Page 131 of Rookie Recovery

Jamie collapsed on top of me, his back curved, and when he came inside me, he was at the hilt. He cried out into my neck, beautiful throaty moans that vibrated throughout my entire body. And then he went slack, his muscles finally relaxed.

He pushed up onto one elbow and cradled my face with his other hand. His hair stood up on end, his cheeks were flushed, his pupils blown out, his lips plump and pink from all the kissing and biting. Damn, he was gorgeous. Guaranteed, I didn’t look that good. My skin felt raw from his stubble scratches. I was sweaty, hair glued to my forehead. Jizz all over me.

I wanted to say something to him. You’re beautiful, or Fuck me, that was magical, or Thank you for fucking me so hard I’ve forgotten how to speak, but I’d forgotten how to speak. So I laughed instead. Jamie did too. Like, neither of us could quite believe it had been that good.

Eventually he rolled off me, and we laid side by side, silent and dripping, while the aftershocks subsided and our breaths returned to normal.

“Kitty, I’ve left my phone on the sofa. Pretty please can you get it for me?”

He propped himself up on an elbow and stared at me.

“I would get it myself, but I can’t move, and my bum is leaking,” I said.

This garnered a snort from him. “Why do you need your phone?”

“I need to ring my mum and tell her what just happened.”

He raised an eyebrow.

I pursed my lips together to stop the laughter. “I need to tell her we’re officially boyfriends now.”

“God, I love you,” he said, throwing himself back on top of me, and not making any attempt to fetch my phone, or even pass me a towel to clean up all the cum.

Epilogue

Jamie

I still dreamed of skating.

Frigid air whipping my face, blades cutting into ice, stick soft under sweat-soaked gloves. The roar of the crowd—a mottled cacophony of cheers and boos and swears and taunts. The smell like winter cold and locker room perspiration, anticipation and fear, all rolled into one.

I even felt the tranquility embedded deep in my soul despite the high of adrenaline, the crash of my heart against my ribs, the heave of lungs. All so familiar, so real. So present. That pulsing rhythm of the game. Hockey. Life. Hockey. Life. Play. Win. Play. Win. Play. Win, win, win.

Peace, calm, rightness. This was where I belonged.

And then, I woke up.

To a pseudo-drunk fifty-seven-year-old man leaning half out over the boards to yell at the paunch-bellied ref about the audacity of his last call—and protest the number of alcohol containers allowed on the bench. Which, as it happened, was none. Try telling that to a drunk old dude halfway through a beer league game.

I bit down on a grin as I reached out to yank the guy back in by his jersey. “You want to get your beer taken away, Jones?”

“He’s saying I’m drunk!”

“You are drunk.”

Jones grumbled something incoherent, and I rolled my eyes. Beer league was a far cry from the world of pro sports. A far, far cry. A different universe. A different lifetime, for sure.

But when our wing and center hurtled forward into the offensive zone with the puck, and one of our defenseman took advantage of the break in play to hop onto the bench for a line change, I vaulted over the boards with a huge smile cracked over my face.

Cold air whipped against my cheeks as my blades cut into the ice. My stick rested easy in my sweat-moist gloves, ready for a pass, a poke check, anything that came my way. In the stands behind me, the tight knot of spectators—wives and friends and kids—whooped and stomped the bleachers with sudden ferocity as the play reversed direction.

Towards my net.

I spun backwards to face the other team’s oncoming rush. Breathed in the cold of ice and the musk of locker room sweat, and I skated like it was game seven of the Stanley Cup finals. Because, why the hell not? I loved this fucking sport. Hockey was life. Always.

We won.

I was still smiling as we lined up for the handshake. A bunch of my teammates thumped me on the back. Couple of the guys on the other team gave me good-natured shit as we tapped gloves, cause none of it mattered. They’d all be out in the parking lot, shot-gunning beers with the refs within the hour anyway.

---