by Paige North
“His own teammates?”
“Yeah. He’s always doing crazy things. They named the penalty box in their arena the Beast Bunker, because he’s there more than anywhere. Has a massive chip on his shoulder, supposedly. But Boston loves him because he’s one of their own, and they understand his brand of crazy. Not to mention that he’s brooding, gorgeous, and sexy as hell.”
I let out a big sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t be letting Jen tell me all this, because it could jeopardize the impartialness of the survey. But I can’t help it. I want to know more. “I’m interviewing him tomorrow.”
“Oh, wow, you’re so lucky. Hockey players are utterly beautiful. Being that close to all those talented, hot, sweaty guys,” she says slyly, and as she does, my phone dings with a text. God, Brandon needs to get a hobby. Or a new girlfriend. Or something. Without looking, I bury my phone under my pillow as she continues: “That hardly seems like work, to me. Nursing seems tres boring, compared to that.”
I cringe. Part of me thinks if I’d have decided upon something safe like nursing, maybe I wouldn’t be in such a crazy predicament. Maybe I would’ve still been in Bourneville, writing out the invitations to the holy union of Savannah Shaw to Brandon Marshall.
Oh, yikes. No thanks. I’d take this predicament over that one, any day.
But it doesn’t make it any less terrifying. The tests are supposed to last a half-hour, total, meaning ten minutes with each of them. Sitting across a table from Flynn Taylor, alone, even for ten minutes, sounds like an eternity. How can we behave in a professional manner? How? Is it even possible?
No. I can do this. Mature, Savannah, mature. I think of my mother. The future of my degree hangs in the balance, and whether I can separate my professional image from that stupid, utterly dumbass (but perfectly amazing) mistake I made last night.
I realize I’m holding the uneaten bowl of ramen noodles in front of me and start to twirl them around my fork. “It’s actually not as exciting as you’d think. I have to maintain a professional distance at all times. It’s a little stressful.”
“Oh. Well. It still seems more interesting than learning how to take shit samples.” She grins. “Speaking of annoying shit. I’ve got an exam to study for. Let me know how things go tomorrow, okay?”
I nod as she scoots off the chair and out of the room. Even if I have the whole Flynn problem, the Professor hates me, and Brandon won’t stop texting, at least I have one thing going for me—a blind roommate that’s turning out to be an absolute gem.
Speaking of Brandon . . . the second I close Flynn’s folder, I hear another ding.
All right. Obviously ignoring his texts isn’t helping my ex get the message. I yank my phone out from under my pillow, intending to tell him off. I’ve never actually told anyone off—Brandon says I’m too nice— but maybe if I tell him to stop in all caps, he’ll finally get a clue.
There is a message from Brandon, asking if I had a good day. But there’s another message that isn’t from my ex. From a strange number with a 617 area code. 617 . . . is that from Boston? I’m not sure.
It’s just one word: Hey.
I straighten, going through the (extremely short) list of people it could be. Not the professor. He has an ancient flip phone, and doesn’t seem like the type to say, “Hey.” The coach? Why would he text me? Other than that, I’m at a total loss.
I type in: Who is this?
A moment later: Take a guess.
I don’t need to. Those three little words tell me all I need to know, without a shadow of a doubt. I can picture him, typing those words in, that wolfish grin on his face. I type in: Flynn?
Bingo.
A thrill of excitement travels my spine, and I feel that familiar heat settling low in my abdomen. Oh, my god. So he does remember me.
Dirty thoughts flood my mind, and I feel a pang of deep longing. He can’t be doing this to me. How did you get my number?
Last night. You should have a lock on your phone. Who is Brandon?
He looked through my phone? I scowl at the message. Who the heck does he think he is? I guess I’m not used to being around jerks who go through people’s private things.
You left it out. You didn’t lock it. That’s an invitation.
Ugh. I want to smack him. Smack him, and . . . be smacked by him at the same time. Oh, god, what am I thinking? How can even his stupid texts make me want him?
Anyone ever tell you . . . you look hot in glasses?
