Breakaway (Beyond the Play, #2)(4)
I swallow down the emotion threatening to show on my face. It’s one thing to know you’re talented and another to hear it put so plainly. Captain. I’ve been trying to make my case, of course, but I didn’t really think it would happen this year. When last year’s group of seniors graduated, it really weakened the team, but there are still a few talented upperclassmen.
“But I’m just a junior,” I say. “What about one of the seniors? Brandon or Mickey? Brandon’s the center.”
He shakes his head. “If it’s going to be anyone, it’ll be you. But you need to earn it. Do you understand? No more fighting. Keep your head down and focus on your game.”
I nod. “Got it.”
Anything for that ‘C’ on my sweater. James was the de facto captain of the football team last year, and now he’s leading the offense for the Philadelphia Eagles. It’s not a direct comparison, considering how different football and hockey are, but two seasons as captain—hopefully of a Frozen Four finalist team—will help build my case for the NHL and the nice rookie deal I’m hoping to scoop up.
“I have an idea that I think will help,” he says. “You know the rink in town?”
It takes me a moment, but then I picture it in my mind. Moorbridge Skating Center. It’s downtown, near the arcade. James and I went there last year with his girlfriend, Bex—now his fiancée—to teach her how to skate. “Yeah.”
“The owner, Nikki Rodriguez, is looking for help. They have skating lessons, that sort of thing.”
My excitement sours; I can see where this is going. Everything costs something when it comes to Coach Ryder. “And?”
“And I think you’d be a perfect volunteer. You’ll go, starting on Wednesday, to help with the lessons. There’s a junior ice sports class that meets every week.”
I bite back the urge to tell him that honestly, getting laid would probably be a better route to stress relief. “To help… the kids?”
“You were their age once, finding your passion for skating and hockey. Help teach them how to unlock that. I think it’ll help you find some patience.” He claps my shoulder. “Which you’ll need if you’re going to be my captain.”
“I can’t,” I say. “I don’t even—”
“Son, listen.” He leans back against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze is sympathetic, but that does nothing to undercut the intensity in them. “Not to use the obvious metaphor, but the ice? It’s thin. Either you do this and get your head on straight, or the next time you lose your temper, however justified, you’ll leave me no choice but to bench you.”
3
PENNY
I work the toy even deeper, my toes curling against the sheets as my knees fall open. I let out a little gasp as it hits the right angle. It might not be a warm cock, but it’s at least as thick, making it easier to coax along my fantasy. I drag it in and out, turning my head into my pillow as my mind fills with the right images. Strong, tattooed arms hooking my legs around his trim waist. Biting my neck before he turns me over, spanking my ass as he spreads my legs. His rough voice in my ear, whispering about how good I’m being, smelling like —
No. Not that. Anything but that.
I shake my head as the fantasy falters. I arch my back, searching for enough sensation to keep it going, but it’s useless. My eyes fly open, the fantasy fleeing as images—the bad kind—flood my mind. I dig down against my lip, panting. Half an hour spent working myself up, only to hit a wall again. I scrub my hand over my face.
Three times in a row now. I’ve worked hard for years to keep Preston—and any future Prestons—out of my life, but lately, he’s found a way into my fantasies. My happy place. There are two things he’s never been able to touch, my fantasies and the stories I scribble into my notebooks, but after this? It’s safe to say that the former just broke.
I used to be able to whip up a good fantasy scenario without a problem. Some girls don’t like to masturbate, but I’ve enjoyed it ever since I realized how good I could make myself feel. A couple minutes thinking about Matt Barzal or Tyler Seguin, or if I was in more of a supernatural mood, a sexy werewolf or orc, and I’d be ready to go. Lately? I get as far as my fantasy guy thrusting inside me, and no matter what I imagine, whether it be the position, the setting, or the specific type of boning we’re doing, my orgasm dissolves like a rock hitting the center of a lake, never to be recovered. The spicy romance novels haven’t helped. Neither have the hockey highlights. Not even revisiting the sexiest parts of my half-written novel has led anywhere. Something reminds me of that February night, of him, and a hint of panic poisons it all.
As I press my hand to my chest, trying to ease my racing heart, I swallow down that spoonful of poison, willing it to neutralize. I’ve worked with Dr. Faber for years on how to pull myself back from the edge before I spiral. It’s okay to be frustrated. I don’t have to let it control me.
Except three times now, it has.
Just like that, my arousal is gone completely, replaced by a dangerous, brief flicker of unease that makes my stomach roll. I swallow as I try to relax my tight shoulders. I stare down at the dildo in my hand and fight a wave of revulsion. “Fuck!”