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EIGHT

Blake

Game two is brutal.

It’s almost like the Blizzard felt sorry for us in game one but now they’re in it to win it. We can’t do much of anything right as a team. I score the first—and only—goal of the night in the second period, and it’s downhill from there. We lose 4-1, and the joviality from game one is gone.

The flight home is over five hours long, so a group of us gather in the back of the plane to play poker. I’m more of a blackjack guy, but I figure this is a good way to bond with everyone.

Bristol and Rowan join in, along with Coach Vanek, Chandler, Connor, Evan, and Bodi. Another group is playing their own game up toward the front of the plane, so it’s cozy back here.

“All right, I’ve got the pennies.” Coach opens a large velvet bag and dumps pennies on one of the tray tables. “Split ’em evenly.”

“We play for pennies?” I ask, laughing.

“We’re on a team plane, on a team trip—no official gambling. So I bring the pennies and split them between all of us. Once you’re out of pennies, you’re done for the night. Next time someone else will bring the pennies.”

“The guy scoring all the goals,” Chandler says, nodding at me. “You bring 500 pennies for the next trip.”

“I’m on it.”

“Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.” Coach starts shuffling two decks of cards while we split up the pennies.

For some reason, I can’t picture Rowan playing poker. I don’t know why. She seems more of a slot machine girl, but that’s probably a little misogynistic. If I’m honest, I don’t really know her as an adult.

We talked until almost three in the morning the other night, so I got a sense of who she is, but it’s not the same as knowing her intimately. Not like when we were kids. It did feel good to clear the air, though. To talk and laugh and move past the awkwardness.

That part is nice.

Getting a smile from her when we got on the bus earlier.

Having a short conversation about her shoulder before we boarded the plane.

Normal stuff.

Thank fuck.

Now I can focus on hockey.

Because I’m determined to help us win game three.

“Oh, look at the pair of deuces over there,” Coach says to Connor, laughing. “You’re killing it.”

“You don’t know what my down cards are,” Connor says, wiggling his eyebrows.

I’ve got a pair of aces so far, but only one is showing. The other is face down and I hope I’ve got a poker face to hide my hand.

“And we have a pair of aces!” Coach says, adding a second ace to my first, even though it’s technically my third. “Bet’s to you.”

“I’ll raise you losers a penny,” I say, tossing two into the pile.

“Who are you calling a loser?” Bristol asks in an icy tone, tossing two more pennies into the pile.

“And we’ve got a battle,” Coach says, laughing.

“I hate poker,” Rowan says, closing her cards and turning them all upside down, indicating she’s out. “Why do you guys always make me play?”

“If I had to learn, you had to learn,” Connor tells her.

So my gut was right; poker isn’t really her game.

She only plays to be social.

For some reason, I like that I still know her.

Bristol and I go at it until the end, and she beats me with a royal flush.

“What the fuck?” I ask, laughing when she shows her hand. “On the first hand?”

“Beginner’s luck,” Connor mutters.

“Just because I’ve never played with you before doesn’t make me a beginner,” she says, gathering the cards and beginning to shuffle. “I’ve been playing my whole life. My mom used to be a dealer in Vegas.”

“A dealer?” Bodi gapes at her. “For real? How cool is that?”

“Eh, not as cool as you might think. But I can shuffle the hell out of a deck of cards.” She does a few fancy moves, handling the cards like they’re part of her. Then she deals the next round.

Two cards face down.

Four cards face up.

One final card face down.

Christ, my hand sucks and I shake my head.

“I’m out.”

“Me too.” Connor folds as well.

Rowan is chewing her lip, staring at her cards intently, as if she’s not sure what to do. And it’s killing me not to help. Now that I know she hasn’t been playing long, I don’t want the more experienced players to take advantage of her. It’s a friendly game, but still. She probably doesn’t need me to interfere, and I know I’m risking pissing her off, but I do it anyway.

“You need help?” I ask quietly.

She hesitates but then shows me her cards; she has five hearts.

“Is this a good hand?”

“Stay in,” I murmur.

She nods and puts another penny in the pile.

“Hey, no cheating!” Bodi says to us.

“I’m out—it’s not cheating.”

“And I only learned how to play like two months ago,” Rowan adds.

