The Good Luck Charm

by Helena Hunting

  “Shh. Go back to sleep. I just want to sleep with you. Beside you. I just want to hold you.” He fits himself around me, his erection pressing against the small of my back.

  I’m disoriented and irritated that I’ve been woken up at God knows what hour. “Are you serious with this?” I elbow him in the ribs and try to squirm out of his hold.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He runs his palm down my forearm. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

  The length of his erection—his bare erection; I know this because my sleep tank rides up—rubs against my low back, silky and hot. I’m angry that my body responds in his favor, nipples hardening, back arching reflexively. “Then why the hell are you naked?”

  He tucks his knees into the back of mine, shifting against me. “I was hot. Just ignore it. It’ll go away.” Even as he says it, his fingers dip under my tank, finding bare skin.

  I elbow him in the side again and he grunts, his hold loosening enough that I can roll away. “What part of no sleepover tonight did you miss, Ethan? You can’t just show up in the middle of the night all liquored up and crawl into bed with me. How the hell did you even get here, anyway?”

  He blinks and frowns, eyes hazy with lust and dimmed with booze. “I took a cab. Don’t be mad at me. I don’t want you to be mad at me. I missed you. I have to go away again in a few days. I just wanted to sleep beside you, but you feel so good and then my body just reacts.” He bites his lip. How a grown man manages to look so ridiculously contrite and innocent when he’s clearly not is beyond me.

  “I need sleep, Ethan. When I tell you I need a night off, you have to respect that.”

  “I know. I promise I won’t do it again. Please don’t be mad.” He drags a single finger down my nose. “If I lie on my back, I can tuck you into my side and you can go back to sleep. I won’t bother you.”

  “Really?” I arch a brow, glancing at the tent in the sheets.

  “I’ll just go to the bathroom and take care of my problem?” It’s a question.

  There’s no way I can let him jack off in the bathroom while I lie here in bed thinking about what he’s doing on the other side of the door. I close my eyes on a sigh.

  I grab his wrist, eyes darting to his heavy, thick erection. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “You need sleep.” He bites his lip, his eyes full of apology even though his lids are heavy with desire.

  “Well, I’m awake now.”

  “I’ll make you feel good. I’ll tire you right out if you’ll let me. Show you how sorry I am for waking you up.” His mouth is on mine, unrelenting, demanding, and then his hands are roaming over my body, peeling off the tank top and shorts, kissing his way down my stomach. He makes good on his promise, licking me until I come.

  “I love you. I need you,” he says as he fits himself between my legs, entering me.

  Deep down a part of me worries this isn’t good for me, for either of us, that his need for me and how much I love it is dangerous. But the fears dissipate like smoke as I get lost in the feel of him moving inside me, taking me higher with every stroke.

  He’s slow and careful, he’s sweet and gentle. He’s the boy I fell in love with as a girl, grown into a man I don’t think I ever fell out of love with, between then and now.

  Morning comes way too fast. Ethan doesn’t so much as twitch when my alarm goes off at 5:43. I hit Snooze twice, but Merk is breathing in my face, so trying to sneak in a few extra minutes of sleep is impossible. I’m beyond tired; parts of my body ache that really shouldn’t. While the first round of sex was gentle, it was like the lead-up to a thunderstorm, a soft breeze that suddenly changed course and became aggressive, sweeping in and dominating. Round two followed minutes after round one and lasted a hell of a lot longer.

  I’m going to require so much caffeine to get through this day. I’m not sure what time Ethan arrived, but I do know the last time I looked at the clock it was after three in the morning. I throw glares at his peaceful form while I stumble around in the semidarkness trying to get dressed. I stop worrying about being quiet and throw on the bathroom light so I don’t end up wearing mismatched everything. And still, he sleeps like the dead.

