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“Fucking hell, Laney. Next time, we start with my dick inside you,” he pants out, stroking himself a few more times to emptyhis cock on my body. I want to tell him that I’m ready for next time now, but also, I don’t know if I could handle more. Every cell of my body is on fire, and I think every touch he gives me for the next twenty-four hours is going to send me tumbling over the edge.
This is now my favorite game.
12/
cutter
ThankGod Laney doesn’t talk to other guys on the team. We travel tomorrow so we didn’t have skating or breakouts this morning. I packed up early, though, and pretended we did because I wanted to drive her to campus. I probably could have just told her the truth and offered to be a nice guy, but I’m afraid she’ll take me being nice as a step too far.
It’s one thing what we do in the bedroom—or on the kitchen table apparently—but being anything but semi-cordial in front of other people seems to make her uncomfortable. It’s fine by me. I’m not really looking to get pegged as Laney’s boyfriend, but also, I sort of like spending time with her. She gets the pressure of being a college athlete, and not many people understand that. Plus, she gives me shit, the way my brothers always do. Most girls want to talk about my great game or how hard I get hit, but Laney asks questions about my workout routine and if our coach has one-on-one meetings with us ever. I know she’s looking for tips she can use or trying to make sense of the situation she’s in with playing time, but it’s refreshing not to talk about the flashy parts of my game all the time.
That’s what makes the shit Matt posted in his Hot Campus Minute social show this morning so damn bad. I figuredsomething was up when a few of Laney’s teammates stared at us when I pulled into a spot near the gym and let her out. I hopped onto my apps after she headed inside and there it was: “Tiff’s Hot New Couple Does It All Together.”
The post is mostly footage from our photo session, which I’m a little annoyed Matt took screenshots of some of the outtakes before I got to touch them up and they were published, but whatever. Matt didn’t outrightsaywe were a couple in his commentary, but he sure danced around it with lots of insinuation. I counted the times he said, “seemed awfully friendly” and “lots of long stares.” Five, for the record. He said those things five times. And yeah, we stared a lot—she was posing and I was taking photos. I stared at Matt too, but he didn’t mention that.What started as a bet less than a week ago is turning into a collegiate gossip-fest, and I know the second Laney sees it she’s going to want to murder Matt and probably toss my shit into the yard and force me to sleep in a tent. It’s basically her worst nightmare having headlines that talk about her supposed love life and not her skills. And even though Matt took the video, I’m the guy in the pictures. She’ll pin this all on me.
Maybe these shots will change her mind, though. Or at least soften her knee-jerk reaction before it hits me in the balls.
I’ve been working in the editing lab for the last two hours while I’ve been pretending to be at practice, and I think I have two winning shots for the school to use for Laney’s media piece. I’m not sure if I should show them to her or simply let her be surprised. While I dig the shot I took with the chalk in the air and her palming the ball, my favorite is the outtake I took when she wasn’t even looking at me. Her mind was elsewhere, probably on how she was going to get her starting spot back. She’s standing in the shot and looking toward the spotlight, which forms a warm, glowing profile of her face. Her eyes almost seem goldenfrom being lit up, and the determined expression that sharpens her jaw and weighs on her brow is not just intimidating, it's also the perfect representation of what I think Laney is.
Focused.
Driven.
Unstoppable.
She’s not wrong when she talks about all the funding and attention our men’s teams get. And yeah, our hockey team is ranked, and all that, and football makes the money. But Laney Price might just be the most dominant athlete Tiff University has ever had in a uniform. She knows it, too. And she’s going to put Chelsea back on the bench in no time.
“Whoa, are you going to make me look like that?”
I jerk around at the sound of my teammate Max Syme’s voice. I forgot I told him to meet me here after eight. Unfortunately, I’m not slick enough to minimize Laney’s image so he slaps my shoulder as he leans in next to me to get a better look. He takes control of the mouse and zooms in on the curve of her ass and I’m tempted to punch him. No idea why I’m instantly possessive over her, but something about the way he’s grossly going about objectifying her sort of pisses me off.
“Yeah, I’m not going to be able to make you look that good. You don’t have much to work with,” I tease, taking the mouse back and minimizing Laney’s image. I’m glad he can’t see the other shot with the chalk. I don’t feel like putting that much time into working with Max. Honestly, he has plenty of shots already, ones that the press has taken of him literally flattening our opponents on the ice. Max getsa lotof penalty time.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know if there’s room for me in the whole Caney-ship thing.”
My face bunches up at his absurd mash-up.
“I’m sorry,did you just say . . .Caney-ship?” I twist in my chair and look up at him as he pulls his phone from hispocket and shows me a meme of Laney and me, and the term CANEYSHIP. All those letters between our two names and all I get is the fucking C?
“Seriously? This shit is going to get old.” I push his phone from my view and turn my attention to my student drive so I can save my work and head out with Max to get his shots taken care of. Max knows the deal about why Laney and I are living together, and I seriously doubt anyone can tell we’ve added some benefits to the roommate part in the last couple of days. Other than the shit Matt puts out on social, we’re rarely seen together.
“I don’t know, man. I think hooking up with Laney Price sounds pretty fucking amazing. Can you imagine those legs wrapped around?—”
“You ready?” I thrust my camera bag into his chest before he has a chance to finish that fantasy out loud. Not my most subtle move.
“Dude, maybeyoucan imagine that.” He snickers as he walks behind me through the long corridor that leads to the dining hall and the back half of campus.
“Sorry, brother. I’ve got nothing for you there, I’m afraid,” I say over my shoulder. I’d feel smug about the fact that I’m lying except for the fact that something about Max talking about Laney’s body sparks some possessive caveman ego crap deep inside my chest. I’m not sure what I’m angrier about—what he said or the fact that I give a shit what he said.
Instead of giving Max a chance to grill me more and pick apart my façade, I ask him what he thinks about a few photo ideas I’ve been kicking around. Rather than getting more images of him on the ice, I decided to try something a little different and take some shots in the Tiff Hall of Fame room by the football stadium. They have an actual knight helmet on display that I got permission for us to use, and I talk Max into putting it on in frontof the hockey trophy case that shows our years’ of awards. It takes us a few minutes to get the glass opened and slid out of the way to avoid reflection, then we both spend a little time checking out the team photos from my brothers’ freshman year, along with the last big title run twenty years ago when my uncle played here. He was a goalie. Now he mans shipping equipment outside Boston, moving freight from boats to rail and trucks. I don’t get to see him much, and it’s hard to feel upbeat about bonding when the family get together is your own father’s funeral.
“Look at that beard, Cutter,” Max says, poking a finger at my uncle’s chin. He still sports the same thick-ass beard today. “Skipped a generation, huh?”
“What do you mean?” I run my hand over my scruff and laugh. He’s not wrong—rather than growing a beard, it’s more like my beard grows a face. Patchy is only the start of it. But my two-day-old shave seems to be a sweet spot, at least that’s what Laney said last night.
Laney. I’m thinking about her again.
“Okay, so maybe try this on and see how heavy it feels first.” I hand Max the helmet and tuck Laney’s opinion on facial hair back into thenon-essentialfile in my brain. Max works the mask up and down a few times to ease the hinges after years of sitting in a display case untouched. He gives me a thumbs up after he flips the mask back down for the final time.
