My gaze drifts back to the wicked diversion of McHottie’s tight, round ass as we keep crisscrossing each other at blurring speeds. I can’t help notice his high-speed, sharp cross-overs, Mohawk cuts and pivots, while using his long, hard hockey stick to cup his puck with acute dexterity.
Yikes.
Only I could get hot in a cold rink thinking of a hockey stick as a metaphor for…for the metaphor I’m thinking of. I need to get laid. However, since the mere thought of doing the deed has my insides twisting into a pretzel, it looks like my ever-loyal vibrator will be getting a little more action this semester.
McHottie zips past me again and my gaze drifts right back to his incredible ass. It’s probably the kind of ass with those incredible indents on either side, the ones no woman could ever achieve if she did ten thousand squats a day, the ones you want to run your fingers over and…
Get out of your dirty mind, Tracey.
Damn. It. What is it with me? After Sean splintered my heart into millions of pieces, I swore I’d stay away from all men and use skating as my only adrenaline-charged escape. My body is sending me mixed messages. Some parts of me, no need to mention which ones, are not too keen on the idea of life without steamy sex. Other parts can’t let anyone get close enough to be intimate. It’s a big problem. But it’s okay, because I’m not looking for sex, steamy or otherwise.
My mind goes back to the thought of McHottie’s dreamy, ocean blue eyes. Although I’m in a frigid ice rink my lady parts are experiencing warm wet sensations. Argh. I’m a hot mess.
Focus on the ice.
The nagging inner voice tries to keep me from making the same stupid mistakes. This time I intend to listen. I shake out of the sultry thoughts and refocus.
When everything else falls apart, skating is my release. My salvation. Despite the shit storm my life has become, it’s so good to be back in skates, the adrenaline rush overtaking me, the elation of flying around the ice. It’s time to go for it. A double Lutz for the last move of the day. It’s my most difficult jump, but everything feels so right. I’m in the zone. The music is pushing me faster, harder. I build speed toward the opposite corner of the rink and when I glance over my shoulder, ready to push off and soar, McHottie comes into my field of vision. It’s too late to pull out and we crash like the Titanic into the catastrophic iceberg. Although in this case, I’m not sure which one of us is the doomed ship and which one is the damn iceberg, because we’re both sprawled out on the ice in a tangled mass.
“What the fuck?” McHottie sputters. “You’re supposed to look before you go into a jump!”
Sucking in a deep breath, I answer in a strained attempt to remain polite, “Excuse me? I was looking, but you cut across my path.”
Okay, I may have mumbled ‘jackass’ afterward, but can’t be certain because of my collision hazed brain.
“I cut across? You skated right into my path. And you broke my hockey stick. Christ!”
“I didn’t break anything. What are you doing on the ice with a hockey stick and puck during a freestyle session anyway? You’re not even supposed to be here.”
“If you look around, Bambi, we’re the only ones on the ice,” the hot super douche says while pushing himself up from the ice and pulling off his helmet. “The rest of the figure skaters left a while ago. You were late.”
Holy oh my God! He is beyond gorgeous with his caramel, sun-streaked, surfer style hair and his tanned, chiseled face.
“It…it…doesn’t matter what time I got here.” I manage to put my tongue back in my mouth and use it for speaking. “This is still a freestyle session and you’re not supposed to be on the ice.” I push myself up.
This time the dickhead doesn’t offer his hand in assistance, which is, once again, fine with me. Cripes! Has every college campus changed their admission requirements for men? 3.5 GPA and Must Be Total Asshole.
“You know, Bambi, you might want to take a few more lessons before trying those doubles and triples. You’re a walking—or should I say skating—disaster. If you don’t kill yourself first, you’re going to take out another skater while you’re learning.”
“While I’m learning! Listen, jackass.” Yes. This time I went right ahead and said it aloud and I’m pretty sure his beautiful Titan godlike face grimaced a little in response.
“First of all, my name is not Bambi,” I point out, even though I get the whole snarky Bambi reference. “Second of all, I’ll have you know I was the Senior Ladies National Collegiate Gold Medalist two years in a row.” I put up two fingers to fully illustrate to the Neanderthal the correct amount of years.