  I bang around in the kitchen, working out my frustration on the coffee maker. I let Merk out into the backyard, too tired to manage the walk business this morning. I need to talk to Ethan about this, about the way it impacts my job and my schoolwork. I have to tell him about my failed midterm. I don’t want to invite conflict, or put him off his game with playoffs so close and so much riding on the next few weeks, but I need him to respect my boundaries.

  I glance up at the ceiling, aware he’s above me, sleeping peacefully while I have to go to work and be productive. I run a finger down the bridge of my nose, trying to ease my frustration. Last night—or this morning, I guess—he’d been so remorseful for waking me, apologetic, needy, wanting. Ethan has always been good at making me feel needed—maybe too good. Back when we were teenagers, there was so much less at stake than there is now, for both of us.

  I pour coffee into a to-go mug as a tide-me-over until I can get a double espresso at the café on the way to work.

  I open the fridge to grab the cream and find a paper bag from a local bakery that wasn’t there last night. I check the contents and find my favorite muffin inside. When Ethan would have had the time to pick this up, I have no idea, but the sweet gesture only fuels my annoyance.

  On my way out the door, I note a bouquet of flowers left on the table at the entryway that I must’ve missed on my way to the kitchen in my caffeine-deprived haze. I pluck the card from the envelope. It’s simple and to the point:

  Lilah,

  I love you more than Hot Lips.

  Ethan

  The romantic gestures are lovely and considerate, but it doesn’t negate the fact that he’s steamrolling my life and I’m letting him. Merk whines, giving me sad eyes as I head for the door. I give him a pat on the head. “Go breathe in Ethan’s face until he wakes up and takes you for a walk.”

  By the time I arrive at work, I’m slightly more alert and definitely more caffeinated. I worry I’ll end up jittery on account of how much coffee I’ve already consumed, but it’s better than falling asleep standing up. I drop my things in my locker and head to the nurses’ station.

  “Hey! Should I be asking for your autograph this morning? Oh…wow…You must’ve had a night.” Ashley’s eyes go wide as she takes in my appearance.

  I’m dressed in scrubs, and my hair is pulled into a ponytail, which is typical, so I’m not sure exactly what’s different about the way I look, other than my bloodshot eyes. I’m guessing the drops I put in before I left for work have worn off already. “What’re you talking about?” I set my extra-large coffee on the desk and flip through the morning case files.

  She gives me a funny look. “What am I talking about? Your face is all over the local media, newspapers, Facebook, Insta—you name it.”

  I pause my leafing. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I love that you’re his good luck charm. It’s just so cute.”

  I rub my temples. “I’m whose good luck charm?”

  “Ethan’s. Jeez.” She drops her voice. “Are you hungover or something?”

  “Absolutely not!” I snap. I raise a hand in apology. “Sorry. I didn’t have the most restful sleep. I went to the game last night, and it took a while to settle when I got home.”

  “I bet.” She gives me a commiserating smile. “Based on the way that man kisses you, I can only imagine the other things he can do with that mouth of his.”

  “Ashley! Can we keep this PG? And since when have you seen Ethan kiss me?” I try to think of a time he was anything but appropriate when stopping by my work. Sure, he’s stopped by to steal a kiss, but it’s always been in private, not in front of my colleagues. In trucks on private property is one thing; in the middle of my place of employment is entirely another.

  “Um…the whole hockey-watching world has seen him ki
ss you, live, on TV.”

  I set the files down. My stomach drops and my cheeks flush. “No.”

  “Oh yeah. He really laid one on you.”

  I slap a palm over my mouth because I’m incapable of closing it. Last night, after the game, before I left with his parents, he kissed me. There’d been camera flashes, but I hadn’t considered that there would be video footage as well, or that it would end up splashed all over the godforsaken interweb. Up until now, any PDA caught on camera has been very family friendly. That kiss last night was not. “Oh my God.”

  “Right? And then that interview. It’s totally understandable that you’re tired today. I tried to give you the easiest cases this morning.”

  “Thanks.” I’m genuinely grateful but still so confused. “What interview are you referring to?”

  Ashley frowns. “You didn’t see it?”

