My brain goes offline.
It’s purple. Sleek. The kind of thing you’d seeadvertised on Instagram with words like “whisper quiet” and “ten settings.” She must have left it out by accident, not expecting company, not expecting me to show up at her door like a lovesick idiot and end up in her bathroom.
I should look away. I should dry my hands, walk out, and pretend I never saw it.
I don’t look away.
My mind is already filling in the blanks. Winnie, alone in bed, sliding that toy between her thighs. Her head tipped back against the pillow, her lips parted, breath coming faster. Those blue eyes fluttering closed as she works herself higher, chasing the release, soft sounds escaping her throat—
My dick hardens so fast I get lightheaded.
I grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white, and force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Think about hockey. Think about ice. Think about literally anything except Winnie spread out on that king-sized bed, legs open, that purple toy buzzing against her—
Fuck.
I’m fully hard now, straining against my sweatpants in a way that’s going to be impossible to hide. I stare at my reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, dark eyes, the look of a man who’s completely lost control of his body.
Get it together.
I turn on the cold water and splash my face. Once. Twice. Three times. I think about the defensive scheme for tomorrow’s game. I think about the Bruins’ power play. I think about Coach Reynolds yelling at us during practice.
It helps. Barely.
The vibrator is still sitting there, mocking me.
Does she use it every night? Does she think about anyone when she does? Does she ever think about—
No. Stop. Don’t go there.
I dry my face with the towel, adjust myself as discreetly as possible, and take one more deep breath. I can do this. I can walk out there, sit on her bed, and act like I didn’t just discover something that’s going to haunt me for the rest of my natural life.
I’m a professional athlete. I have discipline. I have control.
I open the bathroom door.
Winnie glances over at me before she turns back to the TV, oblivious.
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed—carefully, very carefully—and fix my eyes on the screen without truly seeing anything.
Shiplap. They’re talking about shiplap. I will think about shiplap. I will think about nothing except shiplap for the rest of the night.
But the image is seared into my brain now. The purple toy. The rumpled hotel bed. Winnie’s hand sliding down her stomach, disappearing between her legs—
I grab a throw pillow and put it in my lap.
“Cold?” she asks.
“Something like that.”
We watch another episode of the renovation show. She explains why the kitchen layout is inefficient and which design choices will age poorly. Ifinish the fries she left behind. Neither of us mentions that it’s getting late or that we both have early mornings.
Somewhere around the second episode, she starts to fade. Her blinks grow longer, and her commentary becomes quieter. She tips sideways until her head rests on the pillow, eyes half-closed, still facing the TV.
“Win.”
“Mm.”
“You’re falling asleep.”
