But I don’t think that’s the only reason Preston is going above and beyond.
Because every time he scores, he stares at me. I repay him with a wink, a wave, or a thumbs-up. Sometimes smiling or nodding approvingly, which appears to bemuse him, judging by the frowns.
The Vipers end up crushing it, which is expected, I suppose.
I leave with the crowd, but I don’t go home. Instead, I wait in an empty spot by the back entrance to the arena and text him.
Me
Meet me where I parked yesterday.
Preston
I won’t be doing that.
Come on. I have something to give you.
I expect him to fight me, but he just sends a GIF in which a cartoon character is sighing dramatically and saying, “Fiiiine.”
A couple of minutes later, he appears dressed in jeans, his Vipers jacket, and an expensive-looking off-white scarf, his damp hair falling across his forehead and framing his face.
Fuck, he looks so much like walking porn, I desperately want to sink my teeth into him.
Under the dim light, I can still see the faded purple bruise around his right eye.
I noticed it yesterday when we met here for our late-night practice.
He was skating around and I went to him and touched it as an inexplicable type of fire blossomed within me.
“Who did this to you?” I asked, crowding him against the boards.
“Got into a fight.” He shoved me away. “And I told you not to fucking touch me.”
“What type of fight?”
“Just a fight.”
“Didn’t I say your face is off-limits?”
He swallowed thickly, looking at me with that furrowed brow, then he changed the subject and demanded we go play.
We did that, but then as soon as we got to the locker room, I bent him over the bench, spanked him, then fingered him as I jerked him off.
He came in seconds, and that made me come soon after, humping his ass that’s so full of my marks, it’s a masterpiece.
Now, as I look at the bruise on his face, I still wonder how he got it. Was it really a fight?
I step out from behind the wall, intending on cornering him, but before I can do that, a girl jogs toward him like a fucking ghost.
Even Preston takes a step back, and he flinches the tiniest bit before he schools his expression.
I narrow my eyes, hiding back where I came from.
“Bonsoir, Pres,” she says in French.
“Bonsoir,” he replies, his eyes meeting mine, and he pauses before he focuses back on what the girl is saying in French.
I understand almost nothing, but I can see the excitement in her eyes and the way she’s subtly flirting with him.
