Still laughing, Garrett leans forward and my muscles breathe a sigh of relief as I slide my legs down and hook them around his ass. Immediately, the angle changes, and a moan slips out of my mouth.
"Better?" he says huskily.
"Oh my God. Yes. Do that again."
"I have no idea what I did."
"You twisted your hips, like … ooohhh … yeah, like that."
Every time he fills me, my core clamps around his erection. Every time he retreats, I feel empty, achy, desperate. I'm addicted to this guy. To his kisses and his taste, to the feel of his short hair beneath my fingers, and the smooth sinew of his back when I dig my nails into it.
His hips flex and his breathing quickens, and he thrusts harder, deeper, turning my vision into a white haze. Then he reaches to the place where we're joined and rubs my clit, and off we go. He comes first, but keeps pumping inside me even as he trembles in release. His climax sets me off and I tremble even harder, biting my lip to stop from crying out so I don't alert his roommates to the delicious sensations coursing through my body right now.
Afterward, he rolls on his back and I lie on top of him, scaling his body like a monkey as I plant little kisses on his face and neck.
"Why do you always have so much more energy after sex?" he grumbles.
"Don't know. Don't care." I smack kisses all over him, until he's laughing in delight. I know he likes the attention, and it's a good thing he does because I can't stop giving it to him. For some reason, I turn into an affection monster when I'm around him.
Life is good again. A week has passed since Thanksgiving, and Garrett and I are still going strong. We've been busy, though. All our final papers are due soon, including the one for Tolbert's class, which I've been helping Garrett with. His practice schedule is just as jam-packed as ever, and so is mine as I prepare for the showcase. But hey, at least I'm finally excited about it again.
Jae and I came up with an arrangement that I love, and I'm confident I'm going to put on a hell of a performance. But I still haven't forgiven Cass and Mary Jane for what they did. MJ has texted several times asking if we can meet up and talk, but I've been ignoring her, and since Fiona got me my own rehearsal space in one of the senior choir rooms, I haven't run into MJ or Cass since they dumped me.
And the icing on the I-love-my-fucking-life cake? My dad called last week with some good news-my parents are meeting me at Aunt Nicole's for Christmas. I've already booked my ticket, and I can't wait to see them, but I'm disappointed that Garrett can't come with me. I invited him, but the dates didn't work out because the team's got a game scheduled the day after I leave, and another one two days before I get back. So Garrett will be spending the holidays with Logan, who is apparently from a town twenty minutes from Hastings.
Loud pounding on Garrett's door jolts me out of my happy thoughts. The door is locked so I'm not worried about anyone barging in, but I still reach for the blanket out of habit.
"Sorry to interrupt, boys and girls," Logan calls out, "but it's time to put your p's and v's away. Gotta go, G."
I shoot Garrett a blank look. "P's and v's?" Half the time I can barely make sense of Logan's made-up acronyms and abbreviations.
Garrett grins at me. "Oh come on, really? Even I got one. It's grade school shit."
I think it over, then blush. "How exactly does one put away their vagina?"
He snickers. "Ask Logan. Actually, please don't." He slides out of bed and wanders around searching for his clothes. "Are you coming to the game after rehearsal?"
"Yeah, but I don't think I'll make it before the second period. Argh. By the time I get to the arena, it'll probably be standing room only."
"I'll get someone to save a seat for you."
"Thanks."
I pop into the bathroom, freshen up, and come out to find Garrett on the edge of the bed, leaning over to put on a pair of socks. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him. Messy hair, biceps flexing, red splotches on his neck from where I nibbled on it. He's frickin' gorgeous.
Five minutes later, we leave his house and go our separate ways. I have Tracy's car, so I drive back to campus for rehearsal. Now that Cass is out of the picture, I can finally enjoy singing again.
And I do. My own personal cellist and I hammer out the ending of the song, and a couple hours later, I'm driving toward Briar's hockey center. I texted Allie to see if she wanted to come to the game with me, but she's busy with Sean, and my other friends are buried under mountains of schoolwork, which makes me grateful that I got a head start on mine. Most of my courses are performance or music theory, so I've really only had to focus on the British Lit and Ethics papers, both of which are almost done.
