Page 62 of Break the Ice
Marisse gets more mentions than me. Fans are curious about the team’s new, attractive PR consultant Hawk had praised so much before his death. Her past as an athlete is drudged up and reviewed.
Every day I watch her strut by in her silk blouses and tailored pants. Her dark-red hair’s always done up differently—sleek and straight, wild curls, updos and braids. It’s as she passes me by each day and I take note of these details about her that the urges inside me grow stronger. I catch a whiff of her sweet vanilla coconutty scent and I need more.
“Fuck it,” I groan on a Thursday afternoon. She’s strut past the player’s lounge clutching a folder full of documents. Sexy as hell as she marched straight into her office like she’s the boss. I readjust my twitchy crotch area and head out into the corridor. “Too soon for round three?”
My dick answers with another subtle spasm.
“Not too soon.”
I cut down the hall in search of her office. Somebody has beat me to the punch—the door to Marisse’s office hangs open, Morasca’s angry growl echoing.
“You expect me to believe you don’t know who she’s sleeping with?” he yells. “You know it’s somebody on the team, don’t you? Who is it you’re covering for? Golding?”
“Mr. Morasca—” Marisse warbles out only to be shouted down by the asshole.
“I said answer me!”
“Please… lower your voice or I will contact building security.”
“Tell me the fucking truth or you’ll be sorry security doesn’t make it in time.”
“I don’t have any information to give you?—”
“LIAR!” he roars over her.
I’m camped feet outside her office door, my fists balled up and my heart pounding. I’m a second away from barging in and reintroducing Morasca to my right and left hooks. But would it be better to beat the shit out of him away from Sugar’s prying eyes? Away from the Wolves facility so not to involve the team?
I haven’t decided when the door flies the rest of the way open and Morasca rushes out. He’s sporting a thick vein in his temple that throbs like it had the afternoon we fought on the ice. He marches off down the hall swearing under his breath. Certain words like ‘lying bitch’ and ‘I’ve had enough’ stand out.
I make a spur of the moment decision and follow in his wake.
17. Rafe
Phil Morasca takes off after practice and heads home to his fat crib in Bellevue. I’m more than familiar with the property having been fucking his wife on the side. He might suspect it’s been happening, but there’s no way he grasps the extent of her infidelity.
I’ve nutted in your bed, Phil. The same bed you sleep in every night.
I hang around the neighborhood for an hour before making a move. I come up along the side of the mansion using the entry route I take whenever I’m banging his wife. A gate into their garden area that Tiffany purposefully keeps unlocked for me.
Still unlocked even after all the recent bad blood.
I grin and whisper to myself, “Oh, Tiff. You really do love my dick, don’t you?”
Home alone in his empty mansion, Morasca resorts to his ear-aching surround sound system. He blasts ESPN throughout the house and pops open a can of beer. He crashes on his huge La-Z-Boy recliner and drinks away to twenty-four hour sports coverage.
No wonder he can’t keep it up.
I’m not even sure Tiffany can be blamed for seeking dick elsewhere.
But this moment isn’t about Tiffany or the fact that I’ve fucked her in Morasca’s bed—it’s about what happened earlier with Marisse. He yelled in her face and threatened her. He almost got violent.
That’s just not going to be allowed. If I’ve got to be the one who makes sure Morasca understands this, then I’ve got no problem with that.
“Hey, Philly.”
He snaps up in his recliner at the sudden sound of my voice. Some of his beer sloshes over the side of the lid and spills onto his hand. He doesn’t seem to notice or care. None of it matters the second he’s set his sights on me.
Contempt narrows his eyes. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing here, Golding?”