I bite on my lip. And he wants me. I can’t do this. If Professor Morgan saw these texts, it’d be over. And my mom . . . I can’t go back home and tell her I lost this study because I couldn’t control my hormones. This means everything to her. To me. To all of us. This is my future, and he?
He’s just an ego-centric jerk with amazing hands and a golden tongue.
I jab in: You can NOT be texting me.
Two seconds later: I think I already am.
I throw my phone across the bed, like it’s a hot potato. If I just ignore him, maybe he will get the message and leave me alone. La la la, ignore ignore ignore.
Right, like that’ll work.
And little good that did with Brandon. No, I need to take control, be firm, communicate my feelings on the subject, and get my point across.
I crawl over to it, pick it up, and type: Listen. I am to have no personal contact with the players I’m interviewing as it can jeopardize the survey results. I can’t be texting with you.
I obviously suck at putting people in their place, because he comes right back with: Sure you want to find out what’s inside this mind?
I think I might already know. He’s a ticking time bomb, a danger. That’s what Professor Morgan said about him: Unpredictable. I can’t trust him to keep what happened between us a secret. After all, he loves getting a rise out of people. I can’t trust that he won’t drop the whole bomb right in Professor Morgan’s lap, just to make some interesting shockwaves.
My finger hovers over the BLOCK button. Do it, do it, do it, a voice that sounds an awful like my mom chants.
If I do that, I will have no phone contact with him whatsoever. That’s the safe thing. My mom would agree, that’s what I need to do.
But somehow, I can’t.
I might be stupid, but part of me wants to get too close to this fire. Close enough to feel the burn.
Instead, I throw my phone into the caps lock I’d meant to use for Brandon and type, my fingers working angrily: STOP OR I WILL BLOCK YOU.
I can almost see him laughing at me. I know he’s not the type to ever get his feathers ruffled by a girl having a temper tantrum. He’s probably enjoying toying with me. You’re fucking sexy when you yell at me. Do you know what I would do to you if I was with you right now?
I let out a deep, almost subhuman growl at the thought. Tell me, I think. Please.
I close my eyes, thinking of his body, hovering over me. I want to continue where we left off. I want to know what he’d do with a burning passion. Better yet, I want him to show me. My blood is boiling with a combination of anger and desire I’ve never felt before. I need to stop it, to put a lid on this before it explodes and there is no turning back.
In a last-ditch effort, my fingers weakly find the words: I didn’t know who you were last night. Please. I have professional ethics to uphold. This study is important to me.
I want him to keep talking dirty. I want him to continue to defy me, until he’s completely defiled me. He’s the unpredictable bad boy, right? He won’t take no for an answer until he’s claimed what he wants.
Instead, all that comes back is: K
Just a letter. Not even an entire word.
Everything inside me plummets, leaving me empty. I stare at it for a full five minutes, wanting more, then needing more. Then I sigh. What have I done? You’re an idiot. You went too far.
I hover my finger over the keyboard, trying to think of something to say to keep things going. But then I stop. Strong, Savannah. You need him to leave you a
lone.
I throw my phone down beside me and stare up at the ceiling. Then my eyes trail back down to my comforter, where Flynn’s stone-faced image is peeking out at me from between the covers of his file. His eyes seem to say, in triumph, I’ve already claimed you, haven’t I?
Yes. Unbelievably, after only one night, he has.
I shove all the files over to the side of the bed and crawl under the covers. I dip my hand under my crisp new sheets, finding the elastic waistband of my shorts and my thong, and press my fingers inside, into the warmth between my legs. I find my clit, and I’m already so wet. I start to stroke it, staring at his picture, thinking of the way he’d touched me last night. Thinking of his tongue, lapping at me, his mouth covering me, gently sucking and teasing me until I’d been lost in sweet oblivion.
It isn’t long before I come, grabbing handfuls of the sheets, feeling the sweet release that I’d desperately needed.
But it doesn’t help release any of the guilt. That, I hold on to.