“Huh. Yeah?” He scoffs, while putting his helmet back on. “And who was your competition, Will Farrell?”
“Ha ha, very funny, jackass!” I yell to his spectacular ass as he skates away. What a jerk. Who cares if he has dreamy ocean blue eyes, a perfect chiseled jaw and heart stopping kiss me lips? He’s still an asshole. Lucky for me there’s no chance of any mutual attraction between the two of us. Unlucky for me I think my skating tights melted when I took one look at his supermodel face.
***
Dak
Damn. My day was already in the crapper. The thought of handling the extra graduate course and putting in all the practice time for hockey is weighing heavy on my mind. To add to the already stressed thoughts, Bambi and her sparkling green eyes first fall at my feet like toxic manna from heaven, and then plow into me like a bulldozer and break my favorite stick. Fuck this day.
Did she call me a jackass? Pfft, jackass. Where does she come off blaming me?
I had the right of way. She totally cut me off. Yeah, she has some skills on the ice. Her edge work is a thing of beauty and she maneuvers faster than some guys on the hockey team, with her long legs, full lips and cute little ass. But her safety skills are fucked.
“No practice today, dude?” Wolfe asks as I push past him on my way into the locker room. He’s one of the best goalies on any college team in the country and one of my roommates. It’s absurd his last name is Wolfe. But, well, if the name fits.
“Nah. Got some research to do. I’ll catch you later at the house.” Official team practices haven’t begun yet, but some of the guys decided to get a jumpstart on the season. As captain I should stay, but the university is allowing me to take a graduate course early and I need to get going on research to keep on top of things before the season begins and I’m super busy.
I begged the Dean to let me take the class. He said if I managed to keep my GPA at 3.5 they would consider it. I worked my ass off and squeaked by with a 3.51. I’m not sure how I’m going to keep it up with regular fulltime classes, the grad class, and hockey, but after working so hard to convince him I could do it, I can’t back out now.
“Sounds good. Have a couple cold ones waiting, because I plan on melting the ice today,” Wolfe says, shaking me out of my stressed thoughts. Giving me a thumbs up, he skates off.
I give him the universal-guy nod for I-know-what-you-mean-dude, even though my mind is back on how to juggle all the shit on my plate this semester. An uninvited vision of Bambi, the one-woman terminator on ice, flashes through my head. Her ass in her short little skirt pushing backward on the ice, toward me.
What the hell?
No way do I need that kind of grief. Feisty little bitch.
In the locker room, I cram the helmet and pads into my bag and toss what’s left of my stick in the trash. Shit. I loved that stick. It’s been a part of my life longer than most of my friends.
Peeling off the rest of my sweat-drenched clothes, I grab a towel from my locker and head for the shower. When the water hits me and I start lathering up, all thoughts go right back to Bambi and my cock jumps in response to the mental image of her vibrant green eyes, luscious plump lips, and perfect round ass as she cut across the ice.
What? No.
This isn’t my MO. Since Abbey, I make sure never to let a chick under my skin or inside my head. It can lead to the kind of commitment which risks l
etting someone down in a catastrophic way. For three years, I’ve pursued enough lusty adventures to help me forget. But never with anyone looking for long term, only with chicks who aren’t interested in falling in love. I can’t do the relationship thing. It’s obvious in the way I failed Abbey in the most epic way possible. I’m not the kind of guy a woman can depend on, not hero material. No more relationships.
I hook up with chicks whose only interest is in racking up their score with another athlete. They use me for a good time with the added benefit of boosting their popularity and I use them to help me forget. Even more, though, the way I make them feel makes me feel good. I don’t mean just physically. I mean it makes me feel good about myself again, like I’m doing something good for someone. That may sound cocky, but it’s the way it is, symbiotic exploits of lust filled usage.
Huh, maybe I can use that sentence in my thesis.
