He looks unimpressed. “It could affect the game if they aren’t the right temperature.”
“Um, my makeup fridge gets cold, thank you very much,” Maxie says.
Nate smiles wanly at me. “How was practice? Ready for your game tomorrow?”
“It was, you know, fine. They’re very excited about the surprise bag.”
“Genius idea.” My uncles pat me on the back.
My dad frowns. “Now, don’t be too down on yourself if you all don’t win. Sometimes good teams lose games—it doesn’t mean the Rhode Islanders are suddenly playoff contenders.”
“Boo!” Granny Murray waves the band saw at him threateningly. “You’re gonna win, Ellie. You got those guys on their knees eating—”
“Mom,” Trina begs, “can you help me in the kitchen?”
I busy myself with loading my plate up with my favorites: stocking-stuffer mushrooms, frosty flatbreads, Santa sliders.
It would be easier to obey this one simple rule of, like, not thinking about your players in a sexually gratifying way if Fletcher hadn’t left me hanging on a knife’s edge.
I need to get it together. We have a game tomorrow—a game Dana says we have to win.
It’slate by the time the last of my huge family leaves.
“Fine!” Granny Murray screams at my dad. “I will go buy a freezer even though this team can’t afford it because you all clearly don’t care about Ellie. You’re lucky I won all that money on the Orcas game.” The front door slams.
I pull off my shirt and my bra and flop down on my bed in my shared bedroom, breathing a sigh of relief now that the underwire is on the floor. I’m in my chemise and panties.
If Granny Murray is out, I have like half an hour. That’s enough time.
I’m feeling a little dizzy—for someone who’s supposed to convince twenty-five grown men to play their hearts out and win against a top-ranked team in our conference, I really overdid it on the wine.
I roll over on the bed, and a giant candy cane digs into my hip. I clamp down a giggle as I wonder:Is Fletcher that hard?
No. We will not go there, brain.
I roll back over on my back. It doesn’t help, because all I can think about is him crawling on the bed to straddle me, pushing me back into the pillows and the Christmas-themed comforter.
My fingers aren’t enough. The candy cane seems like a stupidly good idea. It’s hard and thick in my pussy as I rub it in my swollen cunt. Feels so good. My hips jerk as I think about Fletcher there, spreading me, asking me if I think I can take his cock.
“No, no, no,” I try to tell myself. Think about literally anyone else—think about Chris Evans or Henry Cavill—but all I can think about is Fletcher, the scar on his pec, the huge ass andmeaty thighs, the rough hands, the iron grip of his fingers as they curl in my pussy.
I jump as my phone buzzes.
Fletcher:I know you’re up there thinking about me in your cunt.
Ellie:Go practice your puck handling.
Fletcher:I’d rather see you stick handle.
Ellie:I’m reviewing game tape, not doing… that.
Fletcher:You’re so full of it.
Fletcher:I know what you’re doing.
Fletcher:Close your eyes. I want to watch you touch yourself.
Wait, watch me?
