Page 17
Chapter 17
Wanna See Something Cool?
Wade
Gabe doesn’t choose either option.
“Finish,” she whispers, folding a knee to sit at the edge of my bed, her other leg rooted to the floor. “Go on.” Short trim nails encourage me with a scrape against the skin of my inner ankle. Goosebumps spread like wildfire up my legs. My balls recoil, hand moving rough, frenzied, relentless, chasing the much-needed high Gabe finally permits. The friction of the fabric, her heated gaze on me—it’s too much.
I explode into the lace with a spine-curling jolt, hurling an open-mouthed grunt. My vision pinholes to black. The ringing in my ears wanes as I scramble to regain control of my galloping heart rate and runaway breaths.
She fixes her eyes on my groin while I use her panties to clean myself off.
“You were…sucking on my dildo.”
And I’d do it again.
Fear of judgment flashes through my brain for a moment, but there’s not an ounce of it in her tone or expression. Only awe.
“How else was I supposed to taste you?”
Pink deepens to scarlet across her face, hiding her freckles. Those swollen, pretty lips hang open.
“Here.” I lean forward to push the soiled, balled panties into her gaping mouth, covering myself with a corner of the bedsheet. “Taste us for yourself.”
Eyes fluttering shut, a loud groan accompanies her surprised quiver. I scoop her into my lap. “Shhhh,” I say into her ear. “Those soft, perfect noises are for me, and me only.”
Watery hazel hues stare back as she grazes her lips over mine. The quickest thrust of her tongue forces the lacy pair into my mouth. I echo her groan and lick the panties clean while pulling them out, the salty and sweet combination eliciting another spark of pleasure low in my gut.
Gabe slinks from the bed to let me up. My thumb swipes a streak of cum from her bottom lip into her mouth before I go to the washroom.
I check in on her before showering, but she’s gone.
Me
You left??
Freckles
I was running super late.
Freckles
But that was…something.
Me
Can we talk about it?
Freckles
When?
Me
How’s tonight sound? Over dinner?
Freckles
Isn’t there a post-game team dinner?
Me
They won’t miss me this once
Me
I’ll eat with them before
Three dots bounce on the screen.
Freckles
Fine. Where?
Me
My place
Freckles
Hmmm. Depends on what you’re ordering.
Me
No takeout
Me
I’ll make you dinner
The dots flicker faster this time.
Freckles
Are you gonna poison me?
Me
And kill off the best pussy I’ve ever had? Not a chance
Freckles
Flattery will get you nowhere.
Me
It got you into bed with me
Me
I’ll take my chances
Me
Just say yes
The next moment feels like forever.
Freckles
Yes.
I hurl myself into the air, dropping the phone onto the bed and raising my arms overhead in victory. “Yes!” One hand clasps the tuck of my towel while I do a little jig, then collapse back-first onto the mattress, checking my phone once more. I sigh and clutch the phone to my heart. “She said yes.”
Me
See you soon
Freckles
In hell.
Me
This sounds like a date
Me
I accept
My giant smile won’t subside as I dial up my favorite insider. The line rings twice.
“Hey, Wade!”
She’s more chipper than usual. I’m not complaining. This bodes well for me.
“Hey, Indi. I have a favor to ask.”
“What’s up?”
“ Um ,” I scratch a spot along my hairline under my ear. “So, I’m making dinner for Gabe tonight.”
“ Aww . That’s really sweet.”
“Yeah, well…” My laughs stutter out. “I was wondering if you’d help me make her favorite Indian food.”
And also, I’m hoping you tell me what that is.
“Oh, boy. You’re asking the wrong person.”
Shit.
“Radek says you’ve gotten better at cooking.”
“That’s true, but…”
“Please?”
She hums. “You’re making shahi paneer?”
Score!
“ Uh , yes.”
“Okay, bud. I have a secret for you.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s not her favorite.”
“It’s not?”
“No. It’s mine. When we roomed together at university, I’d order takeout from this restaurant called the Taj. She’d always let me order shahi paneer for us to share because she knew that at home, my younger sisters got to choose.”
My heart melts.
“She acts like it doesn’t matter, but it mattered to me. Gabe loves matar paneer— it’s the same dish, but with peas— but I hate peas. She wouldn’t let me eat something I hated because she knew I didn’t have the option with my siblings. We’re the same age, but she’s the big sister I never had.”
“Why is she the best?” I intone through a sigh. “So how do I make it?”
“I only know of one person who can help you.”
I side-eye Maddie and give her and her phone camera a nice stinky face wash on the way onto the ice for warmups. I’m the last one out, but I scan the already-buzzing crowd to find the only person that matters to me right now.
And there she is.
On the far side of the rink, Gabe is surrounded, one girl primping her hair while another does her makeup. I skate up and glide to a stop, spraying ice onto the glass and scaring her unsuspecting camerawoman.
Time to turn up the charm.
I clear my throat.
She stops adjusting the large lens.
Mask tipped up to the top of my head, I wink at her. “How’s it going, Denise?”
She tightens her top knot and smooths down her undercut. “Sup, Boehner?”
“Could you get my girl for me?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“The delight in knowing your friend is happy?”
“Emotional blackmail. I like your style.” She shakes a silent finger gun in my direction. “ Psst . Finch. Your boyfriend’s here.”
Gabe’s eyes stay shut as the cloud of powder and hairspray evaporates. She signals for her staff to stop working with a held-up finger and glances my way.
I wave excitedly, wearing a lopsided smile.
