11. Lawson

CHAPTER 11

LAWSON

The roar of the crowd is music to my ears.

We’re away, but can tell that there are enough die-hard Bangor fans cheering for us every time we get the puck.

We’re pitted against the—I'm sad to say—very talented LA Kings, and for the last two periods they’ve definitely let us know we’re playing in their house.

We're currently tied up, but I feel like I've already won. I'm faster, with more explosive power thanks to the grueling practices and private lessons with Blakely.

Blakely, who I know is out there cheering for me somewhere, not just as a colleague but as a friend.

A friend who occasionally sleeps with me.

“Wolfe!” Kiplin screams as I get hold of the puck. “Get your fucking head in the game!”

“I have the puck!” I holler back, weaving around the Kings’ winger that’s chasing me down.

“Pass it,” my captain demands. “You're too covered!”

I ignore him—something I know I'll pay for later. I'm sure scoring the game-winning goal will soften his anger. I'm on cloud fucking nine, and there's no way any of these losers are going to catch me.

I glide over the ice like lightning, the weight of the puck against my stick like an extension of my own body as I make my way toward the goal. Sure, I've got wingers and defensemen coming at me left and right, but I dodge them, taking my shot. I skid to a stop after smacking the puck toward the goal, already celebrating the victory dance in my mind, when the crowd erupts, an explosion of cheers as the Kings’ goaltender bats away my shot like it's nothing.

For a split second, I gape in utter shock knowing the massive heat I put on that shot, and hoping his glove hand hurts like hell from making that save.

It's just a second, and then I'm back in action, speeding over the ice in a desperate attempt to remedy the mistake I just made. Not only did I ignore my captain, but I missed the fucking shot.

Stokehill is already three steps ahead of me, him and Ritchford working together to steal the puck back from the Kings, who recovered it after my miss.

I'm playing defense now, getting in the middle and mucking up the Kings’ pathway toward Nash, who’s taking it toward the goal at another attempt to score.

I skirt in front of a right wing, watching as Stokehill lines up to take a shot, but at the last second, he sends the puck soaring to Ritchford, who smacks it in, the puck hitting the back of the net and securing our win.

The handful of Bangor fans in the stands are cheering as the timer sounds, indicating the end of the game.

I don't join the celebration that's happening on the ice.

I don't raise my fist or offer high fives, instead shaking my head as I skate off the ice, my raucous team following behind me as we head to the away-team locker room.

I shed half of my gear, resting my elbows on my knees as Coach stands in the middle of the room.

“Good win tonight, Badgers!” he says, smiling as he glances around at all of us. “The Kings are an admirable team, and you held tight despite the fight they put up. There were some slip-ups,” he continues, and I can’t help but feel a sting hit my chest when his eyes meet mine. “But that’s to be expected. Y’all played as a team. I’m proud of each and every one of you. Keep it up!” He nods, high fiving a few of the rookies as he leaves the locker room, leaving the rest of us to get showered.

I'm the last one in the locker room, sitting there going over every move I made in the game, my brow furrowed, wondering how the hell he'd stopped that shot.

“What's the matter there, Wolfe?” Coach asks me, his voice suddenly snapping me out of my internal turmoil. I thought he’d left, but maybe he’d come back after everyone else had gone. “The team bus leaves in ten minutes, but you’re still in here pouting. You can't celebrate a win unless you scored a goal?”

“No, Coach,” I answer, shaking my head. “That's not it.”

Coach nods like he expected me to say that. He slides his hands into the black and yellow windbreaker he wears, taking a seat next to me on the bench.

“I didn't think so,” he says. “I took a look at your time in Colorado. You're a playmaker through and through. There were times you had nothing but goal assists in the game, and you still took pride in those wins, so what's eating you up now?”

“I don't know,” I say my, eyes finding the floor.

It's a coward answer, and I know it. I’ve warmed up to Coach Hardin over the last three months—in fact, he's probably the best coach I've ever had in my entire hockey career. He's stern but understanding, and he really takes the time to get to know each of us. He somehow makes you feel like the most important player on the team, even though he has too many talented assets to count.

