Shut Out (17 page)

“Sorry, baby.”

“Not you.” I giggle. “It's a little squishy.”

He lifts his hips and nudges his erection into me. “Hey, take that back. It's not little. And it's definitely not squishy.”

I collapse into laughter against his chest, my hair all around us. Jacob's big body shakes with laughter too and his hand cups the back of my head.

I finally stop giggling and lift my head. Our eyes meet and we share a smile. Something turns over in my chest at the warm affection I see in his eyes. I'm feeling that too, for him. And suddenly I want him even more.

“Do me,” I whisper. “Right here.”

“I'm trying. Stop laughing.”

“You're the one who made the joke.”

“Yeah, I'm pretty damn funny, aren't I?”

I grin as another laugh bubbles up.

“Did I harsh the glow, babe?” He grabs the hem of my shirt and whisks it up and over my head, and I'm sitting on his lap in a black lace demi bra. “Ah, okay. Nope.” He traces his fingertips along the top edge, which is so low my nipples almost show. And then he tugs that lace edge down with both hands, exposing me to him. His eyes devour me. “Sweet.”

Heat spreads through my body. Jacob bends his head to suck my nipples, and warm streams of pleasure ripple through me right to my core. “I'm aching for you,” I whisper.

“Me too, baby. Feel how hard I am for you.”

“Mmm. Not squishy at all.” I move against him, and damn, I can't help it, but I start laughing again.

His lips twitch too and he brushes his mouth over mine.

“That's what I'm going to call your junk from now on. Squishy.”

“Don't you fuckin' dare.”

“It's like a sarcastic nickname.” I kiss his jaw. “Because you're so the exact opposite of squishy.”

“Damn right.”

My heart swells up so big I almost can't breathe, and I'm still so turned on. I grind against him.

“Getting these jeans off is gonna be a challenge.” Jacob flicks open the button. “Lift up, baby.”

It takes some work and possibly a couple bruises, but we manage to get them down my legs. I push off one boot and pull that foot out. The other doesn't matter. I help Jacob open his jeans and reach into them. “Squishy,” I murmur. “I need you.”

Jacob chokes on another laugh, but his cock swells in my hand. I love how he feels, so hot and hard. I stroke his rigid length while he pulls a condom from the ashtray.

I lift an eyebrow at him.

“What? It's important to have safe sex wherever you are.”

“I guess I can't argue with that.”

He has the condom on in a flash and then his big hands on my waist lift me again. I reach for him to help guide him inside me, lowering myself slowly onto him. “Oh God.” It's like he's thrusting up so deep he's pushing all the air out of my lungs.

“Oh fuck.” He lets out a deep groan, lifting me so I slide up his shaft. I'm so wet, he glides through me, then I plunge down onto him again. I adjust my position to get better balance and then I can take over, rising and falling on him.

“So deep. So deep.” I press a hand to my abdomen and squeeze my inner muscles around him.

“I love when you do that. Christ.”

My breasts are in his face and he buries his face between them. His cock slides in and out of me. I move up and down. He kisses and nips at my cleavage, making appreciative noises.

“What do you need, babe?” He tugs a nipple with his lips and my abs tighten.

So considerate. He's an amazing lover. “I need you to touch me.”

He slips a hand between us and finds my clit with his thumb. “There? Good?”

He hits the exact spot. “You really know how to put it in the slot.”

He chokes on another laugh. “You're killing me, Sky. Jesus.”

I smile, but I'm getting close. Tension's twisting inside me, dark and beautiful. “Don't stop.”

I close my eyes and let sensation take over, his cock tunneling in and out of me, stroking sensitive nerve endings inside me, his thumb working magic on my clit, all of it pulling up tight and high and…“Yeah.” My body tightens and then the tension breaks, pleasure coursing through me in hot, delicious waves. “Oh
yeah.
”

“There you go, sweetness. So sweet.” He kisses my mouth. “Sweet and sexy.”

I'm pulsing around him and he's fucking up into me with fast, hard thrusts and then he goes still and I feel him, a flutter inside me, as he comes too.

Then we collapse together in a sweaty, rumpled pile of sated exhaustion.

