by Sarina Bowen
“Mmm.” I reach back and catch Bess’s hand in mine. “Have I told you what I want to do first in that new apartment?”
“I believe you’ve mentioned it several times.”
I grin against the pillow. “Good. The first thing I’m going to do is cook Tex-Mex.”
“Wait a minute!” Bess sputters. “I thought the first thing you were going to do is me, in that shower.”
“That’s what we’re doing while the enchiladas bake.”
I can feel Bess’s laughter against my back. “Fine. I guess I can’t argue with that. Now roll over.”
She slides off my body, and I do as she asks. “Why am I the only one who’s naked?” I complain as I look up at her in the dark. She’s wearing a Bruisers T-shirt and panties.
“No whining.” She leans down and begins to kiss a trail down my chest.
By the time she nears my cock, I’m hard and waiting for the first brush of her lips. Bess doesn’t make me wait. She takes me in hand and licks a slow path up my shaft until I make a desperate noise. My fingers find their way into her hair. With a bossy grip, I pull her closer to my cock.
Bess gives a muffled chuckle as she takes me into the wet heaven of her mouth.
“Fuck yes,” I groan, my hand tightening on her hair. “Take more. Take all of it.”
But she takes her time, weighing me against her tongue, teasing my thighs with silken fingertips. Slowly, she tightens her lips, and I let out a hot gasp as she finally begins to take long, lovely pulls with her sweet mouth.
I relax against the bed, trying not to get too riled up too soon. But she’s relentless—licking and sucking and stroking my sac with soft hands. “Baby,” I warn. “You’re going to make me come.”
“Mmm,” she purrs, looking up at me with bedroom eyes.
“Honey,” I gasp, clenching my muscles against the urge to come. “Come here. I need you. Take off that shirt.”
Bess sits up and shucks off her T-shirt and bra. God, the view. Waves of hair tumble down to frame her pale breasts.
“Touch yourself,” I rasp. This is the stuff of fantasies, and I can’t get enough.
Bess drops one hand to stroke my cock, and uses the other one to cup her breast and pinch her nipple. Then she tips her head back and lets out a hot sigh.
“Come here,” I order. “Lose the panties.”
She disobeys me. Dropping down one more time, she swallows my cock to the back of her throat and moans. This time I don’t have enough willpower to hold back. When she looks up at me again—heat in her eyes, bare breasts bouncing against my thighs as she works me over—I just lose it. My hips buck and I let out a shout of satisfaction as I come inside her decadent mouth.
“Goddamn.” I’m still panting when Bess returns from the bathroom a few minutes later. I have an arm thrown over my eyes, and my chest is heaving. “That was fun. But it’s gonna take me a while to recover.”
“Take as much time as you need,” Bess says, climbing into bed. “Because I got my period a few hours ago, and I’m off the roster for a few days.”
“Oh.” I roll my sated body towards hers, my arms reaching out to pull her in. “You feel okay?” I trail a hand across the smooth skin of her belly.
“Sure. Advil is a miracle drug.” She makes herself comfortable, lying beside me, an arm over my chest. “I’m sleepy. And you’re my favorite pillow.” She kisses my chin.
I stroke her back and hold her close. Bess seems perfectly content right now, but I’m suddenly awake and on edge. Day one of the cycle. My big, dumb head can’t forget how this works. I wonder if I’m scheduled to be in town on day fourteen. I seriously feel the impulse to climb out of bed and check the travel schedule.
I don’t do it. But that familiar voice is right there, at the front of my consciousness. I wonder if Bess will do the same math, too. If she’ll come to bed naked on the fourteenth night, feeling hopeful.
She wouldn’t bring it up, of course. She knows the drill, and she wouldn’t willingly put me in that position. But it’s easy to imagine a scenario where we’re both secretly hoping for a happy little surprise.
I mean—what if it just happened? Then Bess would never have to make any sacrifices for me. What if—just once—my swimmers made contact the same way that other guys’ do every flipping day. What if Bess is one of those women who gets pregnant on the first try, never miscarries, and never even gets morning sickness?
