink that first finger inside, feeling her heat pulse around me, and then slide a second one in behind it, stretching her just enough to make her gasp. I rotate my fingers, a steady, deep rhythm that makes her hips jump against my hand, her body completely at my mercy.
I increase the pressure, my thumb finding her clit, rubbing against it with a firm, relentless friction.
She’s staring at me, her eyes wet and unfocused, her mouth hanging open as she fights for air.
She’s undone, her movements beneath the table frantic as she chases the feeling, her thighs twitching rhythmically against my arms.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The rhythmic sound of footsteps echoes from the end of our aisle. The librarian is walking the rows.
Scottie goes rigid, her eyes flying to the edge of the stacks, her face turning a pale, terrified shade of white. If she gasps now, if she moves, the woman will be around the corner in two steps.
I don’t stop. I deepen the rhythm.
A silent, massive tremor goes straight through her spine. Scottie’s eyes roll back. She buries her face into the crook of her own elbow, biting into her sleeve to muffle the moan that tears out of her throat.
Her body shakes in long, violent waves against my hand, her pussy clamping down around my fingers with a fierce, crushing strength that makes my own jaw ache with the effort of staying still.
I hold her steady, my other hand coming up to rest on her knee, squeezing softly. She holds herself perfectly silent through the entire orgasm, her tears soaking into the fabric of her sweater.
The librarian’s shadow stretches across the linoleum at the end of our aisle, lingers for one terrifying second, and then moves away toward the fiction section.
I keep my hand flat against her skin, holding her steady as the tremors begin to recede, her breathing turning into long sighs that hit the quiet air in warm bursts.
Slowly, Scottie lowers her arm from her face. Her eyes are glassy, her red hair disheveled, and her lower lip is swollen, a tiny, dark bead of blood welling where her teeth had pinned the skin.
I pull my hand back from beneath the table.
I reach across the wood and use my finger to wipe the droplet from her bottom lip, dragging the crimson smear across my own pad. Without breaking eye contact, I bring my hand to my mouth.
I slide my fingers between my lips, one by one, sucking them clean slowly making her pupils dilate all over again. I don’t look away, and she doesn’t flinch.
Only then does Scottie move. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then drags back up to meet my eyes, her expression heavy with a dazed, raw hunger.
She flicks her own tongue out, licking her bottom lip to catch the lingering salt and the remaining traces of her own blood, her breath hitching as she tastes the sweetness of the aftermath.
“You lost,” I whisper.
Scottie lets out a soft, wet laugh, a shaky exhale that sounds like surrender. She reaches up, her fingers fumbling as she tries to fix her wild hair, but she can’t stop looking at my mouth. She leans back in her chair, her legs relaxing, as she looks down at the laptop screen.
The browser has loaded the confirmation page.