Page 8 of Changing the Playbook
“Because we have all night.” I rest my forehead against hers, drinking in the sight of her—cheeks flushed, irises dark. “And I want to savor every second of it.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” I brush my thumb across her bottom lip, feeling it tremble slightly under my touch. “Has anyone ever taken their time with you before?”
The way she glances away, suddenly fascinated by my shoulder, tells me everything. How many guys has she been with who treated her body like a speedrun? Who blasted through foreplay, trying to get to the “good part”? Who never once asked what made her toes curl?
I want their addresses.
For violence purposes.
Not that I’m claiming to be a saint over here. Before last year, I was just as guilty—showing up, getting mine, and bouncing with the vague assumption that my partner had enjoyed herself too. I’d never asked and never checked, because I’d never needed to.
Because hockey players don’t have to work for attention.
Which is maybe why Sophie intrigues me so much. She clearly has no idea I play hockey, but she made it crystal clear at the bar that she’s interested in the other parts of me—the terrible clay pottery, the guy who quotesThe Officeat inappropriate moments—so I rolled with it.
If she’s learning to slow down for the first time, I’m learning what it’s like to just be Mike. Not Mike, captain of the Pine Barren Devils hockey team, or Mike who might go pro next year, just Mike—the guy who’s currently harder than his human movement final and trying not to show it.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Here I am, reformed and eager to worship at the altar of her pleasure, and she keeps trying to rush past her own communion. I want to bury her under an avalanche of pleasure, and she’s content to kick a few stones and be done with it.
A memory ambushes me. Melissa’s eyes (or was it Melanie?) going glassy when I’d delivered my standard “not looking for anything serious” speech after our third hookup. The dignity she’d gathered around herself like armor before walking out. The text:Did I do something wrong?
No, Melissa (Melanie?), I did.
Then came my ankle. My spiral. My therapist’s office with its too-comfortable chairs and the tissue box I definitely didn’t need, thank you very much. Her gentle dismantling of my entire personality, helping me see I’d been using people like ice packs, a temporary relief for all the bruised places inside me.
She also helped me to understand that my obsession with hockey wasn’t just about the sport, but about having a clear scoreboard for my worth. Previously, I didn’t know who Mike Altman was without hockey, but now I know he’s a guy who makes pottery that looks like melted traffic cones.
“I was a selfish dick,” I say aloud, not meaning to.
Sophie’s eyes snap to mine. “What?”
“Nothing. Just…” I shake my head. “Thinking about how I used to be.”
“And how was that?”
“Selfish, especially in bed.” I trace the delicate shell of her ear with my fingertip, watching goosebumps cascade down her neck like dominoes. “I never asked what my partners wanted. I just took what I needed and figured my mere presence was gift enough to them.”
Her breathing changes as I map the elegant line of her collarbone with my thumb. “And now?”
“Now I’m like one of those former smokers who becomes militantly anti-cigarette after they quit.” My lips find her temple, tasting the faint salt of nervous sweat there. “Turns out, making someone else totally lose their mind is the ultimate high, even if they’re nervous...”
“I’m not nervous,” she says, but it’s too quick and too sharp to be convincing, like a slapshot with no follow-through.
“OK.” I don’t push. “But if you are—which would be completely normal—I want you to know I’ll check in with you every step of the way, Sophie.”
The tension in her shoulders doesn’t ease. She’s wound tighter than playoff overtime. I remember her earlier remark about preferring not to think during sex, about wanting to follow someone else’s lead, and I wonder why being a passenger is the goal.
“How about this?” I guide her hand to my wrist, letting her fingers curl around it. “If at any point you’re uncomfortable or want me to stop, just squeeze.”
Relief transforms her face, and she lets out a long exhale. “That’s… that’s actually perfect, Mike.”
“Good.” I kiss her again, softer this time, tasting strawberry lip gloss. “Now, can I undress you?”
Her eyes go wide. “Yes.”
I start with her shirt, lifting it with reverence. Inch by inch, pale skin emerges in the amber bedroom light, soft shadows pooling in the hollows of her throat, highlighting the gentle rise and fall of her chest. I lean in, pressing my lips to her neck, feeling her heartbeat against my mouth.
