Page 47 of The Break Out

“No, I’m done. I’ll behave.” The smile he sends my way makes me believe it’s yet another lie, but I’m just going to pretend like he’s not here.

Which is what I do as I finish stripping off my clothes, still keeping my back to him. I think I hear him make some frustrated noises, but I don’t acknowledge it. He gets a side view as I step into the shower before my body is distorted to his view. And same with mine because I can’t see my phone from here either.

Closing my eyes I rinse my hair and can’t deny the heady feeling of doing this with him. I’ve never done anything like this before and it being with someone so forbidden is adding to the moment in a way I would’ve never expected.

Which is why when my hand finds its way between my legs, feeling how wet I am, I let out a loud moan as my fingers press against my clit. He may not be able to see me, but I know he can hear me.

I rub a couple circles over the bundle of nerves, not trying to bite back any of my sounds. I think I hear a faint “fuck” come from him, but it only adds to the feeling I have building. My mind wanders to how he’s reacting. Is he touching himself? I imagine what he looks like with his hands stroking that thick cock. The way his muscles would look bunching as he pumps himself all because of me.

The fantasy morphs to how it felt when we slept together, like it does even when I try to prevent it. I just can’t. I continue to rub myself thinking of how it felt when it was his mouth on me. And now I know he’s watching but can’t see much. I lean forward to press my chest against the glass which I know makes it so he can see my nipples a bit clearer. He may say something else, but my orgasm is too close for me to focus on anything that isn’t the pleasure that’s about to consume me.

“Ah, oh God,yes,” I moan, pushing a finger inside myself that doesn’t even come close to comparing how it felt to have him inside me. I bite back moaning his name because the tiny bit of self-preservation I have makes sure I don’t give him that.

I could be fantasizing about anyone else right now.

My orgasm hits me hard and fast as I gasp out as the sensation takes over my body. I place my hand on the glass to help support myself as my knees wobble from the onslaught of pleasure.

When I’m able to compose myself, I end up rushing through the rest of my shower and convince myself Colton won’t still be on FaceTime.

After I’ve finished, I grab my towel and wrap it around myself before stepping out. My eyes zero in on my phone screeninstantly. It’s fogged a bit with condensation, but I can see him still there, staring and smirking that infuriating smirk.

“Satisfied?” I ask with an impressively level tone.

“Not even a little bit. I’ll see you soon.” He hangs up before I can say anything else.

I’m standing here in my steamed-up bathroom with the worry about what I may have just started.

23

Ihave a text from my mom once I get off the plane after landing in Denver. Part of me wants to chuck the device onto the tarmac and let a plane run it over. I know what she is going to ask, she wants me to come home for Thanksgiving. I used to, back at the beginning of my career. I’d fly back to the small town just outside of Calgary where I’m from. Canadian Thanksgiving is a different day than America’s, but since we always have the holiday off, I would go home then.

Back when I thought I could actually impress my parents by having made it. Being in the NHL. The dream I wanted more than anything.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing I did ever mattered to them after Josh was gone. I’m just the son they have left. The one they don’t care to acknowledge because once Josh was gone, he took every bit of their souls with them. And nothing I could do could help.

So, two years ago I stopped going home at all. It’s not my home anymore. My mom still tries, acting like she cares if I’mthere, though I know it’s not true. Which is why the text pisses me off because I know she doesn’t care, and this year wouldn’t be any different.

And also, why I leave her on read without saying anything.

Instead of going straight home, I go to the rink to workout in the gym to rid myself of the sudden annoyance I have thinking about everything. Though I would rather take out my aggression in another way, preferably a certain blonde with the roundest ass, longest legs, and perky tits. I know that wouldn’t work out well. I have a plan to see her tomorrow and Iwillhave her underneath me again after the game.

I hateto admit that this game is going better than the other ones this season. We’re up two going into the third period and I haven’t gotten into any fights with anyone on the Dragons. I’ve almost gotten into one against Vegas, but that was broken up before anything could escalate.

Finishing another shift on the ice, my hair is wet with sweat as I sit on the bench for a break, spraying water into my mouth and then spitting it onto the ground before repeating the action, drinking the cool liquid this time.

Vegas almost scores, but Colver is able to stop the puck before smothering it to stop the play. Coach sends me back onto the ice for the next face off. I get into position and the other defenseman starts chirping.

“You going to get into another fight with your own teammate again, Wheeler?” he asks, pushing against my shoulder a bit harder than necessary for the position we are in.

I push back. “Nah, I think the next fight I get into will be some asshole who chirps at me. And I’ll make sure to draw some blood this time.”

The puck drops, starting the play and he gets one more solid shove in before we take off. Vegas got possession of the puck so I’m having to get into a defensive position to try and snag the puck before it has a chance to get to Colver again.

I manage to snag it, skating to the opposite zone, the chirper right on my ass, smacking his stick against my legs, but then it lunges a bit too long in front of my legs and sends me flying forward as I lose my balance. The whistle blows calling the penalty, but I’m already up and getting into his face.

We’re pushed apart, and I’m sent back to the bench.

“Fucking prick,” I mumble to no one in particular.

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