The Good Luck Charm(55)
I let him tip my head back, our lips meeting with gentle penance. I don’t want soft and slow, though. Tender and sweet isn’t going to cut it tonight.
I’m aggressive and demanding, and Ethan bends to my whim, meeting my fervor with his own. Postwin makeup sex ends up being the most intense we’ve ever had. He pushes my body’s limit, taking satisfaction in the scratches and bite marks I leave behind in a bid to contain my screams as he coaxes orgasm after orgasm out of me, until I have to beg him to stop.
The next morning I’m mortified by the state of his back and chest, marked by my nails and a number of hickeys. Ethan, on the other hand, seems to wear them like a badge of honor, strutting around shirtless until it’s time to take me to the airport.
And the hangover. Dear God. Liquid cocaine shots are the worst.
I sleep the entire flight home. I pick up Merk from my sister’s on the way to my house, take both dogs for a quick walk, and make the short drive home. I find fresh flowers in the front entryway from Ethan and my fridge stocked with premade meals he had delivered in my absence, something either Carmen or Jeannie had a hand in, I’m sure. I’m too hungover to enjoy any of the food, so I go straight to bed.
Monday morning I’m still hungover, and it’s punctuated by a killer headache and some unfortunate stomach issues. It’s the first time I’ve ever called in sick to work, and I feel horribly guilty, but there’s no way I’d be functional. I’m exhausted and jet-lagged, but I try to study. I end up falling asleep on my textbook.
Tuesday evening, I’m staring at a midterm paper with questions on it that I can’t answer.
I have to guess at half of the multiple-choice questions and do the same with a good chunk of the short answers, as well. By the end of the eighty-minute class, I’m at risk of tears, out of time, and unable to answer the remaining questions with anything but wild guesses.
I pack my bag and hand in my paper, angry at myself for making such careless choices over the weekend. As much as I love seeing Ethan’s career on the rise, I dislike immensely that I seem to be getting further from my goal instead of closer. I don’t know how to balance this, and it’s starting to become a real problem. One I don’t quite know how to address with him.
I wake up to the sound of my phone ringing. I’ve fallen asleep in front of the muted TV, having put the game on for background noise while I worked on an assignment due later in the week, determined to stay ahead rather than fall behind. Again. An infomercial for high-absorbency sheets flashes on the screen, so it must be pretty late.
“Hey.” My voice is raspy with sleep.
“I’m sorry. I forgot the time difference. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Ethan is slurring and difficult to hear.
I rub my eyes. “Where are you?”
“In my room. D’you see the game t’night?”
“You scored a goal in the second period.” I move the papers from my lap, which haven’t fared well, since it appears I tried to snuggle with them.
“D’you see the assist in the third?”
“I might’ve fallen asleep. I recorded it, though, so I can watch it later. Did you do a little celebrating?” I try not to think about all the bunnies hanging around after the games, or women like Selene who know exactly how proficient Ethan is in the bedroom. I looked up the puck bunny wannabe once I got home—she’s been in more than a few magazines.
“Just a few beers with the guys. I wish you were here. Home in five days, though. Then I get you back in my bed. I miss you.”
He’s a little scattered. Still amped up from the win and the alcohol, I’m guessing. I want to ask about the bunnies, but I bite my tongue, aware it will only make me look insecure and dampen his good mood. The bunny stuff never bothered me when we were younger. But then, there weren’t any Selenes back then, either. It doesn’t matter that he’s always asking me to come to his games, at home and out of town, or the constant little gifts that show up at my door in his absence. I still can’t shake the worry. “I miss you, too.”
“You have a rough day, baby? You sound a little down. Oh, shit—you had the midterm, didn’t you? You killed it, right?”
“I think it went well, considering.” My still-hungover state and my complete lack of preparation being the parts to consider. I can’t tell him the truth, not when he’s riding this high.
He’s not responsible for my inability to say no to him, or my poor study habits. When he’s home, I’ll set some boundaries for him and myself.
“You’ve got this. I should probably let you sleep, yeah? You’ve gotta work in the morning and I need to do something about my hard-on.”
I bark out a laugh. “Nice, Ethan.”
“Unless you wanna help me out.”
“Kind of hard to do from two time zones away.” It’s a joke, but there’s a tightness in my throat that has everything to do with having met his former swimsuit model fling this past weekend.
His voice goes low. “You could talk me through it, be my cheerleader.”
“You and I both know I never would’ve made the squad.”
“My personal cheerleader. No fucking way would I have wanted you bouncing around in one of those little skirts in front of anyone but me.”
“The sundresses you liked so much back then didn’t cover much more than those cheer skirts.”