IF I WAS BEING COMPLETELY honest, Marissa was the last
person I wanted to see tonight. I'd left last night's party with
her and normally would never have come back here just to
pick her up, but Prescott's place was only two houses down,
and I had to walk by here anyway. That was the excuse I'd
given her and what I told myself as I sat in her living room,
waiting for her to get ready. She'd been very persistent last
night, but I'd managed not to fuck her. A first for me, I had to
say. I probably would have caved if I thought Lyla would
forgive that indiscretion, but I didn't think she was up for her
friend's sloppy seconds. I hadn't figured out why I cared,
which was annoying me. I'd thought about it on my way home
after dropping Marissa off. I'd continued to think about it
before going to bed, and the only thing I could come up with
was that Lyla James intrigued me, which was unfortunate for
her. Women didn't usually intrigue me. What they looked like
underneath their clothes and how wet their cunt would be
when I slid my dick into it intrigued me, but that was it. Once
I'd had sex with a woman once or twice, the illusion was gone.
Twice was my limit. Women started getting attached the
third time. If anyone ever did a study on this, I had enough
information for them to base their analysis on. Fuck number
one usually happened after a game or a party, so it was fun and
new. Fuck, number two was more of a "Was it good, or did I
imagine it?" Fuck number three…well, I'd only gotten to fuck
number three a couple of times and regretted it every fucking
time. They'd get attached. It went from a fun hookup to "We
should meet up for drinks or coffee or whatever." Sure, they
hinted we'd fuck after, but I wasn't interested in talking to them and I could get coffee or a drink with my freaking
mother.
The Lyla Phenomenon was something else. That was what
I was calling it now (in my head, of course). I hadn't even
spoken to my teammates about her, but I hadn't called dibs
and hadn't fucked her, so there wasn't much to say. It wasn't
like I would ever openly admit what I was currently doing. I'd
been at Lyla and Marissa's apartment long enough for the
Taylor Swift album that Lyla was playing to get to a song
about someone's tears ricocheting, which seemed to be a
favorite of hers with the way she mouthed the lyrics. It was a
sad fucking song. She was washing dishes now. When I got
there, she'd been curled up on the couch, reading a book. I'd
asked her a few questions about it, which she ignored, so I'd
swiped it out of her hands to gain her attention. I still hadn't
gotten it. It was maddening.
"It's Saturday night," I said. "Don't you have anyone else
to hang out with?"
"Don't you?" She looked up at me from the sink.
"Sure, but Marissa and I are going to the same party, so I
figured I'd swing by to pick
her up." And I wanted to see you again.
She ignored me and looked back at the cup she was
washing, now mouthing the lyrics to the next song.
How many fucking songs were on this album? The music
was distracting my distraction, and I wasn't sure I could take it
any longer.
"Do you want to join us?" I asked.
She pulled a face. "You just said you're going to a party."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing."
I stifled a groan. This fucking girl. Why couldn't she just
indulge me in a simple conversation? I was going to have to
start fucking singing. If I knew any of the lyrics, I probably
would have. That was how desperate I was for her to talk to me. Between her nonchalant attitude and Prescott telling me
she used to be completely different, I became morbidly
intrigued. Anyone else would have just been curious, maybe
tried to learn a few things, and let it go. I became fixated on it.
On hockey, cars, grades, and right now, Lyla James Marichal.
The only other person who could intrigue me this much was
my father, who only came around when it was convenient. In
his absence, I would fixate on his life. Where was his office?
Who was his secretary? Why was he fucking Nancy from
accounting instead of staying with my mother, whom he
supposedly loved more than anything (including his children)?
The music suddenly stopped and snapped me out of my
thoughts.
"Why don't you want to go?"
"Because I don't like people." She said it so matter-offactly that despite my annoyance with her, I huffed out a
laugh, and then she added, "But if the issue is that you're
planning on having sex and can't perform while I'm here, I
can leave and come back in…" she sized me up. "Five
minutes."
I looked the other way so she wouldn't see me laugh. How
was it that her insults amused me and turned me on?
"Why don't you want to stay? You think you'll get turned
on and want to join us?"
At that, she laughed wholeheartedly, and damn it, I tried
not to react, but her laughter was a thing of beauty. Her eyes
twinkled, and she threw her head back a little. It was
infectious. I wondered if she'd walked around with that
twinkle in her eyes before whatever happened broke her. She
switched off the water, dried her hands, and grabbed her bag.
She was leaving. Where? With who? I gripped the book
tighter, wishing it was her hand. Her waist. Her throat.
"Why is that funny? It's not a far-fetched scenario. You
must have seen it in one of the porn videos you watch."
She rolled her eyes, but I saw a ghost of a smile. She was
wearing baggy jeans and an oversized shirt. Biggie Smalls,
this time. Even with it, I could see the sway of her hips as she sauntered over. She kept her eyes on mine the entire time. My
heart sped up. People were predictable. I could typically gauge
what they would do before they did it. It was one of the things
that set me apart from most people on the ice. If you looked
for certain things, you could probably predict at least half of
what someone would do next. Not Lyla James, though. With
how she was walking, she looked like she would either
straddle my lap or slap me. Maybe both. Those were the
options. She stood between my legs, so close to me that I
could pull her onto my lap. Fuck, I wanted to. She was so
close that if she looked, she'd see the outline of my dick with
how hard she was making me. Baggy clothes, hair in a messy
bun, random taste in music and all — I'd never seen anything
sexier than this woman.
"For starters," she said, leaning down, so we were eye to
eye. This was the first time I saw something other than a void
in her eyes. There was fire and amusement, and the mixture
made it hard to breathe. "I don't need a storyline in my porn."
She snatched the book from my hand and moved her face even
closer. I could smell her minty breath and the gardenia scent
that floated everywhere with her. Our noses were almost
touching. Was this a test? For a split second, she looked at my
lips and back to my eyes, and I thought she'd surely kiss me. I
didn't know how I felt about that. I didn't let anyone kiss me.
"Secondly, I like sex as much as I like people."
I blinked hard, my heart pounding.
She turned and walked away, looking over her shoulder
with the most sinful smile I'd ever seen. "Have fun at the
party."
I wasn't easily surprised, but color me fucking surprised.
She didn't like anything, fine. But who the fuck didn't like
sex? Damn it. I hated her for getting me worked up and
playing me like that. I hated her even more for dropping that
piece of information and leaving. I'd obsess over it until she
gave me an explanation.