“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t worry about it.” She stood, placing the ashtray on the coffee table. “I don’t mind, you know. Being alone, I like my life. I like who I am and where I’ve been, and that’s all I want for you. Be happy with you, Stevie.”
I was happy. And it wasn’t entirely true to say I hadn’t been happy with Ben. We had a decent run at first, but it fizzled and I stayed too long.
“I’m getting there, Mom.” Starting over felt right, and I didn’t want to think about how much of that had to do with Mark. I’d like to think I was making my own way into the next phase of me, and Mark was a side effect of letting myself live a little.
She leaned down and kissed my forehead, her breath a mixture of mint and tobacco. “I’m glad to hear it, baby. You look good,” she said lifting the remote from the coffee table and handing it to me. “Watch whatever you want. I’m going to order a pizza. Ray still coming by?”
“Yeah.” Reagan had texted me about twenty minutes ago, letting me know she was on her way from the salon. “She already ate dinner though.”
“I’ll order enough for her, just in case.” She switched off the radio. “She fooling around with Pete again?”
I huffed out a laugh. My mom’s penchant for details never wavered over the years.
“Who knows anymore, I feel sorry for the guy.”
My mom snorted. “He’s a man, Stevie. If he wanted to be serious with her, he would.”
“I think it’s Ray who can’t commit.”
“Yeah, but he keeps coming back for more.” She nodded like she’d said the most profound thing in the universe.
I hummed in agreement and flipped on the big screen television, a new addition since my last visit, and scrolled through the channels until I found what I was looking for. A familiar whistle blew through the speakers, and my heart expanded inside my chest. The heavy pulse warmed my veins as I listened to the announcers’ low voices. The game was well underway, and I found myself leaning forward, my spine buzzing with anticipation as I watched number nineteen skate toward one of the dots on the rink. He hunched over, his stick resting on his knees as he stared at his opponent. My eyes flicked to the score. Neither team had made a goal yet. I swore under my breath and then giggled at my own anxiety as Mark lowered his stick and the ref dropped the puck.
Mayhem.
It was the only word I could use to describe what happened when the puck hit the ice. He was playing against Vegas, and the swirl of jerseys, the yelling, and sheer aggression flashing on the screen had my feet rooted to the floor, my bottom lip pinned between my teeth, and a litany of curses running through my head every time the other team stole the puck from one of Mark’s teammates. I’d spoken to him earlier today, after his morning skate. He’d told me he felt good about tonight, and that the funk his team had been in the previous practice was no longer a problem.
“We skated like we’d already fucking won,” he’d said, and I remembered the gruff sound of his voice and how, even over two-thousand miles away, I’d felt its heat trickle over my skin.
Mark’s confidence was a huge turn on. Amongst other things. The sound of another whistle blowing pulled me from my mental nose dive into some of our dirtier moments. He was on the ice again. Hovering over the dot left of the opposing team’s goalie. Again the referee dropped the puck and the game continued. Mark and his team struggled to get the puck, letting one of the Vegas guys successfully steal away with it, but Bryson, the guy I’d met at the bar, stole it right back, passing it to Mark. Time stood still as Mark drew back his stick, hitting the puck hard enough I heard the sound of metal ringing as it bounced down and into the net. His team erupted into cheers and the crowd booed as red lights lit up the glass behind the goal. Mark skated behind the net and jumped, chest first into the plexiglass, his fist pounding it in celebration. All at once, his teammates swarmed him with giant bear hugs.
I was on my feet screaming, jumping up and down when my mother shouted, “Since when do you like hockey?”
“Since she started dating one of the players,” Reagan said with a smirk as she shut the front door behind her.
“You’re dating a hockey player?” My mom’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.
“Umm…” I stumbled.
“He’s hot, Ms. Baylor.” Reagan dropped her purse on the sofa before walking over to my mom and kissing her on the cheek.
I had to restrain myself from physically silencing Ray’s big mouth. It wasn’t that I didn’t want my mom to know, but I’d wanted to present it to her in a way that didn’t have her looking at me with those “I know what’s better for you” eyes.
