Page 55 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Reese leans back in her chair and steeples her fingers like a therapist ready to wreck me. “We’re going to need context. Start from the beginning. Or better yet—why are you reacting like this at all? He’s just a patient.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
And then I do something reckless.
“We may have hooked up once…or twice.”
Her eyes widen. “What.”
“It was years ago during the Summer Olympics. I honestly can’t remember why he flew out. My entire family was there to support me. We were in the athlete lounge. He handed me a Gatorade and told me I looked like hell. I called him an asshole. Then somehow, it turned into this deep-dive two-hour convo about pressure and performance and why we both hate the word ‘legacy.’”
She’s frozen. Mouth open. “And?”
“Everyone else left. The lights were low. We were alone. We made out for a while and then took things to my room where they got more…intense…and naked.’”
Reese lets out a full gasp.
“And then we didn’t speak for years until he popped up here.”
“Why not?”
“Because he left without saying a word like a fucking asshole . . . and I panicked . . .”
She covers her mouth. “You’re telling me you’ve had a thing with him simmering since the Olympics?”
I hold up a finger. “Technically, prom was before that.”
“What?!” I’m pretty sure everyone in a two-thousand-mile radius heard her squawk the word.
I wave a hand as if it’s no big deal. “It was senior year. My date bailed. Jason and Leif were there for . . . I don’t even remember. But it was another time that we just talked and talked until . . . I did the dumbest thing imaginable.”
“You kissed him?”
“A little? Which means my vagina has been holding a grudge ever since—and also been aggressively campaigning for his cock for just as long.”
Reese blinks. “You’ve been pining for your brother’s best friend since high school?”
“I. Am. Not. Pining.” I gesture to myself like my body might explain things. “It’s attraction. Strong. Sudden. Aggressive attraction because my hormones need a cock.”
Then I say, “We’re almost like magnets. It’s like he walks in, and something in my uterus salutes, my vagina drips, and I’m left looking like a soggy animal out of an ASPCA commercial.”
She snorts. “So what you’re saying is, you didn’t decide to want him. Your vagina acted alone?”
“My vagina mutinied. She’s operating on instinct now.”
Reese laughs. “No wonder you were so against taking his case. You're so hung up, you're like laundry on a clothesline.”
“I’m a therapist, Reese. I do not need to be catching orgasms for a client.” I tilt my head, staring at the window, wondering if that’s even a thing.
Her eyes narrow. “Wait. You haven’t orgasmed, right?”
I shoot her a look.
She gasps. “Ella Crawford.”
“I mean . . . ” I straighten, trying for dignity. “Definitely not with him . . . recently.”