What if. What if. What if.
I could drive myself crazy like this. No, it’s worse than that. I could drive us both crazy.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to take a slow breath. My happiness feels more tenuous than it did an hour ago. We’re not doing this, I remind myself. Yet I don’t know how to silence that little voice in my head that whispers: Wouldn’t it be funny if Bess got pregnant?
That little voice isn’t going anywhere. But that doesn’t mean I have to listen to it. That’s my new job, isn’t it? Shutting off that voice and being happy with what I have.
She’s sleeping now. She’s unbothered by getting her period. This is not a tragedy. It’s just a Thursday. I need to keep telling myself that.
There’s a book pregnant women read called What to Expect. My ex-wife bought a copy about ten minutes after her first ill-fated positive pregnancy test. That book is probably on a shelf somewhere in my old house in Dallas. We never really needed it.
Instead, I need a book called How to Stop Expecting.
I wish the apartment I was buying only had one bedroom in it. It’s like I’m saving the other one for a ghost.
Thirty
Big Ideas
Bess
January
The Dallas game is three days away, and the team has already left town. They’re playing Colorado first, but everyone in my life is focused on Dallas. And I mean everyone.
Jason Castro is blowing up my phone to ask if I have an opinion about which brand of strawberry jam is the luckiest one in Texas. And my brother won’t stop texting, asking how practice has been going.
“Do you think the Dallas offense looked a little shaky in last night’s game?” Eric asks me as I close my laptop on my desk.
“Definitely,” I lie, just to make him feel better. I need to get out of the office for a few minutes and think about something else. “Where’s that Ringborn contract? I’m going to make a post office run and pick up some coffee.”
“Oh, awesome. Can I have a double espresso and a cookie?” He hands me an express envelope and a five-dollar bill.
“You can have a single espresso, because you’re already jumpy. Stop watching videos of Dallas and proofread the Chickie’s contract.”
Eric grunts. “There’s no reason to restrict my caffeine intake while I’m combing through the fine print. That’s a bad strategy.”
“Fine. I’ll bring you a triple espresso if you stop talking about the Dallas game for the rest of the day.”
“Deal.” He opens the contract file.
“I’ll be about an hour, though,” I warn. “I’m meeting the girls for coffee.”
His head snaps up. “You mean Rebecca? Does she have any news about—”
I hold up a hand. “What did we just talk about?”
Eric clamps his jaws together and waves me out of the room. “Go already. Come back with coffee. And some news.”
“Can’t guarantee the news. But I will bring you that cookie.”
He gives me a smile and turns back to his work.
I head outside, pulling my coat tightly around me as the Water Street breeze hits me full force. It’s January, and the wind off the river is icy.
When I pull out my phone to check the time, I see that my brother has called again. He’s also sent a text. How are things looking for the Dallas game?
Not you, too! After I let out a groan, though, I realize I need to talk to Dave. So I tap on his name and return his call.
“Hey, Bessie!” he says after picking up on the first ring. “How’s business? Do you think my boys are rea
dy?”
“I’m sure they are. But don’t ask, okay? There are eighty-two games this season, but everyone is wound a little too tightly about this one.”
“But how is practice going?” he asks.
“Great,” I promise him. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about, though.”
“Yeah? Do you have some intel on the Dallas injuries?”
“No, blockhead. It’s not about hockey.”
“Oh,” he says, and I can hear him wondering what could possibly matter more than hockey. “What, then?”
I take a deep breath and then let it out. “I’m dating someone.”
“Dating someone,” he echoes. And then he’s silent for a moment. “Nice. Can I meet him? I promise not to punch whoever it is. But I might need to threaten him just a little bit, so he understands that I’m lethal if he’s not good to you.”
That’s more or less what I expected him to say, so I let out an uncomfortable chuckle. “It’s possible you punched him already at least once.”