My mom stared at me, humor hinting at the corners of her lips. “You haven’t been in town two weeks…”
I exhaled and groaned like a teenager as I sank back into the couch. My eyes flicked to the screen as the clock ran out. The first period was over. I wished I was at home and away from the prying eyes of my mother. I wanted to text him. Congratulate him on his goal. I figured his phone was in the locker room, but I wasn’t sure if he’d even have it on. My mom cleared her throat, obviously waiting for some type of explanation.
“It’s a long story.”
She sat down in her chair, and Reagan made herself comfortable on the other end of the couch. “I’m all ears.”
Lucky for me, Reagan was intrusive and had no boundaries whatsoever. She’d basically given my mother the lowdown on how her daughter had almost become an adulterer, and how Mark had sparked the match I’d needed to finally see what I’d always known, but had been too afraid to face. It was interesting hearing Ray’s interpretation of my misdeeds and choices. My “new” life sounded way more fabulous the way Reagan had painted it, but that was because I knew Mark, and who he was had nothing to do with his status or money.
My mom’s eyes fell to the screen of the television. The second period had started about three minutes ago, and all I wanted was for the pizza to get here and for this conversation to be over.
“He’s the opposite of Ben,” Reagan said as she gave me a smile. “I think you’ll like him.”
Not that she was going to meet him anytime soon.
Mom turned her head slowly as if lost in thought. Her eyes met mine, and she stared at me for what felt like an eternity. “You didn’t give yourself much time, Stevie.”
I couldn’t argue with her on that one.
“I know.” My gaze followed Mark across the screen as he skated toward his team’s bench. “But… I jumped in, Mom. I didn’t calculate every detail like I would’ve done in the past. I said, screw it, and went with what my gut was telling me.” Her smile spread wide and into her eyes. “Isn’t that what you’ve been preaching to me my whole life?” She nodded and I took a deep breath. “I want messy, Mom. Even if it hurts. Mark makes me feel… I don’t know… a little reckless, but he makes me feel safe, too. I don’t have a plan… I just like him.”
The doorbell rang, and Reagan jumped up to answer it, leaving me alone with my mom.
“You like him?”
“I do.”
“Then that’s all that matters. A hockey player…huh,” she mused, and her smile unknotted the ball of tension that had coiled in my belly.
“He’s really good, too,” I said as Reagan set the pizza boxes down onto the coffee table. “Well, I think he is. I’m trying to figure out all the rules.”
“All you have to know is most of them are hot as hell.” Reagan giggled as she plopped down onto the floor and lifted the lid of the pizza box.
The smell of parmesan and oregano filled the air and made my mouth water.
My mom’s laughter made me grin. “That’s all I have to know? Hockey seems brutal to me.”
As if on cue, a fight started to break out in front of Mark’s goalie. A few of the players were pushing each other while two of the referees attempted to pry Mark’s teammate, number ninety, a guy named Rasmussen, apart from a Vegas player he’d pinned to the ice. I cringe
d as another Vegas player took a swing at one of the refs. Tampa was still up by one, and it appeared Vegas didn’t like being scoreless.
“This is only the third game I’ve watched. I can already tell I sort of like it. I might have a heart attack watching Mark play, though.”
“Hockey has always confused me. I dated a guy once who loved it, but he could never explain to me the freaking point.” My mom laughed as she leaned over and grabbed a slice of pizza.
“The point…” Reagan smirked. “Hot guys… in skates…. Like I said… what else is there to know?”
“The point, Mom, is to get the puck in the net.”
“Score points,” Reagan agreed.
The fighting I could do without. But the game itself, was addictive. I loved the fast pace and how everything could go terribly wrong or terribly right in a matter of seconds. The skill alone had my eyes glued to the rink. I had a feeling once you fell in love with hockey there was no turning back. My heart stuttered over a few beats as I thought about how that same line of reasoning could be applied to the players as well.
