Page 132 of Game Misconduct
But I can still taste her in my mouth, feel the imprint of herthighs around my waist, the drag of her nails down my back when I pushed into her like I was starving.
And I was.
I still am.
Fuck, I thought that night in the suite would burn it out of me. Instead, it lit something I can’t put out.
I roll onto my side and grab my phone off the nightstand. No new texts. No missed calls. No headlines—yet.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
And we weren’t careful.
Center ice. Her in my arms. Mouths locked, like we were alone in the world.
And then her hand pulling mine into the tunnel. Her voice in the dark. That kiss that stripped me bare.
We were reckless. Bold. Feral.
And I’d do it all over again.
But now, lying here alone, surrounded by things that aren’t hers, I can’t stop thinking about the cost.
If someone saw us.
If someone talked.
If this whole thing explodes.
What happens to her then?
I thumb over her name in my phone. Just her first name. No last name. No emojis. No photo. JustSloane.
I don’t text.
I don’t call.
Instead, I toss the phone back on the nightstand and stare up at the ceiling again.
Thirty-six holes. Perfectly spaced. Probably machine-punched.
She’d hate them.
I turn my head to the right. My duffel bag sits in the chair, half-zipped. On top of the pile is the gray hoodie I shoved in last-minute before we left.
The one she wore once.
I drag it toward me like a fucking lunatic and bury my face in the cotton. It still smells faintly like her shampoo.
Like lavender and ambition and late-night sin.
I let myself hold it there, just for a minute.
Just long enough to remember what it felt like to be wanted by someone who knows what it costs.
Ice time on the road always feels like borrowed space. Neutral walls, neutral lines, no logo under your blades. Nothing to ground you.
You have to make your own edge.
