by Lily Harlem
I untied one wrist and laid his hand gently on the pillow by his head. I was sure moving his whole shoulder would wake him, and I didn’t want to do that.
I stooped to pick up my shoes. He muttered something and moved his head. I couldn’t be sure but I thought he said, “Carly.”
Shoes in hand, back bent, I stilled and studied his face. His lashes remained low, shadowing his cheek, his red-smeared lips parted as his jaw relaxed again.
Within a minute his breathing had returned to the deep, satisfied languor of sleep. I stood, picked up my purse and silently left the room.
Brick would wake still wanting me, still hot for me. Covered in my kisses, with one wrist harnessed, he’d remember exactly what had happened. But now—now he would know just how damn good I was and exactly how I could blow his mind and other parts of his anatomy. It had been touch and go at one point but luckily my plan for tonight had gone like clockwork. Or should that be cockwork?
Chapter Six
I spent the next day lounging in my second-floor hotel room. I didn’t know what time Brick was heading off for his flight and I couldn’t risk running into him. I needed him hanging on to the memory of last night.
I rang for room service and watched old movies. But I couldn’t concentrate; my head was a swirl of erotic images from the evening before that kept playing over and over. I called Mom and told her I’d pick her up some Dean & DeLuca spices, her favorite. My coach, Sheila, called and sighed when I said I wasn’t riding at all for the next couple of days. “Only three months ’til it’s hard slog training again,” she said with a sternness in her voice I recognized only too well.
After a piping-hot bath I fell asleep early, then rose fresh for the long train ride down the East Coast.
Watching the blur of houses and place names soon sent me into a bored trance. I knew I should fly, really I should—a couple of hours and I’d be home. Because this was a mammoth train ride by anyone’s standards. Other people managed to climb those airplane steps, sit on those small seats and smile at the flight attendant. So why couldn’t I? I could do things most people couldn’t, but flying really stumped me. When I’d traveled to Beijing to the Olympics I’d had a tranquilizer prescribed and cleared by the official Olympic body. If I could have cruised there I would have. As it happened, I didn’t remember a thing. Dad propped me up in my sleepy, dazed state as I climbed aboard and then helped me off when we eventually arrived in China.
But I didn’t really mind the train. Sheila and my agent had gotten used to my phobia when planning travel to competitions and events. Often Sheila would fly with my bike and I would take the train with either Mom or Dad.
But today I was alone. I ate fruit then went for chocolate. Picked at a dry, flavorless hot dog and drank Mountain Dew. I finished the Booker Prize novel I was reading and reached for a discarded New York Standard on the opposite seat. I flicked through, read an article about a new exhibit at The Metropolitan and a piece on Madonna who was reading her latest kids’ book at Barnes and Noble. I was just about to toss the paper aside when I spotted a small picture of Brick on the third to last page. Next to him was a photo of me. It was the one from the Olympics and I stood holding flowers with my gold medal around my neck, beaming from ear to ear.
“Athletic Romance,” the headline read. My skin prickled as a wave of heat rose from my chest, up my neck and onto my cheeks.
Oh my God!
Suddenly I couldn’t focus. I rubbed my knuckles into my sockets then tossed back a mouthful of Mountain Dew.
With apprehension ballooning, I skimmed through the two-paragraph article beneath. It seemed someone at the Ray Lenon studio had squealed to the press about Brick’s microphone slip-up. Although his shocking words obviously weren’t repeated in the paper, they implied that we couldn’t keep our hands off each other and had left abruptly, together, for a night of steamy “athletic” sex back at The Waldorf.
I folded the paper into my bag and glanced nervously at the other passengers on the train. Everyone was absorbed in books or iPhones or fast asleep. My heart rate settled slightly. At least my parents wouldn’t see it, since it was a New York paper. But so many other people would, and that was how gossip started. I didn’t want gossip about “us” until we were established. Until I’d made Brick mine. Because if I failed to do that and everyone found out, I didn’t know how I would step out of the house again.