And again, the memory of the adorable little spitfire yelling at me across the ice flashes inside my head. What the actual fuck? Why can’t I stop thinking about this surly chick whose real name I don’t even know?
Guess it’s because of this shitty day, must be triggering needy hormones. Yeah. Normal, horny, male hormones. I’ll work it off later tonight. There’s sure to be a long line of hot rockets waiting and willing to relieve my…stress. Totally not interested in feisty skater girl.
CHAPTER TWO
Tracey
“Hey, girl,” the cute guy sitting on one of the front row seats unlacing his skates calls out to me. “Impressive moves you got there.”
“The ones when I was upright or the ones when I was sprawled out on my ass?” I grimace as I rub my backside. There’s definitely going to be some serious bruises tonight.
“Both. Your jumps are amazing and you fall more theatrically than anyone I’ve ever seen. But then I’d like to take a massive fall between the legs of Dak Andersen myself,” the friendly guy says and wiggles his eyebrows up and down.
“Humph. Dak Andersen. Is that the jackass’s name?”
“That’s him. Dakota to be precise. A hotter than the sun jackass, I might add.” He waves his hand in front of his face in a fanning motion. I can relate.
“I’m Alex Sanchez.” He pushes a black curl off his forehead and holds out his hand. After getting my second guard in place on my blade I walk over and shake his outstretched hand.
“I’m Tracey Hayward. Most people call me Trace.”
“Well, Trace Hayward, you must be new around here. Are you trying out for the team? We could definitely use you.” He drops my hand and slips on his lilac colored Chuck Taylors.
“Only the club team. I’m a graduate student, can’t do the national collegiate competitions anymore.”
“Too bad. They could use a massive jumper like you on the senior ladies’ team. But the club does some local shows and state comps you can get in on. You headed to get something to eat?”
Until he mentioned it, I didn’t remember the last thing I’d eaten was an apple I grabbed for lunch. Conjuring up the thought of a nice juicy burger with crispy fries has my stomach growling loud enough for Alex to be able to hear it. “Yeah. I’m starving.”
“Great! How about I treat you to a welcome to Bernard U dinner at a popular pub in town. They have a stellar selection of craft beers and the biggest burgers you’ve ever seen.”
“You read my mind. I’m already drooling.” I love to eat, and one little apple is not enough to satisfy my more than healthy appetite. Luckily, the amount of exercise I do makes up for my love relationship with food and keeps the fries off my ass. “Can you give me a minute to change out of this skirt and tights?”
“Sure, girlfriend. I’ll wait for you outside. I gotta get out of this cold. It does all kinds of horrific things to my glowing skin. Why didn’t I go for ballroom dancing or anything not requiring frigid temperatures and ice packs on my ass at the end of the day?” He pats both sides of his face and rolls his eyes.
“Nice eye roll, dude. Even Mae West would’ve been impressed.”
“Mae West?”
“Yeah. She was a movie star in the…”
“Girl. Stop.” Alex holds up his hand like he’s stopping traffic. “You do not need to explain who Mae West is to me. She was like the original diva and one of my idols, thank you very much.” He rolls his eyes again and purses his lips, Mae West style, then lets out a big laugh. When he smiles, it’s warm and inviting, lighting up his handsome face.
My first new friend. It’s like the first day of kindergarten when you’re scared to death of the new experience, then you meet your new wonderful BFF and he or she makes everything awesome.
“Okay. I’ll be out in a sec.” Grabbing my skate bag and backpack, I scamper off to find the locker room.
I don’t know my way around the state of the art arena yet. There are all kinds of rooms: off-ice dance rooms, two fully equipped gyms, at least two weight rooms, therapy rooms, and lots more there’s been no time to explore yet. I see a sign pointing the way to the locker room and follow it. Pushing the door open, I’m surprised to find it’s empty and quiet except for the sound of running water in one of the shower stalls. It’s close to dinnertime, and I guess except for the hockey players on the ice everyone else headed out to eat already. The minty smell of the peppermint soap someone in the shower is using mixes with and sort of masks some of the human smells always present in locker rooms.