I pulled my phone from my pocket as Reagan schooled my mom on a few of the rules we’d learned Monday night at the game. I opened my messaging app and thumbed down to Mark’s name. My cheeks ached with a smile as my fingers swept across the screen without caution.
ME: CONGRATS!
ME: I’m impressed, that was a pretty sexy goal, sir.
ME: Would I be too much of a bunny if I sent you a dirty picture as a reward for that spectacular showcase of athleticism?
As I slipped my phone into my pocket, I actually thought about sending him the real thing and not a picture of our used pizza napkins. I made a silent deal with myself. Mark would get his naughty pic, but only if they won the game.
Ray’s loud “whoop” lifted my eyes to the screen.
Tampa had scored another goal.
When you scored first in a game, played two periods without letting the other team sink one shot, you’d think your team could hold their shit together for one more period. My ass hit the leather of the plane seat and I groaned. Every single muscle hurt. I’d have fared better if I’d been run through a meat grinder. I had a bruise the size of fucking Alaska forming on my hip from a hit I’d taken by a mean-as-hell blue liner who’d had his eye on me all night. The moment I’d stolen that first goal, I had a target on my back. But for all their aggression, Vegas couldn’t get the W. We had, thank Christ. Three to two in overtime. Vegas had pulled a penalty leaving them shorthanded. Slashing. At the time, I’d thought Bryson was milking his “injury.” But afterward in the locker room, he’d held up his mangled and bruised looking thumb like a trophy. The trainer had said he’d only jammed it, but it’d won us a power play and the game.
I ran a hand through my hair as I pulled my phone from my bag and switched it on. Mandatory post-game media, shower, and a quick turnaround left no time for phone calls. We were on our way to California to play San Jose tomorrow night, and as banged up as we were, I wondered what the morning skate would predict.
My phone was powering up too slowly. It hadn’t mattered how shitfaced tired I’d felt, the moment the final buzzer rang, Stevie had been the first thing I’d thought of. She’d told me this morning she might not have a chance to watch the game because she was having dinner at her mom’s. Call me superstitious, but I’d let a ribbon of worry tangle with my laces tonight. The last time she’d watched I’d scored a hatty. I kind of liked her eyes on my ice, whether it was at home or on the road. It was stupid, yet no more stupid than Karlsson’s special brand of tape he had to use every game, or Vasiliev’s blue laces. We all had our kinks.
My smile crawled across my face as Stevie’s missed messages popped up. I heard Bryson snicker from the row in front of me, and I raised my head and laughed at his shirtless chest.
“Always late to the bus and to the plane,” I said.
He shrugged and then slipped his right arm into a crisp white button-down. “Whatever.” He lifted his chin. “Did she watch?”
Bryson was the only guy on the team who knew about my new Stevie superstition.
I opened up her messages, my eyes going wide before I quickly clicked out of the app.
Holy God.
“Was that—”
“Sit the fuck down already, Jensen. Shit.” I almost growled, but it held no real irritation. My smile was too big, my cheeks and neck too hot.
She’d sent me a dirty picture, and I wished to God I was alone. I wanted to stare at it and...
“I’m thinking she watched.” Bryson chuckled before he finally turned around to finish buttoning up his shirt.
I glanced around to make sure no other eyes were watching before I opened her messages again.
Stevie: CONGRATS!
Stevie: I’m impressed, that was a pretty sexy goal, sir.
Stevie: Would I be too much of a bunny if I sent you a dirty picture as a reward for that spectacular showcase of athleticism?
Stevie: For a minute there I thought I’d be off the hook… I guess I owe you a congratulatory porn pic…
Stevie: If this ends up on the Internet, I’ll tell anyone who will listen that you have a small penis.
Stevie: Not really.
Stevie: Well… yeah, really.
