Page 51 of Blocked Score

My stomach rumbles at the word. Everyone else agrees, and even though we just came back inside, suddenly we’re all heading out the front door to brave the wind since we don’t want to make a delivery person drive in this weather.

Outside, everything is dressed in snow. Only the one main road has been plowed yet, so the overwhelming, dazzling blanket of white is everywhere. The sun has set, but the heavy flakes that are still falling magnify the soothing orange glow of the streetlamps to fill the air with a light that feels magical.

We walk to Marco’s Pizza. The place is packed when we get there. The contrast between the busy and bustling warm interior and the frosty winter wonderland outside gives me a thrill in my chest from how picturesque it all feels.

We all squeeze into a massive circular booth in the corner of the store that’s miraculously available. After a couple minutes, Lane pulls out his phone and sends a text message. Immediately, all the other guys on the team glance down at their phones.

They all lift their heads and do a weird sort of eight-way eye-contact thing. I quirk an eyebrow questioningly.

Then, they all scooch out of the booth and stand in front of the table. They open their mouths to take a deep breath, and since all their eyes are trained on me as they do so, it hits me.

I bury my face in my hands, stomach plummeting in embarrassment before they even belt out the first word.

But belt it out they do.

“Happy birthday to you,” the eight hockey players sing at the top of their lungs, filling the interior of the restaurant with the deep and very, very off-tune sound of their voices. Soon, every pair of eyes in the premises is pointing squarely at me.

I groan in my hands but can’t even hear the vibration of my own embarrassed lament over the boom of the guys’ voices.

“Happy birthday, dear Scarlett,” they trill, “Happy birthday to you!”

The restaurant erupts with applause when their singing mercifully ends. I remove my face from my hands, knowing that it’s so red that one of the chefs in the back might mistake it for a ripe tomato and put me into a sauce.

The guys tease me about it for the rest of the night, but underneath the mortification, there’s a kind of glowing feeling at everything Lane’s done to make me feel noticed, seen, and appreciated on this day.

Later on, when everyone’s gone home, I prop my arm on my windowsill that looks onto the backyard and gaze at the snowman Lane and I made hours ago, lit by the faint, mellow light spilling from the nearest streetlamp.

A smile pulls on my lips, because it’s hard to deny that today was my best birthday ever.

24

LANE

When the temperature of the spray of water feels right under my hand, I kick off my boxers and step into the shower in our upstairs bathroom.

It’s a walk-in shower with a sliding glass door, so once I’m under the stream of water I go to push the hazy glass partition closed—but when my eyes snag onto something on the floor, I freeze.

A pale pink scrap of fabric lying right beside the sink.

When realization slices into me, I feel lightheaded from the immediate woosh of blood redirecting straight to my cock.

Scarlett’s panties.

She must have left them here after she took her shower earlier.

I think back to a couple hours ago, when I heard her step into the bathroom and turn on the shower, and I tried not to imagine the steam curling around her perfect naked body.

Tried not to imagine how the hot water would bring a tint to her normally pale skin. Tried not to imagine rivulets of water crawling between her perfect tits whose shape and heft I can still feel in my palm like it was fucking yesterday …

A couple hours ago, I succeeded. I had homework for my business class to distract myself with, and the dryness of the topic helped to deflate my cock and keep me grounded in reality.

But now?

Seeing Scarlett’s panties right in front of me while I’m naked and my cock is already throbbing hard?

Forget about it. Resistance is fucking futile.

I don’t even try to put up any resistance when I know it’ll be a losing game.

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