I should explain exactly why I'm sitting here sulking instead of joining my teammates at the hotel bar for a celebration, but I can't.

“Maybe it's the fact that you had a chance for us to score with an assist, but you decided to take the shot yourself. That's not unheard of,” he continues. “And I saw it, it was a good shot. He just blocked you.”

“Captain told me to pass before I took the shot,” I admit. I manage the courage to look at his face, expecting to see nothing but pure disappointment there. Instead, I see a level of understanding that I'm not sure any coach has given me before.

“I was wondering what Kiplin hollered at you,” he says. “And ignoring Kiplin would be enough to make anybody's stomach sour, but you can't let it trip you up. We’re a mostly new team, Wolfe,” he says, glancing around the locker room as if all the players are here instead of out on the team bus. “We’re just learning how to work together for our common goal of winning and being the best. But right now, I'm not worried about the wins. I'm not worried about the scores on the board. I'm more focused on how we work as a team . Because I know in the end, that's going to take us further than ever before. A good, solid team,” he continues. “One who works together, not against each other.” He glances at me, a soft smile on his face that’s somewhat familiar, tugging at something at the back of my head I can't quite place.

He gives me a supportive clap on the shoulder. “You can't be a lone wolf, Wolfe,” he says and chuckles at his own play on words. “You're talented as hell,” he continues. “That's why we drafted you first. Nobody is ever going to deny that. But if we really want to make this team into what we hope it will be? We have to be a team. Understand?”

I nod. “Yes, Coach,” I say.

“Good,” he says. “We’re down to six minutes now. Get on that bus or you’ll have to find another way back to the hotel”

I laugh, nodding at him.

He gives me another clap on the shoulder, standing from the bench and heading out of the locker room, and I'm once again baffled at his motivational approach to coaching.

Back in Colorado, I would’ve had my ass reamed for ignoring my captain and missing a shot that could’ve won us the game. But Hardin doesn’t prescribe to that brand of coaching, and I never knew how much I actually enjoyed it. Because unlike having my ass handed to me in a screaming match, I’m more motivated by Coach’s supportive words than I was with any other lecture I may have been given. He believes in me, which makes letting him and my team down a whole fuck more frustrating.

I hurry to gather my gear and get my ass on the team bus that takes us back to the hotel we’re staying at for the night before we fly home tomorrow. I'm already thinking about the text I'm going to shoot Blakely as I walk through my hotel door, and pause just after I close it.

Blakely sits at the small table in the corner, a couple of beers atop the table, and those sympathetic blue eyes batting up at me. “Do you want to talk about it, or do you want to ignore it?” she asks, nothing but sincerity on her face as she stands up to meet me halfway.

I drop my gear bag and immediately pull her into my arms for an embrace that has nothing to do with me wanting to strip her of the Badgers jersey she wears and worship her for a few hours.

No, this embrace is filled with nothing but pure gratitude. The whole way over here I thought about the one person I wanted to talk to about tonight's game, and it was her.

Not my teammates, not my captain, her .

And here she is, anticipating that need like we've been doing it for years instead of our short and very new…friendship. Sure, it’d been three months since we met, and a little over two weeks since we crossed that line and slept together, but it’s all still very new.

Something shifts inside me at her show of support, at her very real offer of ignoring it, or unpacking it if I need to. A feeling I've never felt before takes up residence in my chest, expanding and sucking up a whole lot of breathing room, confusing the hell out of me. A quick flash blasts in my mind with soaring images of a future—dozens of games and dozens of times like this where I race back into her arms.

I release her, stepping back to look down at her with a curious gaze. “How did you get in here?” I ask and glance around my obviously empty room. It dawns on me, and I nod.

“Pax,” we say at the same time.

Blakely grins up at me, giving me an innocent little shrug. “Your roommate was more than happy to go hang out with my roommate for a few hours.”

I nod because it makes perfect sense. Luckily, I’d been paired up with Pax to share a room, and clearly Blakely and Monroe had bunked together too. I definitely liked Pax, but this? Granting me this without any questions? This solidified him in my book. I’ll have his back for life.