“What?” Dave yelps. There’s a brief silence, and I can practically hear him doing the math. “You are not dating a hockey player. You can’t mean that. I haven’t really punched anyone, except Robbie Oswald in the fourth grade.”
“It’s not Robbie Oswald,” I say with a sigh. “Dave, I’m dating a perfectly nice hockey player here in Brooklyn.”
Dave actually moans. “I have to kill one of my teammates?”
“You don’t have to kill anyone. And he was never your teammate. It’s Mark Tankiewicz. The trade from—”
“Dallas?” Dave’s horror practically radiates through the phone. “Bess, nooooo.”
I sigh. This is exactly why I haven’t ever gotten around to telling him about Tank. Dave has a very fierce Big Brother Mode. When it kicks in, we’re eleven and fourteen again. I know Dave can’t really help his reaction. And Big Brother Mode saved my life at one point so I try not to get too irritated.
It doesn’t always work.
“You don’t know Tank,” I say as gently as I can. “But I’ve known him for almost ten years. We were briefly together when I worked for Henry Kassman.”
“How nice a guy could he be?” Dave grunts. “He’s from Dallas.”
“He’s from Washington state,” I correct. “By way of Dallas. And cut it out, because I like him very much. Also? I’m thirty years old. You don’t get a say.”
Dave falls into an unhappy silence, which means I can hear Zara in the background. “Are you getting on Bess’s case? Let me talk to her.”
“Tell Zara I’ll call her tonight,” I say, because I’m crossing under the Manhattan bridge, and both the post office and Brooklyn’s best cookie shop are in view. “I have a meeting in five minutes.”
“That’s why you dropped this bomb right now!” Dave says. “Because you have a meeting in five minutes.”
“Seems like a pretty good decision,” I say drily. “The only acceptable response to me telling you that I’m happy is for you to say, ‘That’s great, and I can’t wait to meet him.’”
Dave sighs. “That’s great,” he says woodenly. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
I laugh out loud. “Nice try. Maybe practice it in a mirror. Later, big brother.”
“Later. I love you,” he says, his voice sullen.
“Back at you.” I disconnect the call and shake my head. I run into the post office and drop off my express-mail envelope, and then hurry over to the coffee shop where the company is not quite so judgmental.
The moment I walk in the door, Becca beckons me toward a table in the corner. After I sit down, she says, “Bess, thank you for coming. I am taking on a big project, and I am going to need some of your wisdom.”
“Does it have to do with my nail color?” I ask, shedding my coat.
She shakes her head. “This is bigger than nail color. Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course!”
“Let the girl buy her coffee first!” Georgia hollers. “What if they sell out of ginger cookies?”
“I don’t mind,” I say. “Just as long as we don’t have to talk about the Dallas game.”
The women make matching faces. “That topic is strictly verboten,” Georgia agrees.
“Nate can’t shut up about it, either,” Becca says. “The players must be so stressed out. Especially Tank.”
“He’s…” I don’t even know what to say, because Tank seems stressed, too. On the one hand, he’s been loving and wonderful since our Come to Jesus conversation ten days ago. But he’s a little quiet, too. I can only hope that Dallas is the reason. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”
“Right,” Becca says, clutching a folder to her chest. “Let’s talk about my pet project, instead. It was actually you who gave me this idea, and I haven’t been able to let it go.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. And then my husband, who’s still trying to teach me to think like a billionaire. I must be getting better at it, because I’m about to bring professional women’s hockey to Brooklyn.”
I let out an honest-to-God fangirl shriek. “You’re kidding! Becca, don’t tease me.”
“Oh, I’m not. See?” She opens the folder and pushes it toward me. There’s a page full of sketches with various logos and team names. The Brooklyn Bottle Rockets. The Brooklyn Beasties. The Brooklyn Breakaway. “What do you think?”
“Wow,” I breathe. “This is everything! Are you buying out one of the women’s teams?” Women’s pro hockey is so small—just five teams—and every one of them is hanging on by their fingernails.
