Page 47 of The Tape Job
“Yeah, that’ll be great, thanks.”
“Did you know the guys are talking about flipping a house?” she asks.
“I heard something about it, yeah.”
I want to chat with her, I really do, but I’m more focused on the ache between my legs that no effort from me can rid. It’s becoming a permanent fixture. I wake up with it and go to sleep with it. No amount of masturbating is helping, and now it’s even worse.
When the guys skate towards the benches to leave the ice, I hover by the door to stop Liam on his way past so I can remove the microphone. If he can see my hands shaking, he doesn’t let on; and I’m grateful for it because they are practically vibrating.
I steel myself to thank him as I unclip the wires, the buzz of attraction still strong between us as my fingers brush his sweaty skin. He lifts his sweater up for me to get better access, and since he never wears an undershirt—opting to go straight on with his shoulder pads—I get a view of his glistening abs and a hint of the tattoos he has on his chest. There’s a trail of dark hair leading down towards, and I let my mind wander. My pussy is screaming at me, and knowing that his dick is merely sheltered behind a few layers of fabric doesn’t help. Nor does the mix of his sweat and cologne. I don’t know how I manage it, but I get the mic fully disconnected and free from his body without: a) passing out; and/or, b) making a complete idiot of myself.
“How was that?” he asks. “Did you get what you need, or can I help you with anything else?”
Our eyes connect for the briefest of moments, and I know he can read my mind. But I need to remain professional,so I opt for an appropriate response that doesn’t involve me telling him to take me to the equipment storage room.
“Sure, thanks again,” I say, swiftly putting the equipment back into a waiting box as I turn away.
I’m painfully aware that he’s watching me, but I’m relieved when I hear his skates thudding on the rubber matting as he heads back to the dressing room. I need to either change my underwear or remove them completely.
Liam
I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve fucked up as we return to the dressing room. I sit in my cubby and un-lace my skates, mirroring my brother. Sulking, Danny enters the dressing room and collapses into the cubby on my right. He reaches for his phone and taps away, making no effort to get out of his gear. But I’m thinking about our conversation earlier today.
“Hey, Dan, you’ve done that mic thing before, right?” I lean in and lower my voice as he sits down. He mentioned that he’d done a load of media stuff in his first season as a pro.
He nods and tilts his head towards me. “Yeah, it’s shit, right? You have to be so careful about what you say—you know, in case it comes back to bite you in the arse later.”
Fuck.
“Did you say something risqué?” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows.
“I definitely said something I shouldn’t have said while I was talking with Ryan. That Bella chick shouted that filming was done, and I let my guard down.”
“It’s only Vicky that hears it anyway, so you should be fine—” He stops talking when he catches my expression. “Fuck.”
“Fuck indeed.”
“What did you say?” he asks, but I wave him off. I’m not ready to relive that moment yet. ‘Mortified’ is not a strong enough word.
I lean towards Ryan. “The goddamn mic was on the whole time!”
“Fuck,” he says, adding to the ever-growing stack of ‘fucks’ already in the air. “I didn’t even think about it, else I would have cut in.” He stands up and slips his shorts off but I’m too worried to focus on anything, including getting undressed. The moment is replaying in my head. The whole conversation trickles on. What I said. What Ryan said. Bella yelling. Me talking again.
“Bella and Jen were there too,” I gasp, feeling my sweat sweating. “Everyone will know.” My stomach drops.
“What will everyone know?” Johnny asks from his cubby across the room, but I can’t even bring myself to look at him, let alone respond. What am I supposed to say? I’ve been reliant on his sister’s videos for jerk-off material? Nah, Johnny would not appreciate hearing about that, I’m sure.
I shake my head and stand up, engaging Danny in some phatic conversation to distract myself enough so my hands stop trembling. He probably knows I don’t give a shit about the weather, but he appeases me by chatting with me. I manage to calm myself down enough to undress, then I head to the showers, planning to take my time. Part of me is hoping that Vicky would have cleared off by the time I’m done, so I can avoid any further embarrassment. But another part is hoping I can steal another look at her.
I’m replaying the scene again; but this time, my attention is on the moment she had to take the mic off me. I can still feel her touch on my stomach, her fingers leaving a trail of heat that can’t be replicated by anyone else—and my dick stirs.
Johnny bangs into the shower stall next to me, killing my arousal—thank fuck. Steam erupts from his shower head—preheated by Hutch. It’s standard for whoever gets to the shower room first gets all the showers going to heat the water.
He asks me again what I think everyone will know again, but this time, I tell him I don’t want to talk about it. Instead of pressing the matter, he moves on—but he continues to talk about Vicky. “At least my sister’s feeling better.”
I grunt.
“What’s got into you? Ever since you’ve got here—”
