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Then it comes. The text I am waiting for. Though it isn’t from Dax; it’s Sunny again.
Hate to drop this on you at the last minute but any chance you can sub for me tonight? I can’t believe I’m saying this but I have a date. Totally fine if you can’t.
I don’t even ask her about the guy, or girl for that matter. My libido’s too riled up to think of anything but that now I am definitely going to see Dax tonight, which leads me to wonder if we’ll pick up where we left off—after the game, of course.
He texts not long after Sunny.
Heard you’re filling in tonight. Been thinking about you all day. Got a meeting at the bank, but I’ll meet you at the game. Can’t wait to see you.
I melt into a puddle of goo on the floor.
After I re-form, I manage to finish my workday with minimal sex fantasies and get myself to the bus stop to make it to the game. The bus, however, has not prioritized my sex life. It comes late, so I am late, only making it onto the ice with seconds to spare. There’s not enough time to talk to Dax alone and confirm the things I would like to confirm: like the odds I’ll be seeing his penis later.
I’m horny. Like, teenage-boy horny. It’s just that Dax looks so good. He’s wearing the same thing he always wears, but the black sweatpants are maybe sitting a little lower than normal. And every time he reaches up for a high five, I can see that little dip below his hip bone, and it’s driving me feral.
Dax loves to throw the high fives, and I have to physically restrain myself from sliding up to him and dragging my tongue along that thin strip of skin and biting. Since when am I a biter? If I had ever attempted to bite Stuart, he would have sent me the contact info for his therapist, followed by articles about uncovering my childhood traumas.
Uh, gross.I don’t want to think about Stuart at all right now.
Not while I have sweatpanted Dax in my line of sight. Crouching. And stretching. And exposing just the tiniest trail of belly hair just below his navel.
I have that song in my head. That clichéd one with no words that everyone knows means sex. It’s playing over and over like a porno soundtrack. Dax bends down to assess his shot. Bow- chicka-wow-wow. Dax leans over to sweep the ice. Bow-chicka-wow-wow. Dax stands there doing absolutely nothing but suddenly looks up. Even though there is a good hundred feet of ice between us, my insides burn like they’re on fire. Bow chic—
“Gemma…Gemma!”
I think it takes Dougie three tries to get my attention. And he’s either a lot more perceptive than I’ve ever given him credit for, or the expression on my face is so thirsty that half this arena can figure out there’s an elaborate sex fantasy going on in my head.
“Need your eyes over here.” He winks.
Right. The game.
I slide over to him for “thinking time,” the thirty-eight minutes allotted each game for strategizing your next shot. Normally Dougie uses the time to make jokes or plan which appetizers he’s going to order after we finish, but tonight, he wants my advice.
“What do you think there?” He points his broom at the other end of the sheet. Our opponents have a rock in the ring, but ours is farther back and closer to the button. “Set a guard? Or see if I can sneak one in behind?”
I’m not that skilled at curling on a good day. Layer on the fact that my head isn’t even remotely in this game, and I’m basically useless. To illustrate that fact, just as Dougie asks his question, Dax slides past me to confer with Dougie, and his fingers graze my hip bone. In the grand scheme of Dax and Gemma touches, it’s nothing. Yet, the brush of his fingers sends tiny tendrils of want through my bloodstream, where they spread and settle into the farthest crevices of my body until I’m completely consumed.
“You ready?” The gravelly tone of Dax’s voice pulls me out of my sex trance. I almost shout back ahell yesuntil I realize that Dougie is crouching in the hack, ready to throw his rock, and Dax’s question is if I’m okay to sweep.
“I’m good,” I tell him while simultaneously trying to force any non-curling thoughts from my head.
Dougie slides into a lunge, letting go of his stone with a delicate turn of his wrist. The rock glides toward us. Dax bends over, his forearms taut, ready to sweep.
My defenses hold for exactly fourteen seconds.
The first dirty little thought creeps back in as I grasp my broom with an assured and confident grip. My hand-job grip. Then the back-and-forth of the broom on the ice becomes rhythmic. A quick, firm stroke that has me thinking of other things I’d like to stroke, which then leads to wondering what exactly I will find when I finally get to take off Dax’s pants.
I have to close my eyes so that I’m not tempted to look at the curled tendril of dark hair that falls across Dax’s forehead as he sweeps. Or check out the curve of his sweatpants below his beltline, which bulges every time he leans on his broom and his pants pull taut. Or think about how good he smells when he’s a little sweaty. Like right now, as he’s working the broom, biting his bottom lip in concentration as the muscles in his back contract and flex.
Oh fuck. Now I’m picturing it.
Dax naked.
Fingers, lips, and tongues. Caressing, stroking, licking, and biting. My eyes fly open in an attempt to halt the steamy narrative in my head, and I search the arena for something else to look at. Something safe that won’t have me thinking about dicks, or Dax, or sex. I settle on a game happening two sheets away. An elderly man with a beer belly is stretching the limits of his wine-colored lululemon shirt as he dips into an impressively agile lunge. Yes. He’s safe.
Or maybe not.
“Hurry hard,” yells Red Spandex. He’s talking to his sweepers, but the chant becomes my mantra.
