Page 18 of Whirlwind
Tyson
Fuck, I get it. Isla is amazing, but Cillian never shuts the hell up about her.
Not that I would, either. But it makes it damned hard to quit thinking about her when I have constant reminders. I’ve had a different woman in bed with me almost every night since my first game with the Blades. All in a vain effort to rid myself of the image of her that plays behind my eyes when I close them.
It’s not working.
Hell, this morning, when I was pleasuring myself, it was her face trying to creep in. Every time, I’d pause my movements, try and shake her away, imagine any other hot as hell woman, but those freckles kept coming back.
I’m an asshole, but I’m not the asshole who’s going to beat off to the image of his teammate’s wife.
In the end, I gave the fuck up. She wouldn’t give me any peace and I was frustrated all day because of it. Then, we got to the arena for today’s game and Cillian was recounting his earlier conversation with her and Sadie.
I don’t know how to escape this. It’s not like I can just turn off my feelings.
After the game, I brought a woman…the guys would call her a puck bunny, back to my room. It’s frowned upon by the league and team management, but it happens. I didn’t even ask hername. Instead, I avoided conversation, fucked her, and politely kicked her out.
It was a day game, and now I’m left with the evening to myself, wallowing in self-pity. When your life consists of as many nights in a hotel as it does at home, you learn ways to cope. Every guy is different. Some hit the gym, some take baths, some watch sports. Some, like me, travel with a game console.
It’s a way to relieve aggression, to relax, to spend some down time without getting into trouble. This trip, it’s my spare Xbox. When I power it up and log on to the internet, I’m happy to find HookersNBlow is online, too. She accepted my friend request. I haven’t known many women gamers. The ones I do are careful about who they let into their world. Men, and boys, are brutally misogynistic on mic.
I’m glad I made her cut.
Within seconds, Kit sends me a message through the console.
Kit:
We need a fourth. Do you have a mic?
Me:
Yeah. I’ve mainly played killer.
Kit:
I assume you can learn new tricks.
An invite to her party chat pops up. I accept it and put my headphones on.
“You know what they say about assumptions,” I say.
“We have no problem showing our ass here, sir,” an unfamiliar female voice says.
“Tyson, that was Ramona,” Kit introduces. “Sydney is also in here.”
“Hi, Tyson.”
“Hi, everyone,” I say as I load intoDead by Daylight. It’s a game where you play as a killer trying to eliminate survivors who are trying to repair enough generators to power up an exit gate. Or as a survivor trying to escape the killer. It’s intense, but a great time, if you don’t take it too seriously.
“What killer do you main?”
“Ghostface,” I answer. “But I’m more the type of killer to help survivors get their challenges done than the type to be toxic and go after a 4K.”
“Ah, we love a fun killer,” Ramona says. “Micheal Myers is my favorite, though.”
“Only because you’re weirdly diabolical,” says Sydney.
“What can I say? I love a man in a mask.”