  “Uh, no. I didn’t even know there was one.” Ethan didn’t mention an interview, although there wasn’t much talking last night, apart from his initial apology.

  “I have it bookmarked. It’s so sweet.”

  She pulls up a hockey blog on the computer, scanning the area to make sure no one is around before she hits Play. She lowers the volume, the sound of cheering fans far too loud not to draw attention.

  “Ethan! Ethan! Can you tell us about your girlfriend? Rumor has it you’re high school sweethearts!”

  “Ethan! How’d you feel about your performance on the ice tonight?”

  “Ethan! Is this the year Minnesota is going to bring the Cup home?”

  The questions keep flying, and Ethan holds up a hand, pointing to one sportscaster. “I’m glad I can be an asset to my team this season. I’m proud to be back home and playing well.”

  “What do you attribute your success to this season?”

  Ethan ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. His hair is damp, curling at the ends. He runs his fingers through it, making a mess. “Great teammates, a fantastic coach, and serious determination all help, as well as a little bit of luck.”

  “Do you have any superstitions? Anything you do before a game? Rituals?”

  “Where do you think that luck comes from, Ethan?” another reporter shouts.

  His head whips around, seeking out the asker of the last question. “Lilah.” It’s the first and only word out of his mouth.

  My skin prickles, but I’m not sure if it’s in a good way or not. A volley of questions follows that’s hard to keep track of.

  “Is Lilah your girlfriend?”

  “Is Lilah the woman who was here tonight? Where is she now?”

  “You laid one hell of a kiss on her!” Several catcalls follow that remark.

  “Would you call her your good luck charm?”

  Ethan rubs his bottom lip with his thumb. “Among other things, but yeah, definitely.”

  “Does Lilah know she’s a factor in how well you play?”

  “Is she part of your pregame ritual?” one saucy reporter asks.

  Ethan laughs, maybe a little high on the win and the attention. “I don’t rub her like a genie in a bottle, if that’s what you’re getting at, but I see her before every home game, and I talk to her before every away one.”

  “And you think she’s the key to your successful season?”

  Ethan shrugs but smiles. “Every game she’s been at has been a success. I play better when I know she’s with me.”

  “Isn’t that the sweetest?” Ashley sighs.

  “Yeah, totally.” Except sweet doesn’t seem like the right word. I want to be flattered, but the reality is, I’m not sure I am—not the way it’s intended. Because if what Ethan is saying is true, if he believes I’m some kind of charm that’s making him play better, how much of what’s happening between us is real, and how much is based on superstition and pregame rituals? He’s carried them through his entire career, and he’s had them since high school rep hockey, and back then I was a part of it, too. Even if it is authentic, how am I supposed to cope with being the center of his success?

  Panic makes my chest tighten, like I’m trapped in a small space with no exit. What happens if the team shits the bed come playoffs? What if the pressure is too much and it all falls apart, or they don’t even make it into the first series, let alone past it? Will that be on me? Will he harbor resentment? Will I feel some level of culpability, especially if I can’t be there to attend games, to give him what he needs and be what he needs? But what about what I need? How much of myself am I supposed to give up?

  In an instant I’m transported back in time, to those nights when Ethan would stop by to see me before a game for a good luck kiss. Or when he’d beg me to come to a practice, saying he played better when I was there.

  I hadn’t connected it until now, or maybe I hadn’t wanted to—how he’s been doing the same thing for home games. We’re always together the night before. It doesn’t matter if I’m out with Carmen, or at class, or whatever; as soon as I’m home, he shows up at my door.

  Sometimes he’s even there before I get home, having taken Merk to the dog park so we’ll have more time together. Inevitably there’s sex. And I’ve fed right into it, encouraged it even, high on being needed this way. He’s made me feel special, wanted, essential.

  I run a hand down my face, scared to look too deep. Like a lot of players, Ethan is a slave to his pregame routines and rituals. And now I worry that I’ve somehow become part of that routine in a way that’s no longer innocuous but unhealthy.