Dropping my backpack on a bench in front of the lockers, I sit to unlace my skates, wipe off the blades, and put them into my skate bag. I dig through my backpack to find the cutoff jeans and tank top I stuffed in there earlier. Even though it’s September, the warm weather is unusual for Mt. Desert Island. I’m not sure who had the brilliant idea to name an island this far north off the coast of Maine ‘desert,’ because most of the year it certainly doesn’t get desert temperatures. Although right now the temp is a toasty eighty-five degrees.
I slip off my sweater, skirt, and tights, and pull the elastic from around my ponytail. The prospect of a few more warm days to head to the beach or be able to do some kayaking before the water temps become frigid has me smiling. In my contented state of mind over the weather and my new friend, I don’t notice when the shower turns off. But when I look up and see him standing there, all six foot something inches of dripping wet naked hotness, I’m aware of the heat creeping up my neck and I’m sure my face has turned the same shade of bright red as the lace bra and matching thong panties I’m rocking on full display. Our eyes lock and neither one of us can seem to find our voices. My gaze drifts down, the trail of dark hair directing my eyes right to the magnificence between his thighs.
A loud whistle snaps my gaze back up to his face. “Jesus, Bambi.” The super douche blows out with his whistle. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” He grins wryly, and if I didn’t know better I’d swear he was staring at me with a kind of hungry glare. But since I know there can’t be any attraction on his part, I assume it’s my imagination and it doesn’t bother me.
My therapist Gail spent months trying to convince me my theory concerning my draw to gay men was scientifically impossible. I can hear her judicious voice trying to assure me, “Your exes didn’t wear signs indicating their sexual preferences. Therefore, since you couldn’t possibly know what their sexual proclivities were, you can’t possibly say you were or are only attracted to gay men.” I could never follow her logic.
Eventually she gave up on the scientific explanations and in exasperation said, “Don’t think in those terms. It’s only a coincidence.”
Three times? In a row? I think not.
More like my malfunctioning uterine radar honing in on them like a nuclear missile. The result being cataclysmic fallout.
First there was the smoking hot music student with smoldering gray eyes which seemed to possess the ability to burn my clothes off without his hands ever touching me and a six pack I could bounce quarters on, or lick, whichever. He loved displaying those chiseled muscle
s on stage when playing rock gigs in local venues. The first time I saw him perform I almost became one of those silly fan girls who fall in lust so hard they throw their panties on stage. A ridiculous gesture I resisted, thank goodness. But when he smiled down at me from the stage, I was hooked. Long story short, we became fast friends. Hung out at school, studied together, went to parties and bars together, generally did what good friends do. Problem was, I wanted way more from him than a best friend. When he didn’t make a move to take it beyond friendship, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Literally.
He gently removed my hand from his crotch while explaining, “Um, Trace. This can never happen between us.”
“Why, because we’re friends? Isn’t it a good thing to be friends before becoming lovers?” I intelligently pointed out.
“It’s a very good thing, but not the reason why this can’t happen,” he repeated in a calm voice while stopping my hands from roaming under his shirt to trace his marble statue-like abs.
“What’s the problem? You’re not attracted to me or something?” I tipped my head to the side and gave him the sugariest, coquettish smile in my arsenal.
“Um, yeah. Something like that.”
It took all of ten seconds for my shock to morph into tear filled hurt and then mortified indignity. Before I could stomp out of the room like an incensed ass, the rock god blurted, “I’m gay, Trace. Shit. Sorry. I thought you knew.”
Oh. Okay. Disappointing, sure, but I didn’t let it get to me. We remained good friends.
My next trip into unrequited love land occurred with the esoteric art student. He had long flowing hair and haunting amber gold eyes which seemed to hold the secrets of life and made my limbs quiver. Things went pretty much the same with art boy as they did with rock god. Another beautiful friend who was unable to quench my robust desires. I introduced my music friend to my art friend and hearts and flowers bloomed all around—for them. I was happy for them. Really. Sort of. Okay, I was pissed. But I eventually got over it, and didn’t panic.
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