Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ella

I saw the game tonight. Are you okay?

I sit at my kitchen counter, staring at my phone and nibbling on my bottom lip. The Sierra have consistently been at the top of the league for the last few seasons—grinding out wins, making it to the playoffs (and often several rounds into the post-season), excelling as the team every other team hates to play against.

What they're not known for is getting blown out.

And the loss tonight was a blowout of epic proportions.

Losing eight to one against the Grizzlies—the newest expansion team in the league—is embarrassing.

At least that's what Knox said when I checked on him after the bench-clearing brawl that ended the game.

And ended with half of the guys bleeding.

Riggs had punched the guy that hit Knox but had taken a cheap shot to the back of the head for his trouble, one that sent him to his knees and the head trainer out onto the ice.

Knox says he's fine.

But Riggs hasn't replied to my texts…

And…fuck, is he okay?

Hence, the texting and the nibbling at my bottom lip and the drinking of a honey rosemary mule I had to make myself.

My phone buzzes and I lunge for it.

Then huff out a breath in disappointment when I see it's Nova texting.

Lake's in a mood. Word of warning when dealing with a grumpy hockey player—enough hits to the head and they eventually come around.

I grin.

Mostly because Nova is pretty much the nicest person I've ever met—only Kit might be nicer—and I know she's never laid a hand on her hot, grumpy hockey hunk to hurt him.

Not to make him see reason.

Though, maybe the nail marks on his back might count.

Reasoning him right into an orgasm.

Thanks for the advice, kid.

My phone buzzes almost immediately.

Rude. Especially because you've been keeping mum about you and Riggs.

This isn't a lie.

I haven't meant to, exactly, and it's not like she didn't know I was into him. I just…well, I didn't share how much things have changed.

A blip of guilt blooms in my belly.

Because I know that I would be upset if the roles were reversed—I'd be pumping my best friend for information, not offering advice and a gentle reminder that friends share the important shit that goes on in their lives.

Girls' night at my place tomorrow. You bring the stuff for mules and I'll cook you my world-famous lasagna.

World famous because it comes from the freezer section and can be shoved straight into the oven, thus leaving plenty of time for us to gossip?

The guilt settles.

She's not mad, not my sweet friend who spent a lifetime holding things close to her chest.

Damn right.

We exchange goodbyes, and I send her a plethora of bright red hearts because she's my bestie and I love her, and I have been keeping things too close to my chest. But if Riggs can be as strong as he is and share what he had…

I think I can share some of me too.

My phone buzzes again, and I expect it to be a series of increasingly more ridiculous emojis from Nova, but instead, my heart starts galloping in my chest.

Because the message is from Riggs.

I'm fine, chérie.

I frown.

Just… I'm fine?

I wait for the "…" to appear, for him to elaborate on the fact that he was bleeding and motionless on the ice for far too fucking long before being escorted to the locker room by a trainer pressing a towel to his face, and all I get is he's fine?

Bullshit.

I jab at my phone screen, skipping straight over a phone call and diving right into FaceTime.

We haven't done this before.

But I know that I'm not going to rest easy, not until I see his face.

It rings that distinctive ring.

Once. Twice. And I half expect for him to let it go unanswered.

But just as I'm plotting my next move on how to ensure that the man is truly fine (even if it requires calling in my big brother), Riggs picks up.

"Oh, my glorious penis," I murmur.

"I was about to take a shower, chérie ," he murmurs.

"This I know," I say. "Or see ." My eyes slowly take in every inch—and there are a lot of them—that I can see of this man. I start with the hair that's fallen over his forehead, calling for my fingertips even through the screen. Then I'm moving my gaze over his sharp cheekbones, his proud nose. There's a cut beneath his right eye that has a butterfly bandage over it, presumably keeping it closed, that sends my pulse skittering. I don't like seeing him hurt. But I force myself to move past it, drifting my focus to the thick beard I want to run my fingers through, his lush mouth that brings so few words but so much pleasure.

The cords in his neck stand out sharply in relief, but he stays still as I study him through my phone screen.

Broad shoulders, cut arms, big hands. Pecs that are squeezable, abs that are flat and defined and totally lickable. Thighs?—

God, his thighs.

They're powerful.

Like him. Like the draw he has over me.

Like the thick cock at half-mast between his legs.

"What'd you need, chérie ?" he murmurs.

It takes me a second to tear my gaze from his ever-growing cock, I'm not even going to lie. "I wanted?—"

He fists his cock, strokes once, twice, and I choke.

"Yeah, chérie ?" he asks, his voice a rumble. "What did you want?"

To suck his cock deep, to feel the hot jets of him coming down my throat.

" Ella ."

I blink.

Focus.

"I was worried about you," I whisper. "You were hurt during the game and?—"

He stills the hand that's wrapped tightly around his cock. " Chérie ."

Another blink, but this time, I manage to meet his deep brown eyes. "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

My heart rolls over in my chest. "Riggs?—"

"Shh," he says. "Don't try to make this Queen Ella saves the day with her interference and giant heart. Just…let me enjoy the fact that you clearly give a shit about me instead of?—"

My heart squeezes as I wait to hear the rest of that sentence.

"Instead of what?" I ask quietly when he doesn't finish it.

"Nothing," he says, moving toward the camera, picking it up from where he must have propped it, taking away my glorious view.

"Riggs—" I begin.

"What'd you do today?"

I study his face, debate pushing him for answers.

But…I don't think he's ready. So, I can be the one to share this time, even if it's only about something as innocuous as my day. "I worked. Watched the game." I lift my copper mug. "Had a mule while cursing the Grizzlies. Admired a penis I want to suck deep and then ride like I'm a cowgirl trying to tame a stallion."

"I'll get you the hat," he murmurs, leaning back against the wall, the shower running behind him, steam filling the room, blurring the edges of him on my screen.

I wink. "I think I'd look good in it."

"You look good in anything." A beat. "Or better yet, nothing at all."

I smile then sigh softly. "Will you tell me?"

"About the game?"

"I watched the game, honey," I say. "Though I'll listen if you want to break it down. I can even throw in a hockey term or a hundred if need be thanks to Knox's training." His expression gentles and I go for it. "I mean whatever happened between when you left a couple days ago and now to bring those shadows back out in your eyes."