Page 52 of Play to Win

FML.

“Okay,” I finally manage to say, sounding sane and calm even though my chest hurts and my stomach cramps.IthinkI sound sane.“Friends.Got it.You’re right.That’s what we should do.”I take a calmative breath and perch on the stool again.I stare at what’s left of my dinner.Ugh.

I poke at my mashed potatoes while the air around us becomes thick and oppressive, the silence weighing heavy.All I want to do is run into my room and hide my head under the pillow and possibly never come out.“Did you ever make a volcano with your mashed potatoes?”

I sense his surprise and relief at my change of topic to something benign.

“Of course.Hasn’t every kid?”

“Probably.”

“One time I put some chocolate chips into leftover mashed potatoes, scooped it into an ice cream cone, put sprinkles on it, and gave it to JP.”

A startled laugh obstructs my throat briefly.“Did he eat it?”

“Oh yeah.”Théo grins.“He was pissed.It was hilarious.”

“I once cut up a sponge into squares and spread Nutella all over it so it looked like brownies.”I grin.“Chris grabbed one and started to chow down, and then he spit it out all over the kitchen.”

“Ha!Good one.”

Our eyes meet in shared amusement.

We both look quickly away.

I poke at my potatoes again.I try to eat, and when I think I’ve consumed enough that it doesn’t look like I’m running away, I set down my cutlery and stand.“Well, I’m full.That was good.So nice of your mom.”I carry my plate over to scrape the leftovers into the garbage and then slide the plate into the dishwasher.“I’m tired.Must have been our trip yesterday.I’m going to go wash up and read for a while before bed.”

“It’s seven o’clock.”

“Wow, really?Feels like ten!”I start putting away the leftover food.

“Leave it,” he says gruffly.“You’re tired.I’ll clean up.”

I shouldn’t leave it for him, but I do, because I’m desperate to escape the heavy atmosphere.

I close my door and throw myself facedown onto the bed.Jesus be a fence.

I lie like that for a while, letting thoughts spin through my brain.Eventually I calm down and roll onto my back.

Okay.He’s right.If we had sex, I might feel like I was prostituting myself.I’m living in his house, letting him buy me clothes and necessities, like a kept woman.

Argh!

And yeah, yeah, I know I have to put on the act for his family.I can do that.

A slow smile tugs at my lips.I cansodo that.

But fine, we’ll be friends.I’ll just ignore that tingly, flippy feeling I get when I look at him.Or think about him.Or touch him, or smell him ...I can take care of my own needs, thank you very much.

Which I proceed to do, wriggling out of my shorts to lay there in my panties, sliding my hand down inside them to find my slick entrance, and getting myself off with a shuddering orgasm.I wasn’t imagining Théo’s fingers touching me.Nope, not at all.

12

THÉO

I’mat my office early Friday morning.Yesterday I organized a few things.I don’t keep a lot of personal shit in my office, but I have framed team pictures from my days in Wilkes-Barre and my first (and only) season in Pittsburgh.I also have a stuffed penguin in the image of what used to be the team mascot.

The offices are quiet as I sip my Starbucks coffee and scroll through various hockey news sites.I pause at the article written by my uncle Asher.I snort because even though he’s my uncle, he’s two years younger than me, my grandpa’s son from his second marriage.Asher’s the other black sheep of the family who doesn’t play pro hockey—he just writes about it for a new sports blog, covering both the Condors and the Eagles.Asher never wanted to play pro hockey, even though he was probably good enough.Unlike me, he had a choice and he chose something else.I admire that.Which is probably why, even though I’m supposed to be at odds with my grandpa and his family, Asher and I have stayed friends.And now I’m working for Grandpa, so ...

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