Page 31 of Icing the Cougar
He leans in, lowering his voice. “I’m serious, Wright. This is exactly why we have a therapist on staff.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply and hurry out.
Back in the locker room, it’s a chorus of Velcro rips and hard plastic clunking against wood. Guys strip pads, toss jerseys, and fling tape balls across the room at Alfie, who catches every one and lines them up on the bench like trophies. The showers are blasting full, fogging the air and turning the place into a clammy sauna.
I’m half out of my jersey, trying to ignore the ache in my ribs, when a voice pipes up from behind.
“Hey, Jazz. You still banging that yoga cougar, or did she throw her hip out already?”
It’s one of the third-liners, an asshole with a buzzcut and a love of bar fights. The whole room goes quiet, waiting for my answer.
I feel my stomach drop. The tape I’m peeling off my stick freezes in my hand. I actually consider punching him, but I remember the last time I did that and how bad it fucked everything up.
“Yeah, I’m still with her,” I confirm. “She’s probably got more stamina than half this team.”
“Does she need a walker to get to the bedroom?” another guy chimes in, and the laughter starts up, ricocheting off the tiled walls.
I try to play it cool, but my ears go hot, and my hands won’t work right. I ball up the tape and hurl it at the garbage, missing by a mile.
Riley’s across the room, watching, but not jumping in. Smart. He knows I have to fight my own fights. He also knows there’s nothing I hate more than being the punchline.
Alfie tries to break the tension. “Hey, man, at least she won’t bail on him for the next big thing.” A couple guys snicker, but it takes the sting out.
I finish peeling off my gear, ignoring the sweat trickling down my spine. I throw my jersey into the laundry bin, slam my locker door hard, and yank on my street clothes. Every movement is jerky, like I’m trying to tear through the fabric.
The jokes keep going, but softer now. I hear “silver fox” and “GILF” somewhere in the mix, but I’m not listening. I just want out. My bag hits my shoulder with a smack, and I make for the exit, shoes squeaking on the damp tile.
Behind me, Riley calls out, “See you at Zach’s tonight?” but I don’t answer.
I can’t. I don’t trust what might come out.
By the time I hit the parking lot, the air is cold enough to bite through my shirt. My jaw aches from clenching, and my hands are numb even though it’s not that cold. I stand there, bagdangling, staring at the sunrise blur over the city, and wonder if there’s any point in going home.
Instead, I pace the length of the lot twice, then get in my car and gun it out of there, leaving tire marks on the wet concrete. I know exactly where I need to be right now.
***
I stand in the hall, fist raised to knock, but Trinity opens the door before I get there, like she felt me coming all the way up the stairs.
She’s barefoot, wearing yoga pants and one of my t-shirts from the stack I left here last week. Hair up. She looks at me and doesn’t say anything right away. She just watches, like she’s trying to figure out which version of me showed up tonight. The answer is: the worst one. The one who just spent all day getting his ego punched in the face.
“Hey,” she says, soft.
“Hey,” I echo.
She starts to say something, but I’m already inside, already backing her into the wall. I need to touch her, need to push all the noise out of my head and fill it with her instead. My mouth finds her jaw, her neck, the line where her collarbone pulls at the cotton. She tastes faintly salty, like she just finished a long run or hard workout. I don’t care. I press my body into hers, pinningher between drywall and muscle, and her hands slide up under my shirt, cold on my skin.
She gasps when I bite, harder than I mean to. Her body arches and I feel her smile against my mouth, but her eyes stay wide open, searching. I don’t give her time to find what she’s looking for. My hands grip her hips, thumbs digging in, and I lift her off her feet, carrying her to the bedroom before I say another word. She kisses me hard, grabbing fistfuls of my hair, tugging until my eyes water and I taste blood on my tongue.
“Slow down,” she whispers as I tear her shirt over her head, but she’s already pulling at my zipper, nails scraping my thigh. “Jasper, slow down—”
“I can’t,” I growl.
She gives up, lets me take what I want. Her sports bra is still damp from whatever I interrupted her from. I push it aside and mouth her nipple, biting down until she shudders. She digs her fingers into my shoulders and drags me to the bed, knees on either side of my hips. Then I flip her onto her back and hook my fingers under the waistband of her leggings, dragging them down and watching her squirm. I leave a trail of spit and bruises down her ribs, stomach, the inside of her thigh. She’s not even trying to hide the sounds she makes, little choked-off moans every time I bite or suck or press too hard.
I fuck her hard, messy, like I’m trying to erase something. I probably am. I want her to know she belongs to me, that nothing else matters, not the game, not the locker room, not the voice inmy head telling me I’m not good enough. Just her, right here, right now. I drive into her with everything I’ve got, every thrust loud against the headboard. She wraps her legs around my waist and holds on, breath hitching every time I slam her deeper into the mattress.
She says my name, sharp and desperate, over and over until it’s all I hear. I can’t look away from her face, the way her eyes roll up when I hit just the right spot, the flush rising up her throat. I want to stay in this moment, suspended, where nothing else exists. I feel her clench around me, then go tense, her head thrown back and mouth open. I keep going, chasing the feeling, until I finish with a grunt, collapsing onto her, both of us sweating and gasping for air.
