Page 20 of Not My Coach

I’ve barely been able to stop thinking about it. Even when I do, the soreness in my core and the tenderness of my rear end remind me.

Last night, when I was lying in bed, I tried to reach that high that he had taken me to with my favorite toy, but I couldn’t hit it, and it frustrated me more than anything ever had. I brought myself to orgasm twice, but it wasn’t the same as the way Nate had made me feel. It’d felt like he was filling my entire body when he fucked me. The pleasure hadn’t been isolated to one part of my body; it’d lit every single part on fire.

Will I ever be able to find that euphoria again?

Dear God, Gracie was right; I should have gotten his number. I had just felt so overwhelmed and overstimulated in the best of ways that I didn’t want to ruin the night by asking him to make our night mean more than what it was. It wouldn’t have been a one-night stand if I had taken his contact info with the intention of doing it all over again.

I throw on a pair of leggings and a University T-shirt right as my phone chimes again. I don’t have to check it to know that it’s a text from my mom, letting me know that they are waiting for me. They know that I won’t be down for a few minutes because I am notoriously late.

Rushing into the bathroom, I run a brush through my hair, slap some foundation and blush on, swipe some mascara on my lashes, and grab one of my favorite lip glosses. My hair is wavy and kind of flat, so I grab a clip and pin half of it up just to add a little something extra to it.

Grabbing my purse, phone, and keys, I slide my tennis shoes on and rush out of the door, locking the house behind me.

“Sorry,” I apologize as I slide into the backseat of my parents’ SUV, although it’s just a customary tradition at this point.

“No problem, peanut,” my mom says as I close the door behind me. “We were thinking of trying this Italian place we’ve never been to—Donnatello’s.”

My stomach flutters, and my cheeks flush. “That sounds delicious.”

There’s no way that Nate will be there again, right?

My parents fill the silence the entire drive to the restaurant with a conversation about what they want to plant in their flower beds with this spring, and I think it’s the cutest thing, hearing them discuss something so seemingly mundane.

When we get inside and are seated, I can’t help but stare down every man in a three-piece suit, trying to see if it’s Nate, but unfortunately, he never shows. It was a hell of a long shot to hope that he would, but I’ve never been one to shy away from rejection or heartbreak, even from fate.

As my parents pay for our lunch, my mom clasps her hands together, and her eyes widen like she just thought of a cure for cancer.

“Evie! I almost forgot to tell you. We have an extra ticket to Brett’s game tonight. I think you should come. It’s been a little while since you went with us,” she says like I’m the worst sister.

I know her game; she’s trying to bait me into it, so I prove to her that I’m an amazing and supportive sister. But I already know I am, and so does she. But she is kind of right that I haven’t gone with them in a while.

“Okay. What time?”

“Seven this evening,” my mom says as we rise from our seats and start walking toward the exit.

As I completely agree to go with them, I scan the restaurant one last time for Nate, but he’s nowhere in sight. At least I can use tonight’s game to distract myself from trying to social media-stalk Nate.

I love Brett—I do—but he’s also my annoying little brother. Although little only in the sense of age because he towers over me and has since he was, like, fifteen. Little shit has been trying to one-up me his whole life.

He’s two years younger than me and always points out that even though I got the head start, he crossed the finish line of life first. But it’s not my fault that he happened to be good with a stick and a stupid little rubber disc and gets paid a ridiculous amount of money to play with his friends.

Only girls with little brothers can truly understand the love-hate relationship we have with them. Are we going to pick on them forever? Yes, of course. Is anyone else allowed to pick on them? Absolutely the fuck not.

Brett never really needed my defense, growing up, as he was always the biggest kid in his class, but I was there if a kid got in his face on the playground, ready to whoop some ass for him if I needed to.

I give him a lot of crap for being a professional hockey player. But I’m honestly so proud of him. I know how hard he worked to get where he is, and seeing him talked about as one of the best forwards in the entire league has me wanting to make a glittery sign that says That’s my little brother! and bring it with me just so I can brag about him to anyone who looks my way.

* * *

The arena is packed as we file through the security lines and make our way toward our section. The Nighthawks club provides a suite for family members of the players to use for home games, but it’s not nearly as fun to watch the game from all the way up there, as they are practically the start of the nosebleed seating.

My parents and I always love sitting in the chaos, getting near enough to the action to see everything up close, but not close enough that you can barely see anything happening unless it’s right in front of you.

We quickly load up on snacks and water, and I’m shivering by the time we are about to head down to our seats.

“I’ll be down there in a second. I’m going to go buy a hoodie quickly. I’m cold,” I tell my mom and head back to the shop.

I grab a hoodie jersey with Brett’s name and number on the back and the Nighthawks logo on the front. It’s fleece-lined, oversize, and exactly what I want.

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