The Game of Love (20 page)

“Something’s getting rubbed.” He kissed her nape.

She chuckled. “That was bad.”

Even this turned on, she could call him on his bullshit. “Yeah, it was.” He worked his way down her back, kissing each bone in her spine, nibbling on her ribs until she wiggled. When he reached her bottom, he bit down on the left cheek.

She squealed and whipped around to look at him, her eyes indignant. “Excuse me!”

He looked down, stupidly pleased when he could see faint pink marks. “You’re excused.” Before she could protest, he worked his hands under her body and found her breasts, pinching the nipples, kneading the tissue.

Just like he expected, her lids lowered and she turned her face into the pillow, moaning. Her body couldn’t stay still, squirming around like she’d had too much caffeine. Her bottom grazed his crotch more than once, punching holes in his resistance one sweet wiggle at a time. He leaned back and stripped his jeans, letting them land on the floor somewhere.

He covered her body with his, her smooth back to his front, and just breathed in the clean, uncomplicated scent of Christina for a moment. He pressed his lips to the line where the back of her neck met her hairline. Using one elbow and forearm to prop himself up, he slipped his right hand under her stomach, enjoying how her abs clenched at the touch. He worked his way down, sifting through her dark curls to find the spot that could make her scream his name.

The muscles in her back tensed up, and he felt the ripple of her breath through his chest. She mumbled something completely indecipherable into the pillow, but he assumed it was good because her hips lifted off the mattress to give him more room to play. His erection rubbed against her ass, and he indulged himself with a few strokes along the baby-fine skin, watching how her muscles clenched with the contact.

His lips roamed her neck and shoulders while his hand separated her, tracing and teasing until her sobbing moan told him she’d had enough. Taking pity, he dipped one finger in.

She was hot, and so ready for him that he was about to lose it. He grit his back teeth. Not yet. Too soon. He wanted her so satisfied after this that she’d melt in his arms, so satisfied that she wouldn’t be able to ignore the relationship they were in by trying to call it an affair.

Her breath was choppy, coming out in short pants as he inserted another finger. She was walking that delicate line between extreme arousal and orgasm. When he felt her clench around him, felt her abs contract against his forearm, he pulled out. His lips curved against her skin when she groaned, “Damn it,” through a mouthful of fabric and feathers.

Grabbing some extra pillows—why was it females always had seven billion pillows on their bed?—he raised her hips and shoved the puffs under her. The nightstand drawer rattled as he grabbed protection from the stash he’d left in there a few weeks back, refusing to go through a repeat of their condom crisis the first time.

Then he did what he’d been aching to do all night and entered her in one smooth motion. He paused, soaking in the feel of her surrounding him, hot and pulsing with her own needs, pushing his arousal to a near-painful state. He backed out, then entered her again, keeping a firm grip on her hips as she wiggled backward to take more, her sweet bottom brushing against his abs.

A few more strokes in and out, keeping the pace slow and steady, had his balls ready to explode. He bent over, covering her back with his chest, and kissed her nape. “You ready to do this?”

“No, I’d rather go downstairs and have a tea party.
Yes,
I’m ready!”

A smartass to the last drop. God, he loved it. Giving in to what they both wanted, he picked up the pace, hips pumping rapidly. He watched her hands tighten and release and tug on bunches of sheet, as if she had to use every ounce of strength to hold off her release.

He was never going to last at this rate. He reached down once more and found her clit with one finger. That sudden pressure was all she needed, and she threw her head back, barely missing his nose. She clenched and released around him. Her body shuddered, her arms spasmed. And when she screamed his name, it sounded sweeter than a stadium full of fans chanting his number.

Just as she lost the strength to hold herself up, she whispered, “Brett,” then collapsed beneath him. That small surrender was all he needed to follow her into bliss before his arms buckled and he rolled to her side, gathering her soft body to his.

Chris sat down in her armchair with a no-brainer book, prepared to read a few chapters of mindless entertainment and turn in early. Sectionals were the next morning and she wanted to be well rested.

Her cell phone rang. Well, crap. She glanced at the clock. Did she really need to answer it?

It could be Brett calling to say good-night. She’d asked him to not come over so she could rest, and—despite his protests—to not come to the match either so she could give it her full concentration. But a quick check to the display screen showed her parents’ home number instead.

Ignore. Let it go to voice mail. Don’t pick it up.

Her hand and her brain must have been operating under different frequencies because even as the thought occurred to her, her thumb hit the answer button, forcing her to greet the people who gave her life.

“Hello?”

“Christina. Nice to hear your voice. Finally.”

Guilt, thy name is Mother. “Hi, Mom. How’s it going?”

“I wanted to make sure you were still among the living, since you never deign to call us.”

God, I wonder why?
“Yeah, I’m still alive. Jazzed, actually. Sectionals tomorrow, so I can’t talk long. Gotta have a good night’s rest.”

Her mother sniffed. “Yes, well, good to know your hobby is more important than your own blood.”

“That’s not fair. It’s my job, not a hobby. And I love it.” Why did she bother? Fighting with her parents was about as productive as beating her head against a brick wall, and just as painful.

