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“You shouldn’t. You’re literally the number one female hockey player in the world.”
“Okay, that’s an overstatement.”
“Top three,” she amends. “Globally.”
“Top ten. Nationally.”
“All right, top five globally,” she says with an airy wave. “You’re telling me this asshole isn’t going to choose one of the best players for his team?”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Then how does it work?”
I mull it over because it’s hard to explain. The selection process is almost deliberately vague.
“The coaches don’t select players based only on objective criteria. They look at past performances in any national events, which I don’t have. They look at who they think would work well together as a team. Sometimes they might hold tryouts, but your previous performance is way more relevant than a bunch of drills.” I try to sum it up in simpler terms. “Essentially, any time I step out onto the ice, I’m trying out for the national team.”
And not making a good impression, apparently. At least according to Brad Fairlee.
I make a frustrated noise. “Whatever. I can’t talk about this anymore.”
Sliding off the couch, I fling myself onto the soft shag carpet, where I stretch out on my back and groan loudly.
“Uh-oh,” Mya sighs.
I open my eyes to find her peering down at me. Her expression is a mixture of amusement and concern.
“What?” I grumble.
“You need to get laid.”
“No, I don’t. I’m fine.”
“You are not. I’ve been back for an hour, and I was already seeing the signs before you went full carpet. With that said, lying on the carpet is always the last straw.”
“Stop. I do not lie on the carpet that often.”
“You totally do. This happens every time you max out your stress levels or get too overwhelmed. Then after carpet time, you get super crabby and start snapping at me for trivial shit like drinking from your monogrammed water bottle. And then Case comes over and bangs you, and you go back to being sweet little Gigi.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been sweet.”
“Fine, I’ll concede that. But don’t even try to argue the rest. You have a very predictable horniness cycle. And the second you get laid, suddenly you’re less crabby and our carpet is spared.”
“I don’t like you.”
“When was the last time you had a release?”
I open my mouth triumphantly—
“With a human male and not your hand,” she interrupts before I can speak.
I sigh in defeat. “Not since Case.”
“So, what, end of May? As in almost four months ago?”
“Four months is not a long time to go without sex,” I protest.
“Not for most people. But for stressed-out stress cases like you? It’s an eternity.”
I refuse to give her the satisfaction, but…she’s not wrong. Regular sex is one of the reasons I prefer relationships. People always brag about how easy it is to go out and find a one-night stand. But who truly wants to have that every night? A perpetual string of one nights or regular sex with one guy I love? I’ll pick the latter every time.
“Should we sign you up for a dating app?”
I sit and lean against the couch. “No. I hate those things. And you know I hate casual sex.”
“Well, it’s either that or get back with Case.” She leans forward and refills her glass. “Is that an option?”
“It is not.”
Speaking of Case, he calls when I’m getting ready to shower later. I want to wash my hair for real after half-assing it in the locker room earlier.
My fingers hover over the “accept” button. I almost don’t answer, but habit takes over.
That, and I can’t deny I miss the sound of his voice sometimes.
“How’d the game go?” Case asks.
Ducking out of my private bath, I fall onto the edge of my bed and into old patterns of venting to Case. “It was brutal. We need to watch out for Providence this season.”
“You sore?”
“Sore and a bit bruised, but nothing a good ice bath tomorrow can’t fix.”
“Or a warm bath now.” His voice, soft and slow like molasses, drifts into my ear. “I could come over and join you if you want company.”
I’m…tempted.
A shiver dances through me at the thought of being naked with Case, pressed up against his body while he strokes my hair and kisses my neck.
Mya’s right. I’m so hard up right now.
Which is why I hurry to end the call. “No,” I say lightly, “I’m all good. Just gonna shower and then go to bed.”
“I’m here, G. You know that, right? I’m always going to be here.”
But he wasn’t there. Not when it mattered.
So how am I supposed to believe he’s here now?
Ugh, I don’t have the mental bandwidth for this right now. I take a shower, then brush and blow-dry my hair before crawling into bed. Lying there, though, sleep eludes me. I’m antsy and—fine, maybe in need of release. So when 1:00 a.m. rolls around and I’m still wide awake, I bite my lip and slide my hand between my legs.
