Him (Him #1)(14)

My knees are on the bed now, and she’s scooting back, shucking off her shirt. My own shirt hits the floor before I lower myself over her body, taking care to hold most of my weight off of her. Except for my hips. Those sink decadently onto hers, and my dick wakes up and says, lookee what we have here.

Holly grabs my head and pulls me down for a kiss. I taste lime and tequila and willing, happy girl. “Mmm,” she moans. “I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

So was I, it’s just that I didn’t know it. My eyes slam shut and I sink down into her mouth and this beautiful place of forgetfulness. There’s no game and no goal just before the buzzer. There’s no disappointment. There’s only a sexy girl beneath me and some more shots to drink.

And a knock on the door.

“Fuck,” Holly and I grunt in unison.

“Canning!” a voice calls from the hallway.

Wes’s voice. The sound of it pulls me out of the moment.

“Do you have to?” Holly pants.

“I kind of do,” I whisper. “But only for a minute. I swear.”

“Fine,” she huffs, pushing on my chest. “But I’m pouring more tequila.”

“You are awesome,” I insist, reaching down to the floor for her shirt. I ignore mine in the interest of time. The second she’s covered, I cross the room and open the door.

“Hey,” I greet Wes.

I expect him to launch into a “tough luck” spiel. Wes is competitive as f*ck but he’d never kick me when I was down. Oddly, though, he stays silent, blinking at me from the hallway. “Hey,” he echoes after a long pause. “I just…”

No more words are forthcoming. He takes in my half-dressed look, and the sight of my f*ck buddy pouring tequila.

“That’s Holly,” I say quietly. “Holly, this is an old friend, Ryan Wesley.”

“Shot?” she offers from across the room. She’s flushed, and her hair is mussed.

I’m probably in the same state. But Holly doesn’t seem embarrassed, so I don’t worry. “Wes, you coming in?”

“No,” he says quickly, and the word sounds like a chip of stone falling onto a hard surface. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry we’re not facing off tomorrow.” He shoves his hands in his pockets in a rare display of humility. “Won’t be the same now.” The corners of his mouth turn up, but the smile doesn’t make it to his eyes.

“I know.” My voice is full of all the disappointment I’d been hoping to escape tonight. “Not like camp.”

“Loved that place,” Wes says, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.

“I still coach there, you know.” I’d meant to end this conversation already, so I have no idea why I add, “It isn’t the same without you.” It’s true, but this is already the most emotionally loaded day of my life, and I really don’t need more to think about.

“I’m going to head out,” Wes says, jerking a thumb toward the elevators. “You, ah, take care of yourself if I don’t see you tomorrow.” He takes a step backward.

That’s the moment when I really don’t know what to do. My team will head back to the west coast in the morning. We won’t stay for the final. I’m not sure Wes and I have more to say to each other right now. But is this really it? I feel a strong urge to add something—to delay his departure.

Except I’m beat and confused and so f*cking spent. And he’s already turning away from me.

“Later,” I say gruffly.

He looks over his shoulder to raise one hand in a wave.

I stand there like an idiot a moment longer, and he turns the corner toward the elevator banks.

“Jamie,” Holly says softly. “Here’s your drink.”

Reluctantly, I shut the door. I cross the room, take the glass from her and pound it.

She slips the empty tumbler from my hand. “Now where were we?”

If I only knew.





7





Wes





“You know we just won the national title, right?” Cassel says for the hundredth time in the past hour. He wears the goofy, king-of-the-world grin he’s been sporting all night. Even before the four vodka shots he threw back.

“Yeah, I know.” My tone is absent as I sweep my gaze over the crowded, overheated bar we’d chosen as celebration headquarters. The drinks at the hotel bar are ridiculously overpriced, so we decided to venture somewhere else tonight. And according to Donovan’s Yelp search, this tiny dive bar has half-price drinks on Sunday nights and apparently they don’t taste like piss.

I don’t give a shit how the alcohol tastes, though. I’m only interested in the effects of it. I want to get drunk. I want to get shit-faced out of my mind so I don’t have to think about what a total f*cking idiot I am.

Cassel’s voice drags me out of my bleak thoughts. “Then quit sulking like a bitch,” he orders. “We’re national champions, man. We crushed Yale tonight. We f*cking shut them out.”

We did. The final score had been 2-0, Northern Mass. We’d wiped the ice with our opponents, and I should be happy about that. No, I should be goddamn ecstatic. It’s what we trained all year for, yet instead of savoring the win, I’m too busy bumming out about the fact that Canning has a girlfriend.