The Game That Breaks Us (Us 3)

“Come here.” He opens his arms for me.

I hesitate for only a second before taking him up on the offer. I cuddle against his chest and he brushes his fingers through my hair.

I want to ask him what this means. How this

changes what we are and what we’ve been doing, but I’m scared he’ll say he wants things to continue as they are so I don’t say anything. I just enjoy the moment.

I can’t get what happened between Grace and me out of my head, and it’s been three days. Three fucking days of me playing a blowjob on loop in my mind, but I wasn’t lying when I told her it was the hottest thing to ever happen to me. Grace thinks that because she’s a virgin she has no sex appeal, but she’s so wrong. I’m more attracted to her than I ever have been to another girl. Most of the time I’ve slept with women I only just met. I never have the chance to get to know them. We fuck and I leave or she leaves. That’s it. But I do know Grace and I … I don’t love her, but I like her. I like her a lot. I care about her more than I should and that made what we did so much more powerful. She hasn’t said anything about it since it happened, and I don’t know whether that’s because she’s embarrassed or doesn’t want me to get my hopes up that it’ll happen again. Thankfully, she acts normal, not like it scared her or anything. So that’s good, I guess.

“James! What the fuck are you doing? Move!” Coach yells at me so loud that his voice echoes through the entire arena.

I’m supposed to be practicing with the team but my mind’s not in it.

For the first time in my life, hockey isn’t my sole focus. A girl is.

I skate down the ice and Tanner rams into me. I am this close to punching the fucker in the face. It’s been months, and I’m pretty sure he’s still pissed Grace is my girlfriend. He’d never be good enough for her, though. No guy is.

I shove Tanner into the glass and it vibrates with the force of his weight.

Tanner comes after me more than he does anyone else during practice. I usually go easy on him because he’s a fucking freshman and has a lot of maturing to do, but fuck it, it’s time to give the kid a taste of his own medicine.

He comes after me again and I ram him with my shoulder hard enough that he falls to the ice and slides away.

I chuckle around my mouth-guard and leave him to pick himself up.

Michael passes the puck to me and I sling it to another player named Roscoe who shoots it toward the goal. The goalie blocks it and we all groan.

“Stop playing like a bunch of girls!” Coach yells. “Arnett,” he says, referring to Roscoe, “you can do better than that!” We play for another hour before Coach calls it a day. “Come see me after you shower, James. Don’t come to my office smelling like a damn sweaty pig,” he says gruffly before leaving us to go down the tunnel.

I feel like every time he asks me to come see him it’s never good news. We’re into December now and I’m still not back with my team. I’m losing precious time.

I shower as quickly as I can and change into a pair of jeans and a sweater that Grace got me. It’s a little too preppy for my taste but I can’t argue about the fact that I definitely feel a hell of a lot more professional in the clothes she picked. I just have to get used to them.

I head down to Coach’s office and knock once.

“Come in and shut the door behind you,” he orders.

I take a deep breath before I open the door. If shit’s about to hit the fan, I want to at least brace myself before it happens.

I step into Coach’s shoebox-size office and wonder again why the man likes this tiny hole for an office.

“Bennett,” he says my name on a sigh and leans back in his chair. It squeaks from his weight and for a second I think he might fall, but apparently, the chair is in a lot better shape than it looks. “What are you still doing here?”

“I keep asking myself that too, Coach.”

“You’re a professional player, Bennett,” he says, like I don’t already know. “You don’t belong out there with a bunch of college kids. Go back to your team.”

I look away. “Coach Matthews won’t let me back. They’re investigating me.”

“Investigating you?” Coach’s brows knit into a line. “What the hell for?”

I shrug. “I told you, Matthews hates me.”

Coach snorts. “So you keep telling me, but you won’t tell me why he hates you. You must have done something.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I snap, offended that he’d suggest that it’s my fault. I’ve done a lot of shitty things, but I’m not a bad person.

Coach slams his hand down on the table. “Then tell me what it is. You must know.” A vein in his forehead pulses—a telltale sign that he’s pissed. “A coach doesn’t keep one of his best players benched for no reason.”