Professor Morgan would hate me if he knew. I hate myself, too, for wanting Flynn so bad that I’m clearly willing to jeopardize a career I’ve worked so hard for.
Never in my life have I felt so completely torn down the middle.
Chapter 7
The following afternoon, after dropping my computer off at a nearby repair shop, I get to the arena almost an hour early, probably because I barely slept all night. I couldn’t stop thinking about seeing him again. While I’m waiting, I call my mother, who tells me how much she misses me, and that she’s sending me a care package. It makes me more desperate than ever to scrape Flynn out of my head.
Professor Morgan comes in and if he’s surprised or impressed to see I’m early, doesn’t show it. He simply nods his head toward the arena and we go inside. I wonder if he will always look pissed at me, or if it’s possible to get on his good side. So far, I haven’t heard any stories of any past assistants impressing him.
Suddenly, I get a crazy thought. What if Professor Morgan had been the one texting me, as a test to make sure I wouldn’t betray him? What if it wasn’t Flynn at all? What if Flynn is in on it, and that’s why he happened by my apartment that first night?
This isn’t Mission Impossible. Stop being crazy and paranoid, I tell myself, annoyed that Flynn could’ve reduced me to this. I should be showing the professor what I can do, not worrying about keeping secrets from him. Now, I sit down next to him, and all I can do is wonder if he suspects what a lying scum I am.
We have some time before the players come on the ice, so he gives me another stack of folders. “These are today’s surveys,” he tells me. “It should only take each player ten minutes, tops, to complete. After the practice, you’ll meet with them and record their answers, on a scale from one to ten, right on each sheet. Very basic stuff. Understand?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes. No problem.”
I glance at the top paper. He’s right, it is basic. It shouldn’t take much work to get the answers from each player. A player only has to read the statements and determine how much they agree on a scale of one to ten. Statements like: I’m very competitive. I get nervous before a game. If the team wins but I had a poor game, I’m upset. If the team loses but I had a good game, I’m happy.
No sweat. It helps take the edge off, at least, a little.
With that, the players start to filter out onto the ice. I hold my breath. I don’t want to seek him out, but my eyes and my heart betray my head and keep scanning for the nine jersey, regardless. When I see him, my pulse quickens.
I watch him gliding effortlessly across the ice. It’s as easy as breathing to him. I’ve never even put on a pair of roller skates. I feel a pang of deep longing inside me, which I quickly squelch. He’s talented and he knows it, Savannah. He’s a walking ego, the way he thought he could charm the panties off you.
I try to forget the fact that he succeeded. Why did I let him succeed?
When all the men are on the ice, they begin a scrimmage. Professor Morgan goes down to the ice to chat with coach Jacobsen again, leaving me to take notes. I try. I really do. I write a few observations about the players, but quickly realize that because of last night’s pathetic study session, I still know nothing about the players. The goalie, Henderson, looks pretty bad, like he’s having some trouble. Wonder who found him? I write: Stiff. Not comfortable.
I secretly check the folders in my backpack and realize he’s Alfonso Henderson, coming off of a stellar career. He’s won 3 Stanley Cups. He’s forty-six, which explains the stiffness.
Good one, Sav. If you continue to make observations like that, you won’t just look like a tool in front of the professor, you’ll look like the entire toolbox.
Just then, Flynn skates up to the bench, pulls off his gloves, and grabs his water bottle. I struggle helplessly not to look at him, but he’s directly in front of me, not ten yards away, right in my line of sight. When I lift my chin to glance to him, his eyes are on me. His face is glistening with sweat, his hair matted to his forehead, and while on most guys I’d find that repulsive, suddenly I wouldn’t mind bathing in that sweat.
He spits out his mouth guard, grins, and winks at me.
It’s the sexiest wink I’ve ever been on the receiving end of.
I shift uncomfortably on my seat. I look at Professor Morgan, who doesn’t seem to have noticed. Flynn shoves his gloves over his hands, does an about face, and skates away, leaving my entire body buzzing and tingling.
Suddenly my phone dings with a text. I pick it up and groan aloud. Brandon. Are you okay?