I'm sitting in the locker room taping my stick. Daft Punk is blasting around us and the other guys are doing their stuff to get ready. I like hanging out here in the locker room for a while before practices. It's good to spend time together as a team. I'm getting to know these guys better and better.

I've already warmed up on the bike and done some weights and I'm ready to hit the ice. It's what I wait for every day.

Our next game is against our archrival, the Harvard Crimson, and we talk about what to expect from them.

“They've really kicked their offense into high gear the last couple of games,” Coach tells us. “They've got their senior star, Paul Black, back in the lineup, and a power-packed top line. Last game they combined for eleven points.”

Fuck.

“We're going to need tight defense. After practice we'll look at some plays.”

Then we put on our equipment and practice jerseys and hit the ice. This is it—skating, hitting the puck. I love it.

After we warm up and do a few stretches, our assistant coach, Art Backes, gets us doing some give and go shooting. We line up outside the blue line, Art in the corner. My turn. I pass the puck to Art, skate toward the net for the pass back, and make a quick shot. It has to be fast. I nail it.

“Good, good!” Then, “Eyes up, stick on the ice, ready for the pass!” Art yells at Jimmy.

At the end of practice, the coaches get us all in a circle on one knee at center ice, and then team captain Franco yells, “Dance off!”

My mouth drops open. What the fuck?

“Rookies go first.” Franco points at me.

Is he serious? I stare at him, but everyone's hollering at me to get up and dance, and the coaches are grinning.

Then the music starts over the sound system, Walk the Moon singing “Shut Up and Dance.” It's a quick, catchy beat, and what the hell, I like dancing. So I push up onto both blades and glide to the center of the circle. I slide my stick across the ice and drop my helmet and go for it, arms in the air, thrusting my hips, then a spin. It's a little tough to show off my moves with all my gear on, but I give it my best shot.

The guys cheer and Coach shouts, “Now Churchill!”

I lift my arms as the guys tap their sticks on the ice, gliding over to the circle while a red-faced Danny Churchill takes my place.

It's fucking hilarious, and cuts through some of the intensity of the practice and our upcoming game. Because dammit, hockey should be fun.

Even Black Jack dances, but he's clearly not into it. If he'd just loosen up and have fun, it wouldn't feel so awkward, but he only does a few perfunctory moves and then skates off. I meet Buck's eyes and he makes a face.

By the time everyone else has had a turn making a fool of themselves, my abs hurt from laughing so much.

It's five o'clock when we're done, but Buck and I stay on the ice a little longer and practice tipping the puck in. We've been playing on a line together the last few games and things are really clicking. Franco on the right wing plays the same kind of gritty game I do—we both go in hard on the forecheck and drive the net—and the three of us all seem to read each other and find each other.

After we're finished, we head back to the locker room. I do more stretches, and my ice bath, which is painful. I'm told it's good for reducing muscle inflammation, but I'm actually skeptical of it. Then I jump in the hot shower, which feels fucking fantastic after that. We watch some videos, and Coach points out problems and things we need to work on. He also points out some good things, which makes me respect him as a coach.

As I leave the DeWitt Center, I pull out my cellphone to turn it on and check the time. We have strict rules about no cellphone use from the minute we step into the center until we leave. It's nearly six-thirty. I debate going for something to eat, but study table is happening at the Herbert J. Kane Academic Center for all college athletes.

I don't have to go, because I'm not a freshman, and I'm not in poor academic standing—yet—but I like to go when I can. I find it motivating to be around others who are working hard. In the weight room, there's a little competitive edge between me and the other guys that pushes me to try harder. On the ice, same thing. And I'm finding when I'm studying with a bunch of other elite athletes—one guy here is an Olympic swimmer—it makes me want to do better.

So I find a spot and open my laptop to go over some lecture notes from earlier. I let out a sigh. Sitting in classes all morning is difficult. Going to practice when I have all that pent-up energy feels good. Now coming here, somewhere so quiet and still, and trying to focus again on schoolwork at the end of the day when I'm tired, is fucking hard. It'd be so easy to just say fuck it and go home and veg in front of the TV with a video game or a movie. But I have to push through this.

My phone buzzes with a text message a while later. Quite a while later. I'm impressed to see I've been focused on schoolwork for nearly two hours. Go me.