“If you miss tennis so much, you should get back into the swing of things. Call your old coach. I’m sure she would love to take you back on.”

She snorted. “Right. A twenty-eight-year-old who hasn’t played competitively in six years and wasn’t even that great in her prime. Sure. Who wouldn’t just jump at the opportunity?”

“Your smart tone is not appreciated.”

She pictured her mother sitting, legs crossed at the ankles, mouth set in a thin, disapproving line. A picture of perfection in her matching suit and respectable pumps, sleek bob and discreet jewelry—pearls included. Because what DAR darling would be caught dead without her pearls?

If that was perfection, Chris was thankful she was such a mess.

She bit back a sigh. “Is there anything new going on?” There, that should prompt her into explaining why she called. Her mother never called without a reason. Mindless chatter was not her forte.

“I spoke with Daxton.”

Ah, yes. Daxton. Dax was just too crude a nickname. Pity her mother didn’t see the fact that his behavior far outshined his name in the Crude Olympics. “What’s the point?”

“He informed me that he’s lost without you, wants you back desperately, but you won’t listen to him. That’s rude, Christina. I raised you better.”

Yes. You raised me to sit there and take it when a man makes my existence feel like less than nothing.
“Not going to happen.”

“Christina St. James, you need to give that boy a chance to make peace with you.”

“I don’t want his peace. He can keep it.” Anger overtook her, and she started pacing between the dining area and her living room. “And why are you even encouraging this? Have you
seen
the news reports? He was arrested.”

“But not charged,” her mother chirped. “And he explained the entire thing. That man was saying horrible, nasty things to him, and he’s been so depressed and alone since you left him. He let his emotions get the better of him and he regrets it immensely.”

Right
.
He’s always full of regret. After the fact.
“I’m not going to get back together with him.”

“Why?”

The brisk question demanded a response. And since Chris was fresh out of bullshit, she decided to give the truth a try. “Because he was emotionally abusive, Mom.”

Her mother sucked in a breath, and there was silence. This wasn’t a surprise to her parents. They’d heard the things Dax had said before, the way he’d spoken to her. They just never wanted to believe it, and so they boxed the information up and stuck it in some tidy corner of their subconscious, to be dealt with never.

The silence stretched on for so long, she took the phone away from her ear to make sure the call hadn’t been disconnected. Then her mother spoke.

“I cannot believe you would spread such a lie, Christina. After all we invested in you, all that we gave you. And now you have become a vicious liar, as well.”

The outright denial struck her like a fist. She let her knees fold, and she sank down to the carpet. Ignoring the truth, she could handle. Because in some corner of her own mind, she had always thought that there was a tiny chance that her parents hadn’t noticed how Dax treated her. She’d secretly hoped that if they knew the truth, they’d have rushed in to save her, convince her to leave him.

But this in-your-face refusal to believe, to care about her well-being…it was beyond her understanding. And all over again, she felt that greasy slide of nerves and anger and hurt churn in her stomach. To strike back, she said the first thing that came to mind.

“I’m dating someone.”
What? Why did I go there?

A telling pause, and then, “Is it serious?”

Shut up, shut up, shut up.
“Yes.”
That was
not
shutting up!

The moment the words left her tongue, she wanted to bite it. Oh, God. She’d just lived up to her mother’s accusation of being a liar. There was no relationship. They weren’t really dating. They’d straight-up agreed it was a physical affair.

A great one, but not a relationship.

“Who is this man?”

Lie. Tell her he’s a garbage man. Tell her he’s a homeless bum.
“Brett Wallace.” She slapped a palm to her forehead.
Now you develop a relationship with the truth?

“The one who used to play for the Liberties?”

“Dad? Where did you come from?”

“Answer the question. He’s the one they called ‘The Wall,’ is he not?”

It took even less effort than before to picture her father standing next to her mother, his pill-free argyle cardigan, his slacks perfectly creased, grimace on his face. “That would be him.”

“The man hasn’t been in the pros for years. What is he doing in that tiny town?”

“Coaching high school football,” she answered, her voice coming out as a squeak.

“Let me see if I understand this. You are turning down another shot to play in the pros yourself, along with a man who is a star in his own right on the ice and will be at the top of his game for years to come…for a chalkboard and a washed-up meathead?”

Though the description of Brett echoed her original opinion of him, her fists clenched at hearing her father talk about him the same way. “Don’t say that about him. Brett’s not a washed-up meathead. He’s very smart. And he’s coaching because he’s giving back to the community.” Why was she even rising to the bait? Why dignify their assumptions with a response?

She’d developed word vomit, that’s why.

“I can’t tell you how disappointed we are in your choices, Christina.” You could have chilled Cristal with the ice in her mother’s tone.

“Yeah, well, must be a typical Friday, then, huh?” She let out an unsteady breath, then said what needed to be said. “You could have called to wish me luck for Sectionals tomorrow. It wouldn’t have killed you to be supportive for once of something I had chosen to do on my own.” And she hung up the phone.