Sighing, I stared at the passing landscape. There was nothing I could do about it now but hope the hotel bellboy didn’t add his gossip to the mix. Because that would be mortifying, Brick sucking on my breasts in an elevator was not appropriate behavior even if it had been enormous fun.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, I arrived in Orlando. Stepped out with my bags and let the humidity wrap around me like an old friend.
Home.
My cab to Richmond Hill took twenty minutes and before I knew it I was showered and wearing my ratty old t-shirt. With fresh pasta in one hand, wine in the other, I sat and waited for the hockey game to start—Vipers versus Coyotes. I’d managed to push the newspaper article from my mind and was looking forward to an exciting playoff game.
I’d just finished my pasta when the Vipers shot from the tunnel onto the ice. I took a gulp of wine as number eight flew out with his stick held high. Brick. The crowd erupted. His helmet was off and the commentator jabbered excitedly about the points he’d scored over the season so far.
As I watched him move over the ice with speed and grace, my heart fluttered. A curl of delicious sensation shimmied up my spine and settled in my scalp. He skated up to the coach, spoke briefly then slammed on his helmet, sliced back to the center circle and banged his stick down, hard.
My eyes roamed his body as the camera panned over him in a close-up. Thick pads protected his legs and shoulders, making him look even more colossal than I knew he was. His hands were hidden behind dense gloves. I looked at his groin, the shape of a cup could just be made out. I licked my lips and swallowed. I knew what lay beneath that cup. I knew what his cock looked like, tasted like. I knew about the silver ring through the end. The ring that he loved to have tickled and tugged, sucked and swallowed down my throat.
A breath shivered through my chest at the delicious memory.
No one else in the arena knew about the ring. Well, apart from his teammates if he showered with them in the locker room. But Brick’s cock and I were on more than glancing terms, we were intimate, and hopefully after the charity dance on Friday, we’d get considerably more intimate. I was so looking forward to it.
The camera swung around a couple of the other players—Ramrod, Wolf, Phoenix— and then panned up to the press booth and across to the players’ wives, kids and girlfriends.
Suddenly my world stopped.
I felt as though I’d been punched in the stomach. My breathing froze and a wrench of nausea fisted my guts.
Mae French.
What the hell was she doing there, looking all glamorous in a soft pink hat and a pristine cream coat? Her bee-stung lips smiled at something Phoenix’s wife said and her false lashes fluttered toward the camera.
I stood and paced to the window. Rubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes, which stung with the image I’d just seen. That should be me up there with the other players’ wives and girlfriends.
Not her.
I’d only been out of touch for a couple of days and she’d walked back into his life. How the hell had she done it? I thought they were over, finito.
The sick feeling doubled.
Had my plan backfired? Had I left him wanting a woman, any woman, and he’d reached out for her? Maybe she was still in love with him and jumped at the chance to satisfy the need I’d planted and deliberately left him with.
Oh God, no.
A gaping hole of hopelessness tore through me as the starter whistle shrilled from the screen. I reached for my mobile and brought up his number. I had to speak to him. Ask him about Mae. I needed to know.
Suddenly I realized how stupid I was being. Of course he wouldn’t answer it, he was on the ice, playing. I grabbed my wine and knocked back the whole glass in one go. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. Instead I kicked the sofa and created a big dent in the cream leather. What had I done? How could I not have anticipated this? How could I have anticipated this? I’d thought, hell, everyone thought, Brick’s affair with the chart-topping country singer was over.
I grabbed the remote. I couldn’t watch the game. Not with her there. Not when there was a possibility she’d put her hands and her mouth on that ring since I had. The feeling of possessiveness was overwhelming, as was the anger. I couldn’t think straight, the image of them in bed together filled my mind and pushed away all coherent thoughts.
My vision blurred and red rage seeped into the periphery. She was no doubt smiling because she knew she was going to get alone time with Brick’s cock when the game was over. Back at his place, with a bottle of champagne and candles flickering as they sprawled on a four-poster bed.