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “I want to fund a new one. It would be the first women’s team to enjoy the training staff and facilities of a men’s pro team. It won’t be a moneymaker, but that’s not even the point. Nate’s original goal was to bring excellent hockey to Brooklyn. And that’s what we’re doing, right?”
“You’re…wow.” For a long moment I can’t even speak. I’m just so overwhelmed with excitement and gratitude. “Can I help?” I squeak. “I mean—you can totally say no. But there will be so much work to do. And I have so many ideas. So many!” I’m starting to sound a little manic, but I can’t hold it back. “This could be big for women’s hockey.”
Rebecca reaches over and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Yes, you can help. Breathe, Bess. This is going to be a slow build.”
“Okay.” I take a breath. “Where will they play? The stadium is too big a venue.”
“True, and we don’t own it,” Becca says. “The women will play their games at the practice facility. All I have to do is add more seating behind the nets on each end, and we’ll have a capacity of twelve hundred people.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. “So the cost of hosting those games will ultimately be pretty low.”
“Right!” Becca agrees. “All the big costs are for personnel. Creating jobs in Brooklyn is a good idea, anyway. You can help me figure out who to hire.”
“You need a female GM,” I say immediately. “Someone who understands both hockey and business. And a coach, but those are easier to find. There’s a lot of under-appreciated coaching talent in women’s college hockey.”
“This is going to be so much fun,” Georgia gushes.
“It is! The world needs women’s hockey. And now I think I need a cookie.”
“Go.” Georgia shoos me toward the counter.
When I come back, Georgia and Becca have moved on. They’re discussing the finer points of appetizers. “Mini quiche can be great or terrible.” Georgia’s voice is full of gravity. “Pigs in blankets are more reliable.”
“Good point.” Becca makes a note.
“Planning a party?” I ask, sitting down with my cup of coffee and my cookie.
“Yes we are,” Becca says. “We’re hosting a little shindig at the hotel after the Game that Shall Not Be Named.”
“Don’t call it a victory party,” Georgia warns me. “We’re superstitious.”
�
�I wouldn’t dream of it,” I promise them.
“Are you flying to Texas to see it all go down?” Becca sketches a pig in a blanket into her planner.
“Maybe,” I hedge. “I’m supposed to head out to a juniors tournament the following day. But I haven’t bought any tickets yet.”
“I think you should come with us,” Georgia decides. “And Tank would agree with me. This game is going to be harder on him than anyone.”
“It is,” I agree. “I’m considering it.”
I’ve been considering it all week. But there’s a wrinkle I can’t talk about. The Dallas game happens to fall in the midpoint of my cycle. And I’m honestly not sure whether that’s a point in favor of making the trip, or not.
Am I really crazy enough to be that woman? The one who secretly tracks my fertility to try to give my boyfriend the baby he thought he could never have? Is that true love? Or just plain cuckoo?
Tank told me he can’t go there again. And I told him he didn’t have to. When I said that I’d love him no matter what, I meant it.
But a little voice in my head keeps asking: What if it just happened? What if you could have it all?
What if. What if. What if…
“Why don’t you fly out with Nate and me on the Gulfstream?” Becca says suddenly. “We could brainstorm ideas for the women’s team all the way to Texas. And you could leave for your tournament the day after the game.”
“Okay,” I say quickly. Too quickly. Becca just handed me the excuse I needed. A free trip on her private jet. And an opportunity to help women’s hockey.
This girl is going to Dallas.
This girl feels a little funny about it.
Thirty-One
Queso is Magic
Tank
“You nervous?” Silas Kelly asks me as we get off the jet in Dallas.
“Nah.” After almost a decade in the Show, a game is only a game, right? It’s just Tuesday.
But maybe I spoke too soon. The minute the bus pulls up at the stadium, my confidence starts to veer a little sideways. Suiting up in the visitors’ locker room feels wrong. And sitting on the other bench will just seem freaky.