Blakely trails her delicate hands down my tired arms. “So, talk or ignore?”

I wrap my arms around her again but keep my eyes on her face as I study her. That annoying thing in my chest pulses, warmth spreading out and stretching across every expanse of my body in a way that has nothing to do with lust.

Lightning strikes me.

Holy shit, am I falling for this girl?

The minute the thought pops in my head, a certain sense of peace and clarity washes over me like I've solved some mysterious puzzle I've been working on for ages.

Oh shit, I’m so fucked.

How can I be falling for the girl who literally told me she doesn't want to be in a relationship? Let alone my skate coach ? Not to mention the fact that I'm not a relationship guy. I don't fall for people, I fall for the ice, for the next step in my career, for doing whatever it takes to take care of my family—my mom, my sister.

I sleep around for fun. I’m known for it.

Except, I don’t.

Not since Blakely.

I haven’t even considered approaching someone else.

But it doesn’t matter how many logistical reasons I throw at the realization in my mind, it doesn’t break or tremble or even budge.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Ignore it,” I finally say to both my realization and her question, and I dip my head to capture her mouth with mine.

She melts into my embrace, her body flush against mine as my hands roam over her. The kiss is slow, languid, like we're not on a time limit. Like this is something we do all the time.

But still, there is something different in this kiss versus the ones that have come before it. There’s just as much hunger and need in this kiss, but there’s a commonality, a companionship that I can feel solidifying with every stroke of our tongues against each other.

I don't know if she feels it on her end, and it's likely because of me and all these feelings that are occupying my body right now, but either way, I sink into her mouth and feel like I'm coming home .

Her hands are just as greedy, roaming over the plains of my chest and my hips until she pulls away and tugs on my sweats, bringing them and my boxer briefs down until I'm forced to step out of them. I'm expecting her to hop right back up, giving me the access I need to shed her pants, but she doesn't.

Fuck me, she stays on her knees, and the sight literally rattles everything inside me.

She flashes me a little smirk, her hand teasingly stroking my hard cock, tracing the lines of it with her fingertips before she inches her mouth toward my head.

My heart slams against my chest as she parts her lips and takes me into her mouth, a little timidly at first, which is the only thing powerful enough to have my brain actually work when it feels so fucking good to have her lips wrapped around me.

“You don't have to do this,” I groan, my fingers gently tangling in her hair. “You don't have to?—”

“Let me take care of you,” she says after pulling back just enough that I slide out of her mouth, only to immediately take me back in.

“Fuck,” I hiss, my hips thrusting on instinct into that perfectly hot and wet mouth of hers.

I definitely can't argue with her, not when she's clearly doing it because she wants to, and not out of some misplaced tally between us. I know her history isn’t as thorough as mine, and I never want her to do anything she doesn’t want to do, but she’s clearly taking control right now.

“Blakely,” I groan as she takes me deeper, only to pull back and stroke me while sucking hard on my tip, rotating her hand around my girth and flicking her tantalizing tongue up my slit.

“Shit, that feels so damn good,” I breathe the words, my fingers tightening in her hair as I can't help but move, my hips pressing forward, wanting more of her mouth. She relaxes, her free hand gripping my thigh as she opens another fraction for me, doing her best to mimic my movements and lick and swirl around me in a way that has me shaking .

“Blakely,” I say again, an urgency in my tone as I feel that tingling at the base of my spine. “Baby, you gotta stop or I'm going to come,” I say, looking down at her.

Her eyes flicker up to mine, never breaking our gaze as she keeps going, upping her stroking while sucking on me hard and long, devouring me in a way that has me completely unraveling?—

Lightning strikes down my spine, and I spill into her mouth, my hips jerking as a growl rips through my chest, my release barreling through me.

I black out for a few seconds, but when the haze clears, I glance down, watching as Blakely gently pulls back, delicately wiping her mouth with her fingers while working her jaw back and forth. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are swollen, her eyes watering, and I swear I fall for her a little harder right there.