  I tune back in to the interview in time to hear the next question from a male reporter, who seems far less interested in Ethan’s relationship status.

  “Trade talk has started and a lot of rumors are flying. You’re on the top of the list as a valuable trade player. Do you think you’ll be moving teams again, or staying with Minnesota next season?”

  “That’s hard to predict. There are some great players on the team and some amazing talent moving up the ranks, so we’ll see how it all comes out in the wash. I’ve been traded the last three years, so I’m ready for that possibility.”

  My throat constricts. We’ve skirted this conversation up until now, and here he is talking openly about it in a very public forum. My head aches with the sudden slap shot of reality, and my anger balloons. I feel like a crutch he’s using to get through the season.

  “Lilah?”

  I realize the interview is over. “Hmm?”

  “Will you go with him?”

  “What?”

  “If he’s traded, would you go with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

  I smile. “It’s fine. It’s not something we’ve talked about. Anyway, I should start my rounds.”

  “Okay, sure. I’ll see you at lunch?”

  “Yeah. Definitely.” I take my stack of files with me, flipping through the first one, not really processing anything through my anger.

  If Ethan had done this interview eight years ago and said all of the same things, I would’ve been ecstatic. Being his good luck charm would’ve been romantic. But I’ve spent the better part of a decade trying to get past the fact that I wasn’t important enough for him to keep in his life the first time around—so much so, that I pushed the man I married away and ultimately destroyed that relationship.

  Being on the flip side of this coin is just as stressful, if not more so. If he fails, if things don’t go the way he wants them to this season, where do I fit in? Do I cease to be important again? More than that, do I want my entire identity wrapped up in what I am to someone else? Being needed is one thing, but it has to be for the right reasons.

  I spend my entire day bombarded by coworkers and colleagues talking about the interview and how sweet Ethan is, and aren’t I lucky to be dating an NHL player. All it does is frustrate me more.

  The highlight of my day is a checkup with Emery, who’s become my new favorite patient. Unfortunately, she’s also seen the media circus and can’t stop
mooning over how romantic Ethan is. I don’t rain on her romance parade, because her naïve joy is the only positive to my day.

  She claps her hands as soon as I peek my head in the room. “You’re pretty much famous! Should I ask for your autograph? Oh! Can you get Ethan to sign something for me? He’s soooo swoony!”

  I roll my eyes. “Not you, too.”

  She scrunches up her nose. “What do you mean not me, too?”

  “Everyone’s all over me today about the—” I glance at the TV screen, where that kiss plays out on an entertainment reel recap. “Oh, for fuc—” I cut off the swear before I can finish it.

  “Well, someone was all over you, that’s for sure.” Her grin is wide. “You failed to mention how hot he is. I mean, dude was super sweaty and still smoking.”

  I laugh. “It’s the uniform, I’m sure.”

  “Not hardly. That man is crazy hot. Like, way hotter than Dr. Lovely, and that’s saying something, because he’s a smoke show, for sure. Is he super romantic, too? I bet he is. Does he bring you flowers all the time? Do sweet things for you?”

  “He can be, when he wants to,” I admit, thinking about breakfast and the flowers he left for me this morning and his sweet notes that are always encouraging, whether they’re wishing me luck on a test or assignment or just telling me he’s thinking about me. Most recently, he hired a housekeeper to stop by every week to clean from top to bottom so I don’t have to. But his not respecting what I need and want is definitely the opposite of sweet.

  “My parents are like that. Like, my dad buys my mom flowers all the time, and sometimes he’ll pick wildflowers and bring them home for her. They are, like, always snuggling and cuddling and making out. It’s kinda gross, actually. But still sweet, right? But so much PDA. They hold hands wherever they go.”

  “They sound sweet.”

  “Gross, but totally,” she agrees. “I guess that’s kind of what I want. Someone to love me that much.”

  I smile but don’t say anything as I check the most recent X-ray.