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Hudson: Stop teasing me woman. Gotta go, I’ll call you as soon as I’m back to the room.
Caroline: Knock em dead,Romeo.
“Earth to Caroline.” Tatum waves her hand in front of my face from beside my bed, and I toss my phone onto the bed, giving her my full attention. She’s in a completely different outfit with her makeup done, looking so cute. “I’m headed out, and I’m staying at Zach’s this weekend, so I probably won’t be back until Sunday. Have fun with your lover boy. Love you. Byeeee.” She drops a quick kiss to my cheek before grabbing her overnight bag from the bed and leaving me in a slightly less destroyed room, all alone.
I sprint from the bed, snatch the shopping bag from the top of my desk, and reach inside. My fingers graze the jersey inside, tracing over the letters on the back.
Rome.
30.
I take off my clothes, sliding the jersey over my bare skin, and grab a pair of the sexiest panties from the hundreds that Hudson had sent over. The see-through black lace ones with the bow on the back that remind me of a present waiting to be unwrapped.
When he gets his phone tonight after the game, the first thing he’s going to see are these pictures, and I can’t wait to see his reaction.
Kneeling down in front of the full-length mirror, I pull the jersey up higher to expose my ass and the thin black string of lace between them, I gather my hair to the side, ensuring his name and number are visible from this angle. I snap a few pictures, then switch positions to take a few more.
A girl needs options, especially when you’re sending them to the literal hottest man on the planet, who’s a famous hockey player.
God, that feels so weird to say. Hudson’s this accomplished goalie, and I’m just a girl… in college… thirteen years younger than him… Us beingtogetheris weird on the surface.
But it doesn’t feel that way when we’re together. It just feels right. Natural.
Like he’s becoming one of my best friends, and I don’t want to question things or complicate them because I love things just the way that they are. Chill.
My finger hovers over the Send button, hesitating for only a moment before I press it and then I pick up the remote and put on his game. I can’t help the smile that touches my lips when I see him guarding the net, his hulking body dropping at the blink of an eye to stop the puck.
Onscreen, he moves a lot like he does when he’s between my thighs. Powerfully, confidently, assuredly. There’s no hesitation in his movements; they’re steadfast and graceful.
I’m in awe.
It’s the first time I’ve really seen him play, aside from when he’s played at the rink with the kids, and that’s completely different. He’s Coach Hudson then.
On the screen? Out on that ice?
He’s the Playboy Playmaker.
I spend the next two hours attempting to work on my paper, but my eyes keep dragging back to the screen, focusing more on the game and Hudson than the introduction of general chemistry.
By the third period, I’ve abandoned my books completely and am pacing in front of the TV, chewing my nails nervously. The Avalanches are tied with two minutes left on the clock, and my nerves are completely shot.
Holy shit.
This is intense.
The camera flits back to my dad, who’s pacing just like I am, his charcoal suit slightly rumpled, along with his hair from running his hands through it in exasperation.
This has been a game far more interesting than a shutout, if I do say so myself. The adrenaline has my blood pumping and my heart pounding wildly.
I need them to win. Theyneedto win!
With thirty-four seconds left, Reed Davis flies down the ice so fast that I can hardly keep up with the puck. He pulls back, taking his shot into the net.
A second passes. My breath stops. My heart pounds.
Then… the crowd goes wild.
Absolutely feral.