She looks like a goddess on her knees, and I immediately haul her up and into my arms, carrying her to my bed.

She laughs at my urgency as I strip her bare as quickly as I possibly can, kissing every inch of available skin I can in a fury. My muscles feel relaxed and loose in a way that normally no postgame antics ever facilitate. I’m practically ravenous to return the favor.

“Careful, hero,” she teases as I kiss my way over her perfect breasts. “I'm going to think you missed me.”

“It’s been almost a week,” I say, flicking my tongue over a pert nipple before working my way down her stomach. “Can you blame me?”

She laughs softly again, something on the tip of her tongue that’s cut off by a gasp as I plunge my face between her thighs. I lick her from center to clit, flattening my tongue in the way she likes and moving it up and down over her sensitive flesh.

“ Lawson ,” she groans, and the sound of my name coming from her mouth like that makes me weak for her.

I wrap my arms around her thighs, spreading them, massaging them as I plunge my tongue inside her, thrusting in and out like I would my cock if she hadn't just delayed me for a few minutes.

I don’t take my time, instead feasting on her like a starved man, working her up in a tight, sharp frenzy that’s evident in the way her breathing hitches and her hips rise off the bed to seek more of my unrelenting mouth.

Her flavor coats my tongue in a sweet and salty slickness that has my head fucking spinning. She tastes like a dream, and I love being the source of all those little whimpers that escape her throat. Love being the reason she’s fisting the sheets as she says my name over and over again.

“Lawson, I’m...” Her voice trails off, and I smile against her warm flesh as I grip her thighs a bit harder, rocking her into my face before circling her clit with the tip of my tongue, keeping her on the edge just a little longer before I suck her into my mouth.

Her thighs clench on either side of my face as her flavor explodes on my tongue. I swallow her down, lapping up and down her center as she arches off the bed, her orgasm tearing through her before she settles back down on the mattress.

Her breathing is ragged as I kiss my way back up to her face, loving that post-orgasm glow she has as I look down at her.

“I don't have any words,” she says after I've settled on the pillow next to her, tucking her into my side where she fits just perfectly.

Exhaustion is settling over us both, and I shake my head, my lids already heavy.

“You don't need any,” I say, and I'm not sure when we both fall asleep.

A rumbling sound draws me out of the deep sleep I fell into, and I notice there's a weight missing on my arm.

I peel my lids back, my mind taking a few moments to catch up with where I'm at.

Hotel. Away game. Blakely.

The memories hit me in that order, and I stretch out my arms like the empty bed will somehow correct itself and Blakely will be sleeping next to me.

I glance around the room, wondering if I was awoken by her heading to the bathroom, but it's almost pitch black in the hotel and that deep rumbling sound is coming from the bed across from me.

My eyes finally adjust, and I notice Pax laying on his stomach, completely passed out with one arm hanging over the side of the bed as he snores loud enough to wake our entire floor.

I roll on my back, reaching for my phone that’s on the nightstand, and sigh when I see it's three a.m. I shoot Blakely a text, knowing if she's already asleep in her room with Monroe, she'll see it in the morning.

Me: You sneak out in the middle of the night? Should I be worried?

The text is half-teasing and half-truth. Logically I know why she left, but emotionally I'm all over the place about it.

Shock blazes through me as three dots appear as she types.

Blakely: I don't want to lose my job because I'm caught sneaking out of the number one draft pick’s room.

I furrow my brow, but there’s a smile shaping my lips. That's definitely a logical reason to leave me hanging in the middle of the night, not to mention my roommate’s snoring across the room. But still, something tugs at the center of my chest, a question and an answer just out of reach.

Me: Can't have that. Sleep well, damsel.

Blankly: You too, hero.

I can't stop grinning at my phone, so I swipe it closed and roll over to my stomach, tucking a pillow underneath me until I'm comfortable and hope that sleep will claim me again.

But it seems inevitable when all my thoughts revolve around the fact that I'm pretty sure I've fallen for a girl who can't have a future with me.

Because she’s the Bangor Badgers’ skate coach, and I'm one of her favorite students.