Page 18 of Power Move
“Tighter.” I slide my hands over his waist, linking them at his back. The strength in his hold increases. “That’s perfect.”
“Can I kiss you?” His words tease over my ear, raising goosebumps on my body.
“Please.”
My lips skim his cheek as we turn our heads. His mouth finds mine, and my heart sighs at the taste of him. My mind quiets and my muscles loosen. This is what I needed. Rhys iswhoI needed.
We kiss for what seems like hours. Every second in his arms calms and centers me. I’ve been so needy today. I want to show him I can be there for him too. More importantly, I want to thank him.
My hands journey up his back, then around to his front to stroke up his chest and over his stomach. The soft slide of his athletic shirt is like satin under my hands. We kiss, and I press closer, my cock pitching a tent in my jeans. Rubbing it over his thigh, I groan at the feel of his bulge growing harder against my stomach.
His palms glide under my shirt, and he groans, rocking into me. The roughness of his caresses makes my blood run hot. I work my hands between us, ripping open the button of my jeans and lowering the zipper. He moans his approval, and we both work to ease down his sweats and boxers, and then mine.
One handed, he whips the tee over his head and tosses it on the bed. He’s far more gentle with mine, raising it while trailing his fingertips over my skin, his eyes full of sexy smolder.
With the shirt gone, he lets his hands roam free and I do the same. I’ve seen him shirtless and more in the locker room, but today, I get to look my fill.
He’s gorgeous. Skin paler than mine dotted with freckles, sculpted muscles, and a thin mat of auburn hair on his chest and stomach, tapering down to his cock.
Rhys’s gaze devours me as his roaming hands send me higher. He cups my cheek, leans in, and seals his mouth over mine. I lose myself in the delicious slide of skin to skin, the two of us rubbing off on each other, until he wraps his hand around my cock, and strong strokes take me over the edge where the only thing that exists is pleasure and him.
Still flying, I take him in my grasp, and the room fills with the soundtrack of his breaths and groans. With his whisper of my name, the wetness of his release coats my skin.
We fall onto the bed, wrapped in each other, and for the first time all day, I’m at peace.
The Metros jerseys lined up at each stall are bright spots of color in the stark visitors’ locker room. Walking in with Remy and Morgan, I scan the row of purple names and numbers.
There, in between jerseys for Morgan and Maxim, is mine. Murray and the number eleven on the back of a Metros jersey. I run my finger over the letters and everything fades away. Conversations, lockers slamming, the smell of bleach and sweat, all gone. Only the smooth fabric of the M, the curve of the U, the matching bumps of the Rs, the long lines of the A, and the open arms of the Y exist. My skin pricks with goosebumps and my head spins in the best way.
Beside me, Morgan traces his name. His blond hair falls over his forehead as he shakes his head and smiles. “Wild, right?”
“Yeah.” The ball of anticipation in my stomach grows bigger and bigger. Listening to Maxim converse in French with his teammate on the other side of his stall, I get into my gear, then the uniform. Purple socks, shorts, and gloves, and on the white jersey, the Metros logo is prominent across the chest. My hands shaking, I slide the jersey over my head, taking the same care I did the first time I pulled on a Slash jersey. One more step closer to my dream.
Looking down at that star of purple edged in gold, I bite my cheek against the swell of emotion threatening to choke me. I’ll fight until I can’t any longer to prove I belong here.
“Looking good, boys.” Remy joins Morgan and me. “Good luck out there tonight. Have fun. And remember, if you score a goal, you gotta buy us all a drink.”
“Ha ha.” Morgan motions for him to come closer, then lowers his voice, “I’m so freaking nervous.”
I crowd in too. “Same.”
“So was I, my first game. It gets easier.” Remy loops his arms around our shoulders. “If you need to playwhat’s the worst that can happen, we’ve got you.”
“I did that earlier with Rhys.” I glance his way. Seated across the room, Rhys chats with Jonas. “I’m okay.”
The door swings open. Coach Grant comes in, and the room’s chatter dies down. He strides from one side of the room to the other, reminding me of a prowling tiger. “All right. Starting lineup tonight, we have Quinn, Maxim, and Nicklas. Rhys and Remy on the blue line. Pierre in between the pipes. Let’s have a good game, fellas.”
My teammates break into whoops, clapping their hands. Everyone stands, Coach leaves, and we’re ready to head onto the ice for warmups. Jangling nerves and anticipation carry me into the corridor behind Remy.
The closer we get to the ice, the bigger the feeling grows. Music blares throughout the arena. My heart races as I skate onto that smooth sheet of ice, stick in hand. There are so many people, maybe three times the size we get at Slash games.
I do a lap around our zone, taking deep breaths, soaking up the moment. The crowd, the cool air on my face, the smell of the ice, the fact that I’m here.Here. Some players never make it this far.
Morgan slides a puck my way. We join our teammates in shooting pucks at Pierre, and running through basic line drills with Jonas. Rhys passes me, working with Remy, and pats my ass with his stick.
That little touch, and his smile, stay with me through the rest of warmups.
When I return to the locker room, he waits for me by my stall. Tall and broad, his auburn hair shining in the lights, he’s a captivating presence. “You looked good out there. I like you in this jersey.”