“And it was always going to get personal,” shouted the commentator, startling me out of my inner raging. “The Coyotes just have a way of winding their opponents up.”
My finger hovered over the off switch.
“And it looks like Phoenix has had enough of being hooked.” There was a roar from the crowd. The camera zoomed in on a huddle of players. The Coyotes were in russet brown and gold, the Vipers in red and white. The scuffle going on was a mix of all four colors whirling and rolling, blending and bouncing. Phoenix was at the center. “And gloves are off,” shouted the commentator. Though he didn’t need to. Gloves and sticks were hitting the Plexiglas and ice, so were helmets.
The ref’s whistle rang out but no one took any notice. Still the fight continued. More players whizzed up and joined in. Fists flew, jerseys were tugged and dragged, players were brutally shoved and fell to the ice. I spotted Brick yanking at a Coyote who’d wrapped an elbow around Wolf’s neck. The camera moved in close. Brick looked furious, his teeth gritted, his eyes narrowed and his cheeks red. Wolf threw a punch upward, made contact and the guy slackened his grip, leaving Wolf free to block the fist aimed for his solar plexus by another Coyote.
I gasped.
Before it happened I knew it was going to. Though the TV roared, in my head, everything went quiet. It was happening fast, but time dropped to slow motion. The Coyote Brick had grabbed drew back his arm and pummeled forward. The heavy blow struck Brick in the right eye socket.
“No,” I cried, stepping up to the TV.
Brick reeled backward with the force of the punch. But he paused for only a second, then he was raining down blows on his attacker. His balled fists flew at the Coyote’s face, he missed so grabbed his jersey, buried his head into his opponent’s chest like a charging bull and sent them both reeling, skidding and tumbling on the ice.
“Get him,” I heard myself shout, my own fists clenching as I hopped from foot to foot. “Hit the bastard.”
The fans were wild, their frenzied shouts almost drowning out the commentator.
Eventually the refs separated the offenders.
The head ref, a small man with a thin black moustache, sent four players to the sin bin and two went off the ice for game misconducts. One Coyote and two Vipers went to the medic, including Brick.
I strained to see Brick’s face as he skated off the ice. He’d taken one hell of a whack to his eye. He’d have a shiner tomorrow. I just hoped it wasn’t more serious. The thought of something happening to his perfect green eyes with their sparkling gold flecks was horrifying.
I sat heavily on the sofa, my pasta supper lurching in my stomach. My hands were shaking and my heart pounding. I’d gone from the excitement of seeing Brick, to the sickening fury of Mae’s presence, to the horror of watching him attacked, all in a matter of minutes.
I reached for the wine bottle. Topped myself up, hugged a cushion to my chest and set about watching the game. But, I didn’t really watch. Although the players scored points and indulged in brutal checks, my gaze kept searching for Brick coming back onto the ice.
Imagining him behind the scenes, head tipped back and medics hovering over him, made me all the more nauseous. The first period break came and went. He still wasn’t back on the ice. I couldn’t see him anywhere. Oh god. He was really hurt. His eye really damaged. I reached for my cell, pulling up his number again. Should I call him?
No.
I couldn’t. Not now she was there. Heat rose on my cheeks. She was probably in the locker room with him. Holding his hand and fussing over him as the medics dressed his wounds or worse, waited for the ambulance to arrive.
The match ended with the Vipers winning by one point. Another scuffle broke out as they headed to the tunnel and the linesmen had to drag two rookie players apart.
Resting back on the sofa, I blew out a long breath. I had to think calmly. I couldn’t fall to pieces. Trouble was, rational thinking was slipping away rapidly and there was no fooling myself any longer. This had gone way beyond lusting after Brick and admiring him from afar.
I was in love with him. One-hundred-damn-percent!
He had taken my heart as swiftly as he could race over the ice. Stolen my thoughts and dreams before he’d ever even spent a night in my bed.
I rubbed my palms over my cheeks. I knew I had it bad—seeing him injured had felt like a physical injury to my own body and my arms ached to hold him.