I get to the arena later than I hoped. The third period has just started, and I'm dismayed to see 1-1 flashing on the scoreboard, because Briar is playing a Division II team from Buffalo tonight. Garrett had been confident the game wouldn't be at all competitive, but apparently he was wrong.
There's an empty seat waiting for me behind the home team's bench courtesy of a senior named Natalie. Garrett has mentioned her before, but I haven't met her until now. Apparently she's been dating Birdie since freshman year, which is impressive. A lot of college relationships don't seem to last that long.
Natalie is funny and sweet, and we have a good time watching the game together. When Dean takes a particularly hard hit that sends him sprawling across the ice, we both gasp in alarm.
"Oh my God," Natalie bursts out. "Is he okay?"
Fortunately, Dean is fine. He shakes it off and jumps up, skating toward the Briar box for a line change. The moment Garrett hits the ice, my pulse speeds up. He's a force to be reckoned with. Fast footwork, skilled stickhandling, hard hitter. His first pass connects with Birdie's stick and they fly across the blue line into the zone. Birdie dumps the puck and Garrett chases it. So does the other team's center, and elbows are thrown behind the crease as the Buffalo forward tries to gain the upper hand.
Garrett comes out victorious and zips around the net, snapping off a quick shot. The goalie stops it easily, but the rebound bounces directly in Birdie's path. He slaps the puck right back at the goaltender, whose glove whips up a second too late.
Natalie leaps to her feet and cheers herself hoarse as Birdie's goal lights the scoreboard. We hug excitedly, then hold our breaths as the last three minutes of play tick by. The other team scrambles to gain possession of the puck, but Briar's sophomore center wins the next faceoff and we dominate the rest of the game, which ends with a final score of 2-1.
Natalie and I walk toward the aisle, jostled in all directions as we're shuffled down the stairs like cattle.
"I'm so glad you're with Garrett," she gushes.
The comment makes me smile, because she's only known me for twenty minutes. "Me too," I answer.
"Seriously. He's such a great guy, but he's so fricking intense when it comes to hockey. He hardly drinks, doesn't gets serious with anyone. It's not healthy to be that focused on something, you know?"
We leave the rink but don't head to the arena exit. Instead, we make our way through the crowd toward the hallway that leads to the locker rooms so we can wait for our guys. Garrett Graham is my guy. It's a surreal thought, but I like it.
"That's why I think you're good for him," she says. "He looks so happy and relaxed every time I see him."
My spine stiffens when I spot a familiar face in the crowd.
Garrett's father.
He's twenty feet away from us, headed in the same direction as we are. His baseball cap rests low on his forehead, but that doesn't stop him from getting noticed, because a group of guys in Briar jerseys quickly approach him for an autograph. He signs their jerseys, then a photo that one of them hands him. I can't see the picture, but I imagine it's an action shot of him from his glory days, just like the ones I saw framed in his house. Phil Graham, hockey legend.
Now living vicariously through his son.
I'm so focused on my hatred for Garrett's father that I don't pay attention to where I'm walking, and a startled laugh leaves my mouth when I bump into someone. Hard.
"I'm sorry. I wasn't watching where-" The apology dies on my lips when I notice who I bumped into.
Rob Delaney looks as stunned as I feel.
In the split second that our eyes lock, I turn into an ice statue. Shivers wrack every inch of my body. My feet are frozen in place. Wave after wave of horror slams into me.
I haven't seen Rob since the day he testified in court-on my rapist's behalf.
I don't know what to say. Or do. Or think.
Someone shouts, "Wellsy!"
I turn my head.
When I turn it back, Rob is hurrying away like he's trying to outrun a bullet.
I can't breathe.
Garrett comes up beside me. I know it's him because I recognize the gentle sweep of his hand on my cheek, but my gaze stays glued to Rob's retreating back. He's wearing a Buffalo State jacket. Does he go there? I never bothered finding out what happened to Aaron's friends. Where they went to college, what they're doing now. The last time I had any contact with Rob Delaney, it was indirectly. It was when my dad attacked Rob's father in the hardware store in Ransom.