I laughed out loud, but the guys were either too busy shit talking about Vegas or bugging the stewardess to pay me any mind. Another quick glance around the cabin told me I was safe to scroll up for my reward. And holy fuck, she did not disappoint. She’d sent the picture about thirty minutes after her last text, and I was grateful I hadn’t opened this in the locker room. One thing you never want to do—sport wood when you’re about to soap up with a pack of dudes. I had to shift in my seat and readjust my slacks as the fabric got tighter by the second. The picture was a little blurry, as if her hand was shaking when she’d taken it. Stevie’s head was tipped down, but I could still see the blush in the high arch of her cheek. She must’ve held the phone above her head with her right arm. The angle gave me a view all the way down her naked body. Her hair obscured the top of her tits, but I could still see the slope, the shape of them and the tight nipples peeking through.
The fingers of her left hand rested on her hip. Her skin was cream, and I wanted to be the one touching her. My mouth went dry as I thought about how much I wanted to taste the curves of her stomach and thighs again. I stared at the picture probably longer than I should have in public, on a plane, with a bunch of meatheads nearby. Jesus, Stevie’s body was unbelievable. Her full figure made me think of those old pin-up girls my best friend in high school had been obsessed with. The Marilyn Monroe types, but curvier. My eyes stayed glued to the screen for a few more seconds as I lost myself inside all of that soft skin. I couldn’t believe she’d actually sent me a picture. This was definitely a great way to rally my confidence for every game.
I licked my lips as I typed out a response.
ME: Sexiest. Picture. I. Have. Ever. Seen.
I figured she’d be sleeping, so it surprised me when a text came through.
Stevie: You should know, I’ve been sitting here, panicking, wishing that picture back, or out of existence.
I laughed again as I typed.
ME: No way. It’s mine now, and I’m thinking home screen wallpaper.
Stevie: Not Funny.
ME: I’m serious. I never thought I’d be rocking a boner on a plane full of men. Good job.
Stevie: I’m laughing now, but seriously, delete it.
I would delete it. After I got to my hotel room.
ME: I will.
Stevie: Now.
ME: I think I’m gonna wait till I get to my room. You know, for further inspection…
Stevie: Mark!
This time my laughter garnered some attention. I did the right thing and internally protested with a quiet groan as I deleted the picture.
ME: Done.
I sent a screenshot of the message thread proving I’d deleted the picture.
> ME: That would’ve kept me warm this whole trip.
Stevie: Keep winning and I promise to send more.
Stevie: As long as you delete them.
I chuckled.
ME: As you wish.
The plane jerked into motion, and the pilot’s voice filtered through the overhead speaker, “Flight crew, prepare the cabin for takeoff.”
I wasn’t ready to let her go though.
ME: The plane is starting to taxi.
Stevie: You looked good out there tonight.
ME: Thanks for watching the game.
Stevie: I like watching you play.
I wanted to break the FAA rules and call her. Hear her sleepy voice. Steal its sound and take it to bed with me tonight.
ME: I’ll try to call tomorrow.
Stevie: K, I’m falling asleep...
ME: Dream with me.
Stevie: Dream of that picture because I’m not sure I’ll have the nerve to ever do it again.
ME: You promised. That’s a solid contractual obligation.
Stevie: Goodnight, Mark.
A sly grin lifted the left corner of my mouth.
ME: Night, babe.
I turned my phone off and threw it back into the small duffle on the floor. I bent down to zip it up, and when I raised my head, Bryson slipped into the seat next to me.
“Well? Did she watch the game or not?” he asked, and I exhaled an annoyed breath.
“Yes.” He smiled, and I couldn’t help but do the same.
“Melo has a new lucky charm.” He rubbed his hands together and I almost rolled my eyes. “I think, as your captain, I should get a better look at the picture she sent.”
“She’s my girlfriend, dick.”
“The girlfriend thing… that’s your problem… just make sure she watches the games from now on,” he demanded, his face deadpan and serious.
“I thought Canadians were supposed to be nice, eh?” I joked and he smiled again.
“I am nice,” he argued. “If you have a good rack.”
My head fell back against the seat as I laughed. “One of these days, Jensen, some girl is going to burst your bubble…”
Breakaway (The Rule Book Collection) Page 15