It's Skylar.

Hey, where are you?

I text her back with my location.
Where are you?

Just getting off work. Hungry?

Starving.

Be there in ten.

I smile and set my phone down. I heave a sigh and rub the back of my neck. This week has been crazy. It feels like every minute of my day is scheduled with something—early classes, practices, meetings, studying, and squeezing in time to solicit donations for the pizza fundraiser. I know there are perks to this gig, like the awesome training facility, the coaching staff I'm learning so much from, the strength and conditioning coach who's making me so much fitter, the trainer who gives me massages…but it's not exactly easy.

Skylar arrives with a big paper sack from Taste of Heaven Diner in her hands and waves at me. I pack up my stuff and join her in the lounge area, where she hands me a Styrofoam take-out container holding a burger and fries. It smells fantastic.

“Thank you.” I pick up the burger and take a huge bite.

She opens her own container of a salad with some kind of spicy chicken slices on top.

I eye it. “That looks good.”

Her lips quirk. “Want to try some?”

“You can have some fries.”

She grins and hands me her fork to spear some chicken and salad, then helps herself to a couple fries. “You need ketchup.”

“I don't like ketchup.”

“What?” She stares at me as if I just told her I like to kick puppies with my skates on.

I shrug. “I'm a salt and vinegar kind of guy. But you can hardly ever get vinegar down here. So I just go with salt.”

“Huh.”

She passes me a container of chocolate milk and I take a long pull. The fact that she knows I love chocolate milk makes something inside my chest go soft. “Thanks. This is great.”

“Long day?”

“Yeah.”

We talk about our days as we eat. She laughs at my story about the dance-off after practice, then we pack things up and throw our trash out before walking outside to our respective vehicles. I walk with Skylar to her car and we pause before she gets in. She tugs her scarf up around her chin in the chilly night air.

“Won't see you until next week. We leave tomorrow for Boston. Our first road trip.”

“Right.” She nods. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” I find I don't want to say good night to her. I don't want to leave her. I've hardly seen her this week and now we're going on a road trip and I won't see her until next week.

Jesus. She keeps reminding me this isn't a real relationship and it's starting to bug me. I mean, I
know
it's not real. Except why do I feel like something's squeezing my chest at the idea of leaving her?

We'll chat on Facebook probably, when I have time.

I need to get a grip here, so I give her a quick kiss good night. She flashes a smile before climbing into her car.

I watch her drive away and then I jog across the parking lot to my truck. Our three and a half hour flight to Boston leaves at six a.m. and I need sleep.

A road trip is a bonding experience for a team. We're forced into close proximity for three whole days. We're on the plane together, hanging in the airport together, going for dinner together. It forces us to get to know each other better—especially the guys like me who are new to the team.

And then there's the game, our first in an opponent's rink. My first game wearing the white away jersey instead of the black home jersey. I know our rink is hard for other teams to play in, but there's an intimidation factor playing here at Harvard. Friday night, we lose, which blows. But it definitely makes us come together as a team, and that's good. We learn more about each other and what we can do when we're faced with adversity.

Saturday night, we manage to pull out a win, two-one. We almost had a shutout for Alfie, but somehow the Crimson tipped one in with only a minute on the clock. But Alfie's a good sport about it, saying how happy he is for the win and how well we played in front of him. Coach's tight defensive play is paying off for us.

I try to get some studying done on the plane on the way home. We're heading into the last few weeks of classes before exams and then Christmas. Somehow I pulled off a couple A's, a B+, and some B's on my midterms, so I don't feel quite as much pressure. I think I have to thank Skylar and all our study dates for those marks. I only wish she felt better about her own classes. She was so bummed when she got a C on her physics midterm. I've helped her as much as I can, and as much as she'll let me. She's pretty stubborn and determined to do this, but man, it's just not her thing. I wish she'd stand up to her parents and do what she really wants to. I think she'd be a lot happier.

I have to admire her determination, though. She's a tough, sweet little cookie. The weekend was too busy to think much about her, but now I'm on my way home…Fuck, I miss her. I'm excited to see her but also a little worried that maybe this fake dating thing is getting a little too intense.