Her eyebrow perks. “Yes?”
“Wanna see something cool?” My tongue stretches to grab the collar of my jersey below the league’s logo. I catch it between my teeth, and I tug upward, then side to side, letting out a short growl.
Denise’s cheeks puff before she splits into laughter.
Gabe’s irritation seeps through an unnatural grin. My balls retreat into my gut when she leans forward. Her mouth is unbearably close to my jaw, breath tickling the stubble lining it.
And I’m hard.
“You’re a dog, you know that?”
I startle her with a bark. “I’ll be whatever you want.”
The girls holding hairspray and makeup brushes giggle and snort behind her.
That gorgeous red tinges her cheeks and fills her eyes with a fire. “Did you need something?”
I wet my lips to loudly proclaim, “One pre-game good luck kiss, please!”
She hmph s. “Never needed one before.”
“Radek gets one every time.”
“It’s Davé-Radek,” she corrects.
“Right, right. You sayin’ you wanna share a last name?”
“I didn’t?—”
“‘Cause I’ll propose right now?—”
Her teeth gnash behind those pink-painted lips. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t hear a ‘no.’”
“You’re. Crazy.”
“Still not a ‘no,’” I sing.
Every word is hissed through her teeth. “One. Kiss.”
The crowd’s cheers crescendo. Denise snickers, pointing her camera at us. The Jumbotron displays our exchange. A series of LED hearts throb and dance on screen around us.
Pew pew pew pewwww , an air horn blares in a staccato.
“Try not to roll your eyes,” I warn. “You have to pretend you like this.”
She’s a fantastic actress. Or maybe she actually likes it.
Pulling back and switching the placement of her mouth with her hand, she cups my cheek and presses her lips to mine.
The surrounding cacophony deadens. Air struggles to enter and exit my lungs, but I deepen the connection, attempting a quick taste by dipping my tongue into her mouth. A single, slow, teasing slash from her isn’t enough. She breaks the kiss, and my eyes remain shut, an unintentional quiver traveling down my chin.
No matter how hard she stifles it, there’s a joy tugging at her lips. She balls my jersey in her tight fist to whisper into my ear.
“You’re gonna pay for this.”
A chuckle escapes. “Oh, Freckles. I’m banking on it.” I give her cheek a loud cartoon smooch. “ MUAH !”
The sound system plays the intro beats of “ Billie Jean ” by Michael Jackson, and I knock my helmet over my face as if it’s the King of Pop’s fedora, then moonwalk back toward the rest of the team, gaze steadfast on her. Landon whoops when I pass by but skates alongside.
“You’re a goner.”
“I know. My girl loves it.” I give her another goofy smile and wave across the ice. Everyone else thinks she’s ignoring me, but I don’t miss her downward pointing middle finger from her jacket sleeve while chatting with another reporter.
“Thank God, they tolerate us.” He looks longingly at Indi. “I don’t know how I ever lived without my wife.”
Colorado plays like ass, giving many opportunities to show off for Gabe. Their center, a little shithead named McKay, rounds the net to drop in a Michigan, but I extend a leg up to the T-bar and block it. Jaeg shoves McKay from the crease, and Fletch takes off with the puck. I jump to do a split and point my paddle at Gabe. “Whoo!”
By the end of the second period, we’re up 5-0, and Coach finally benches me to give Unger some playing time now that he’s cleared from that pesky knee injury. Fletcher’s taking a breather, too.
“I still can’t get over how puffins mate for life.”
“Christ, Donovan.” I elbow him. “Chill with the animal videos.”
A rogue puck makes it over the boards, and I interrupt him by catching it. I pump my eyebrows and hold it up like a trophy, winking at a gawking Gabe Finch. My lips purse, and I blow her a kiss before tossing the puck back to the ref.
The fans lap it up. My girlfriend looks like she’s going to burst into flames at any second.
It’s a shutout, and we win by six.
Gabe skips over me to interview Fletcher about his goals tonight, and I have to pretend not to be disappointed. Whatever. She’s gonna be eating my food, sucking my dick and sleeping in my bed tonight, so Fletcher can wheeze out his rehearsed replies all he wants.
I head home after cooldowns and don’t have to face Gabe ignoring me in the press room.
“Tomato-onion gravy, diced paneer.” Mentally checking off the recipe step, I add the latter to the former in a wide-mouthed pot.
The round of paratha dough taunts me from its mixing bowl. I rub my hands together and split it into ten even balls and glare when one goes oval between my pressed palms.
From oval to square in five seconds flat.
“Flatbread, not square bread, knucklehead.”
It rumples when I ball the dough up again.
Indi’s mom made it look so easy. A western rolling pin is fine , she said. It doesn’t have to be a perfect circle , she said.
“Yes, it does, Mrs. Davè,” I say to myself. “It has to be perfect for her.”
I repeat the exercise no less than a dozen times until a circle forms. “Fucking finally .”
The pan sizzles when the paratha slaps onto its hot surface.
First paratha? Raw.
Second paratha? Burnt to a crisp.
The third and fourth have spots that also weigh on a darker shade of brown, but the fifth, my God! The fifth is okay; it even puffs in certain parts. The sixth and seventh are almost identical to each other and resemble the ones Indi’s mom showed me.
It’s just in time, too.
With a beep and a whir, the door unlocks. An excited smile stretches my face so wide, my eyes shrink to slits.
I keep my back to her— showing off my best assets, obviously— and continuing a diligent effort in making more paratha, waiting for the chance to pamper my freckled girl.