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He thrusts upward, nuzzling my neck before he breathes a warning close to my ear.
“I’m coming.”
I moan in response and he lets himself go. With a strangled sound, he shakes with release, lodged deep inside me. His grip tightens, my breasts crushed beneath his forearm.
Then he brushes his lips over the side of my throat and whispers, “You’re a goddamn dream.”
While I desperately try to convince myself that I’m not in love with him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
RYDER
National Cotton Candy Day
COLSON AND I ARE FRIENDS NOW. THE KIND OF FRIENDS WHO CHILL outside of the rink and hang out at each other’s houses. Sometimes he even crashes here if the guys are partying too hard and he’s too drunk to walk home. Will’s always here too, but that at least makes sense. He and Beckett are joined at the hip. The good thing about Will is, he doesn’t incite any feelings of guilt, so it’s a lot easier to have him around.
Colson, on the other hand… I’ve always been skilled at burying my emotions, but it’s becoming a challenge to ignore the guilt. I’m starting to really like the guy. But Gigi doesn’t want him to know about us yet, so I need to follow her lead on this. He’s her ex, not mine.
They’re both over right now, Will sprawled on the couch next to Beckett, while Colson sits next to me.
Shane is in the armchair texting a chick who for once isn’t a cheerleader. He met her in Hastings and brought her over the other day. I think she said she was a prelaw student. They went to a party last night, where apparently her ex showed up drunk and sloppy and got in Shane’s face. Now she’s apologizing profusely to Shane via text.
“There’s always that one obnoxiously wasted guy,” Will says, rolling his eyes. “What’s up with that?”
“It’s the age-old rule of the party,” Beckett explains. “Every party has a role that must be fulfilled. Sloppy Guy is one of them.”
“Dude, that is so true.” Case chuckles, then leans forward to grab his beer. He pauses for a moment, then laughs again. “Okay, here’s one. You show up at a party and you’re only allowed to hang out with one of these people. For the entire night, no breaks. Who do you pick—Crying Mascara-Streak Bathroom Girl or Annoying Acoustic Guitar Guy?”
Beckett groans. “That’s pure torture either way, mate.”
Shane sets down his phone and thinks it over. Then he fires a series of questions at Colson. “Do I get to fuck the bathroom girl?”
“No.”
“Can I make song requests?”
“No.”
“What’s she crying about?”
“Sobbing too incoherently for you to figure it out.”
“Can I do drugs?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“One beer.”
Shane shrugs. “Acoustic Guitar Guy.”
Will, who’s in charge of the remote, stumbles upon that reality show channel Gigi is obsessed with. His eyes light up.
“Yo. Plate Pleasers. I love this show.”
“Are you kidding?” Colson says. “This show is fucking nuts. Nothing good can come out of giving children this much power.”
“That’s what I always say,” Beckett chimes in. “There’s only one way this ends.”
Shane eyes them both. “Please, finish that thought. What kind of apocalyptic future are you envisioning because a reality show allows children to judge food dishes?”
Colson looks at Beckett. “He doesn’t get it.”
Beckett nods.
“All right. I gotta go to class.” I slap Colson’s shoulder as I get up, then nod at the other guys. “See you later.”
My Entrepreneurial Studies class is the only late one this semester. It annoyed me at first that I had to drive all the way back to campus for five o’clock classes three days a week, but the last few times, I met up with Gigi after class let out, and now it’s become a routine. Sometimes we grab a late dinner. Tonight, she says she wants a hot tub and steam. She tweaked her shoulder during her game on Saturday, and I guess it’s still bothering her.
After my lecture, I drive to the performance center, walking up just as Austin Pope is leaving. The kid’s been putting in extra training now that the World Juniors is coming up.
“Hey, captain,” he says, but his head is down, and he sounds distracted.
“Hey. How’s the training going? Ready for the big game?”
“Not really.” His tone is lined with exhaustion.
I frown. “What’s going on, Pope?”
“Nothing.” He continues to avert his eyes. “Just nervous, I guess.”
I get that. Pope is usually rock-solid before games, but the stakes are much higher here.
“It’s scary,” I admit. “Knowing the whole world is watching you. Literally the entire world.”
He hesitates for a moment, then says, “Plus there’s this extra pressure.”
My frown deepens. “What do you mean?”
“Just all these profile pieces about me being gay and how I’m the first openly gay player to participate in the World Juniors. Stuff like that. Just makes me feel… I don’t know. Like it’s taking away from my talent, I guess. My skill as a player. Focusing on my sexuality when it makes zero difference for this game.”