He’s worried, of course, because I’ve ignored his last five texts. I sigh, consider blocking him. Funny, I’d have an easier time blocking Brandon, whom I’ve known for half a dozen years, than Flynn, who I’ve known for two days. I type in: You can’t text me 24/7. We’re not going out anymore.
He comes back with: So I can’t be worried about a friend?
I sigh and type in: You’re worrying about me like I’m still your girlfriend. Tone it down a notch, ok?
Sorry. Can’t help it.
A thundering noise jolts my head up, and when I look across the ice, the glass and boards are still shaking violently, and two men beside it are grappling for the puck, hockey sticks clattering together.
One of them is Flynn. While the other player’s face is twisted in a sort of concentrated rage, Flynn looks almost gleeful about it, like he’s truly enjoying this scuffle.
They fight for the puck as if their lives depend on it. Whoa, this is serious stuff for a scrimmage. Finally, the other man, thirteen (big surprise, another player I don’t know) shakes him off. “What the fuck is your problem, man? That’s boarding.”
Flynn starts to skate away, unperturbed, but thirteen skates after him and lays a glove on his shoulder. I furtively check out the file in my backpack. Thirteen. Walsh. Another forward. So essentially, Flynn’s right-hand-man, the guy he’s supposed to be in absolute sync with. This doesn’t look like they’re synching very much.
Walsh snaps, “Whoa. Really, man. What’re you trying to prove with this shit?”
Flynn shrugs. “Nothing, man. That was nothing but a little love tap, dude. Maybe you’re too much of a wuss and should go back to the kiddie league.”
Walsh’s voice is a low mumble. “Maybe if you were half the player you claim to be, your parents still wouldn’t be living in the shithole where you grew up.”
It’s like a volcano suddenly erupts. Flynn lets out a guttural growl, drops his gloves and gets into fighting stance, then begins to motion at him. Come at me.
Number thirteen gives him a look like Are you serious? “This is just the shit I’m talking about. We’re on the same team, man.”
When he turns to skate away, Flynn charges. He grabs him by the jersey, whirls him around, and delivers a one-two punch to his face. Walsh staggers back, then throws his arms at him, and the two players end up locked in fighting stance, each trying to get his arm free and throw a
new punch.
Finally, Jacobsen blows his whistle. He looks tired, like a father who has had to deal with his kid’s tantrums one too many times. “Guys. Knock it off. Taylor. Get over here.”
The two players separate. Walsh’s nose is bleeding, and his face is the color of a ripe tomato. “What the actual fuck!” he mutters, skating over to one of the assistant coaches for medical attention.
None of the coaches look particularly surprised about the scuffle. I start to write something in my notebook when Professor Morgan climbs the steps to meet me. He crouches in the aisle, reading my notes, and nods.
Wait, I actually did something he agrees with? I wonder if I should highlight this day in red in my planner, in case it never happens again.
He says, “Unfortunately, Taylor is one the coaches have to keep an eye on. But you see, this is what makes my study important. If we can predict ahead of time the sort of personality traits that won’t function well in a group, coaches can use that information to their advantage, eliminating the potential threats.”
As much as I wish I didn’t care, the innuendo in his comment worries me. “Are you saying they’re going to drop Flynn Taylor from the team?”
“Not at all. He’s under contract for the next two years, but after that, they won’t be bending over backwards to keep him around. Now you can understand how that information would be nice to have before the contracts are signed.” He points at Walsh, who is still getting his nose packed with gauze. “Given the wrong environment, even a truly great player might not succeed. The aim of this study is not only help coaches decide who they want on their teams, but players learn in what environment they might live up to their fullest potential. Obviously, as you’ve seen, one unhappy player can have serious repercussions on the entire team.”
I sweep my eyes over the rink, finally landing on Flynn, who’s right in the thick of it again, this time, grappling with another player for the puck. He’s fierce, aggressive, and clearly doesn’t care whose face he gets into. Something comes to mind at that moment: There’s no I in Team. He grew up on the streets. Maybe Flynn isn’t used to depending on others.