“Show me what you got,” Coach tells her.

She turns over her cards.

“A flush.” Coach groans. “You win. I’ve only got two pairs.”

“Look at me, winning a hand!” Rowan says. “Thanks to you!”

She gives me a smile that almost paralyzes me with…excitement? Arousal? I’m not even sure what I’m feeling when she smiles at me like that. All I know is that I feel seventeen again. And it’s kind of nice.

We get back to L.A. at midday, and I have to figure out where we’re staying. The team has a rental car waiting for us and Bodi and I head to the hotel. We opted to share a car since we won’t have a whole lot of time for extracurricular activities. We’ll be going back and forth to the rink together anyway so there’s no point in getting multiple cars. Warren and Mikey are sharing one as well.

The nice thing is having a room to myself.

I’ve had roommates my entire life. I’ve literally never lived alone so even though this is short-term, it’s nice to have some space and time to just…be. Not have to talk to someone all the time. And even though Bodi is a great roommate, he’s a morning person. I definitely am not. I’ve learned to tolerate him wanting to talk when we have to be at practice or whatever, and he’s learned to be more mellow on the days that we don’t.

I suddenly wonder if Rowan is still a morning person.

She was in high school, the sunshine to my grumpy during homeroom. She would bring me breakfast sometimes, or hot chocolate, and then during senior year, we both started drinking coffee. She’d remind me to grab homework, money for lunch, even my hockey equipment, because I was usually a zombie at seven in the morning.

Something tells me she’s still up early and in a good mood.

I can picture her in bed beside me, her dark hair tousled from sleep, a sweet smile on her face.

And now I’m sporting a semi.

What. The. Fuck.

I think about her way more than I should.

After our talk the other night, the only time I’m not thinking about her is when I’m actively on the ice. The rest of the time, she pretty much haunts me.

I wish I knew why.

Yes, she’s still beautiful. Even more so than as a teenager.

But I’ve met and been with a lot of beautiful women since we broke up.

She’s also smart and hard-working, which I appreciate.

But again, I’ve dated nurses and college professors and other professional women.

Is it our history?

The fact that she’s friend zoned me?

Do I still have feelings for her?

It’s confusing and I’m frustrated.

Both emotionally and sexually.

I haven’t had sex in nearly a month, which is a long time for me, but instead of just hitting a bar and finding someone to scratch the itch with, all I can think about is Rowan.

After turning on the shower, I get undressed and then step under the warm spray.

My dick is hard as stone.

I soap up my hand and then give my cock a hard stroke.

I close my eyes and conjure up Rowan’s face.

Full, pink lips.

Huge green eyes.

And her body.

Jesus.

She’s filled out perfectly.

She has an incredible ass, and though I haven’t had the pleasure of touching it, I know it’s firm and muscular. You can see it when she walks around in leggings. Not to mention shapely thighs, a tiny little waist, and curvy hips. She’s more muscular, teenage baby fat replaced with the hard work of someone who takes her job as a trainer seriously.

And I fucking love looking at her.

My cock gets even harder, and I rub a little faster, squeezing and pumping as I envision her beneath me, pussy warm and wet, swallowing my dick. She had a great rack as a teen, and I imagine it now, pressed against my chest as I fuck her.

Hair fanned out behind her, eyes closed, mouth partly open as she screams my name.

Fuck.

I feel my spine tingle, release imminent, and I think back to the first time we made love. Neither of us were scared, even though we were both virgins who didn’t really know what we were doing. But we were in love and had talked about it to the point that we were comfortable.

She was so beautiful.

Strong and sweet and completely trusting, letting me do it with no hesitation, no fear, nothing but love and confidence that I would make her feel good. Or at least that I wouldn’t hurt her beyond the normal first-time discomfort.

Fuck .

That night had been so, so good.

She hadn’t had an orgasm during intercourse, but I’d gotten her off with my fingers before we did the deed, and it was a blur of romance and exploration and physical need.

I spurt into my hand, my orgasm hitting hard as I remember a time when things were so damn simple.

When all that mattered was love.

Things are so much more complicated now.

And I don’t think there’s a way to simplify any of it while keeping my eye on the ball and my dick far away from Rowan.