My fingers twitched to dial his number again. I just wanted to speak to him. Make sure he was okay.
Until I did that I didn’t know if I could even breathe.
*****
The next two days dragged as if they were two years. I did extra miles on my bike to kill the time. Swam afterward for over an hour and tried on my satin dress for the charity ball a total of six times. It was a beautiful shade of shimmering peacock blue and hugged my figure from its modest neckline right down to my ankles. Skimming my slim hips and flat stomach, it showed the hint of shape my chest held. It had thin spaghetti straps and, although stunning from the front, its true appeal was the back.
The straps fell over my shoulders then just kept on falling. Because I didn’t need to wear a bra, it hung open until it reached the very top of my buttocks, showing off my long, lean, suntanned back. It was risky—the way the material scooped at the base right near my bottom meant that just a hand into it would reveal I wasn’t wearing panties. But panties would totally ruin the lines, so I would be wearing just the dress. The dress, matching peep-toe heels and two longs strands of gold from my ears that my parents bought me after winning the U.S. endurance title several years previously.
When the time finally came to put the dress on for real, I could hardly contain the mixed emotions bouncing around my stomach. I felt excited about seeing Brick but terrified that he’d be at the ball with her. I’d tried to call him twice, but each time his cell had flipped straight to voice mail and I hadn’t left a message. I couldn’t find the right words to express my feelings. I wanted to tell him how I felt. That I was mad that Mae had been there but I was beside myself with worry about his eye. It was a tsunami of anxiety and need that I knew would come out all wrong in a message and do more harm than good. My emotions were overwhelming me, I’d never felt so in need of another person at my side. Well, not since Tim had left, but that was something I didn’t think about anymore. That was something I just couldn’t cope with on top of this new layer of hurt. So each time I called Brick I’d clicked the phone shut in frustration and hoped he’d call me back.
He hadn’t.
*****
In the early evening, I alighted from a limo onto a red carpet outside The Winston Hotel. I had my hair pinned into an elaborate updo and the hot Florida air on my skin from my nape right down to my butt felt light and breezy.
“Carly, Carly Flannigan.”
I turned to a row of photographers held back by a gold rope.
“Carly, smile for the Orlando Enquirer,” a bear
ded guy called, aiming an enormous camera my way.
I placed a hand on my waist, cocked my hip and smiled demurely. His bulb flashed, twice.
“Carly, you look great. Over here for It’s Happening Now.” I turned slightly, still in the same pose, and smiled again.
“And here, over here, Carly, Carly.”
I looked left and saw a young guy in a green baseball cap with a smaller digital camera.
“No magazine, just for me,” he said with a shrug and a cheeky grin.
I turned my back and looked over my left shoulder at him. Gave him my best sexy smile as my spine twisted beneath the satin, which gaped ever so slightly, letting a hint of the hot evening air slip down my butt cheeks. He clicked away several times, as did the other reporters.
“Cool, thanks,” he said, smiling. “And hey, is it true about you and Brick at The Waldorf?”
My heart sank. So the gossip had spread to Florida, and now that Mae was on the scene it would be even more excruciating to answer questions about something that had finished before it had even started. “I think that’s my business, don’t you?” I replied with as sweet a smile as I could muster.
Stepping forward, I strutted toward the hotel’s door which was opened by a doorman.
The reporter from the Orlando Enquirer shouted, “We could offer you a great deal on an exclusive, Miss Flannigan. Give us your version of events.”
I ignored him. It was a relief to step into the cool air-conditioning and search out my seat on the table arrangement board. I was at table six, which was in the center of the room. Brick, along with his teammates, was at table eight, slightly to the left of mine. There were several blank spaces at his table for their guests. I’d already made the decision not to look for him. At least not obviously. I didn’t want him to know I was jealous if he was there with Mae. I would be, but him knowing that would be excruciating. So I’d prepared myself for the fact he would be there with her. I’d feel like shit but I would have to put on a brave face and cope.