She sat for a moment, eyes dry and burning as she stared at a spot on the carpet, wondering how after all this time, her parents still had the ability to hurt her so badly. How long she gazed unblinking at that looped piece of fiber, she had no clue. Eventually her fingers lost their grip on the cell phone, which banged the corner of the coffee table as it fell to the floor. She glanced down and saw the screen had shattered.

Much like her heart.

They’d advanced through the first round. Holy crap, they’d made it through the first round of Sectionals.

She was too busy celebrating with her girls to worry about whether they’d continue on in the tournament. While the team had a quick lunch at the Subway across the street, the other two teams were still battling it out to see who would play Northeastern for the Sectional title.

She should be focusing on the possible competition in the next round. Or on making sure her girls were mentally prepared. Or not stuffing themselves too full to move.

But as she listened to their excited chatter, their squeals of triumph over close matches or tight calls, the calls to their friends about how they hadn’t been massacred in the first round like every other year, she couldn’t break the spell. So she just took another bite of her chicken, bacon and ranch sandwich and smiled. Even if they had their asses handed to them in the next match, which was a distinct possibility as one of the teams was a top pick to make it all the way, they still had this moment. And they had still come farther than anyone expected.

“Coach, why aren’t you calling anyone?” Alexa asked, not pausing in her texting to look up.

I wish I were calling Brett.
“Didn’t bring my phone with me.” Which was true enough. The phone was still unusable on the kitchen table. She’d have to get a new one on Monday after school.

After a few more minutes of chatter and squeals, she herded them out the door so they could watch the other teams finish up and start to warm up their muscles for the next match.

Three hours later, she watched as the “had their asses handed to them” part of her prophecy came true, one match at a time.

Avery bawled as she packed her racket bag after a solid trouncing shoved her off the court first. She sprinted to Chris the minute she left the fence and nearly knocked her over with a hug, soaking her coaching polo with tears. Brittany, for all her bluster about not caring, sniffled and blinked rapidly as she sat on the bleachers to watch the rest of her team finish their matches.

When Alexa left the court, stone-faced, it was over. Though there was still one more match going on, the team had lost the chance for the Sectional title.

She feared the girls would pile into their parents’ cars and leave now that their matches and the season were over. But she choked down tears as each girl shifted to sit behind Janna’s court and cheer her on to the end. They huddled under blankets, passed thermoses of hot chocolate that parents had brought, and clapped mittened hands together.

Despite her point not counting for the team, Janna fought like a tiger, clawing back from a first-set loss. Her red curls blazed behind her as she put every last ounce of effort into each play. And when she nudged her opponent into a third set, the girls didn’t groan or complain. They cheered during breaks louder than Chris had ever heard before.

An hour after Alexa and her opponent had left their court, Janna hit a down-the-line winner to seal her victory. And although it didn’t change the outcome of their Sectional loss, the team was so loud and rowdy a passerby would have thought they’d all won the national championship.

Chris waited until Janna was off the court and bundled into blankets with the rest of her teammates before saying a word. Then, when she had their attention, she had to swallow a few times to push down the tears clogging her throat.

“I am…so proud of you girls. You have excelled beyond my hopes, both in your athletic abilities and your overall sportsmanship.” She swallowed again. “I have loved being your coach, and I thank you for the privilege. I hope those of you who aren’t graduating come back next year and play again, because we have something really good here, and it can only get better.” She sniffled, just a little, and added, “And next year, we can kick some ass and take Sectionals.”

The girls gave watery chuckles and passed hugs around, saying they’d see each other at school on Monday.

She watched the last tearful player load her equipment into her parents’ van and take off for home. She had to get out of there as soon as possible or she was going to lose it. Tracking down the hosting athletic director and coach, she thanked them for their hospitality, then swallowed the lump in her throat and forced her eyes to stay dry as she congratulated the victorious coach once more, wishing the team luck through the rest of the tournament.

After that, all that was left to do was head home. She looked around for Katie, who had given her a ride that morning claiming Chris would be too nervous to keep her eyes on the road, but she was nowhere to be seen. Figuring her friend was in the bathroom—where she seemed to live now at eight months pregnant—she sat on the bleachers and tried to block out the sounds of cheer and victorious jubilation from the champs. They deserved the win, and she wasn’t bitter. But it was still hard.

“You did well.”

His deep voice warmed the cold chill that had seized her insides. She didn’t have to turn. Brett came up behind and used an arm to pull her back against his chest. “It was a great showing, baby.”

“Yeah. It was.” That was all she could force around the ball of hurt that had returned to her throat.

“Come on, let’s go home.” His voice was gruff, as if he could tell the moment he showed compassion she would shatter. He was right, and the no-nonsense tone dragged her out of her self-induced pity party long enough to remember her friend.

“Katie’s around here somewhere, the bathroom I think. She was my ride.”

“She called me while the match was winding down to let me know. I told her I wanted to take you back.”

That arrogant confidence should have offended her, but she was too drained to respond. So she nodded and followed Brett to his Escalade. The sadness of the season ending, of seeing how upset her girls were, of remembering her conversation with her parents the night before…It was one mental hit after another, and she felt herself go numb from the inside out. For reasons she couldn’t even fathom, no loss, even during her pro career, had hurt so badly.