And it works. He gets completely distracted.
"Horny?" he asks with a cocked eyebrow.
"Mmmm-hmmm," I answer with a sultry purse of my lips. "I'll show you when we get back to the room."
"Let's go now," he suggests.
"Let's eat dinner first," I counter.
He grins before leaning toward me and kissing my forehead. "Dinner first. But just so you know, I have a special surprise planned when we get back to the room."
"You do?" I ask in delight. "What is it?"
"You do understand the meaning of surprise, right?"
I give him a tiny punch--love tap really--in his stomach and grin up at him. "Well, I might have a surprise for you."
"Well, shit," he says sourly. "I obviously want to know what it is."
"Sucks, doesn't it?" I quip.
"Okay, I'll tell you if you tell me. Let's just out our surprises," he suggests.
"Fine. You first."
"Without giving away all details, let's just say I had the hotel do a little romantic setup for us in the room. It might involve candles, roses, and champagne."
My jaw drops open and I give him a harder punch to his stomach and he winces. "I can't believe you just told me that. The surprise is ruined."
"You told me to tell you," he says with a grimace, rubbing his stomach.
I huff and give him a look of mock annoyance. "Well, it's not a surprise anymore."
"Which is what happens when you tell me to tell you the surprise," he points out with a laugh. I can't help it...the smile comes.
"So what's my surprise?" he asks as he leans in closer to me. With his lips against my ear he asks, "Am I going to like it?"
I nod and turn my mouth so it's now near his ear and I whisper, "I'm going to give you the best blow job you've ever had. I'm going to suck you until you blow harder than you've ever blown before. Right. Down. My. Throat."
Max shudders and he growls, "Jesus fucking Christ, Jules. You cannot say that to me and not think I'm not going to drag you out of here...possibly by your hair like a caveman."
I giggle and step back from him, my hand dropping to his waist, where I give him a little squeeze. "Patience, baby. The wait will make it better."
"I need a drink," he mutters and grabs my hand to lead me toward the bar. "Come on."
I start to follow but he abruptly stops and turns to me. I look up at him and see a soft, tender look on his face.
"And Jules," he says quietly.
"Yes?"
"Thanks for coming this weekend. It means a lot to me."
My heart starts tripping madly over the sincerity in his voice and I have the sudden, maddening urge to fling myself into his arms and kiss him crazily in front of all these people. Then I want to scream out to this entire room that he's mine, mine, mine, and I'm never letting him go.
But I don't do any of those things for fear of being labeled a fool and a gold digger. So I just smile up at him. "You mean a lot to me, Max."
He beams a smile at me that lights up the freaking room, and I think I could stare at him like this for hours on end and not ever get tired of it.
Never.
I'll have to admit. This is a weird fucking feeling I've got going on as I step off the team bus and head into the hotel.
We got our asses handed to us tonight. I guess it's payback from the Eagles for us whipping their asses yesterday. One of the main reasons we lost tonight is because I played shitty. I was just a little off, and it was nothing major I could put my finger on, but two goals I'd allowed were definitely my fault.
That is the nature of the beast in professional sports. You play at an elite level because your talent is better and your training is harder than the others. You have more drive and determination. Stronger mental fortitude. Your spirit of competition is unrivaled.
But that doesn't mean you don't have bad games. I learned long ago we're all human and there are going to be some games where I am just off.
Tonight was one of those nights. I accept it and my team accepts it, but it still doesn't mean it's not a pisser. Normally when I lose a game I'll be in a bad attitude for a solid twenty-four hours. I'll replay in my head every goal I allowed in and what I could have done differently. I'll sulk. I'll be a douche to any teammate that tries to talk to me, which is okay, because they're all in the same mindset as me. No one is happy after a loss.
The interesting thing is, I haven't had the opportunity to see Jules after a loss. There haven't been many since the regular season started and each one that occurred happened either on the road or on a night when I did not go to see Jules after the game, mainly because I didn't want to disturb her painting with my sour attitude.
But right now, as I walk through the lobby to the elevator doors, along with my entire sulking, grumbling team, I've just got a weird fucking feeling going on. I'm pissed at myself for the loss and I'm in generally bad spirits. That's normal. But I've also got this underlying hum of excitement that Jules is upstairs waiting in my room for me, probably prepared to give me emotional support.
I know Jules is in the room because I texted her while I was still in the locker room. We'd made tentative plans to go out for some drinks together.
Alone.
Just me and her.
But my text to her was simple. Not feeling like going out. See you in the room.
She wrote back. Totally understand. See you soon.
She totally understands.
Because she's Jules.
I cram into the elevator with about ten other guys and we ride up silently, the car stopping on two floors before reaching mine. I get off with two other teammates, none of us saying a word as we walk to our rooms.
Yeah...we're all in shitty moods but tomorrow we'll get our heads back on straight and look to the next game.
I slide the plastic key in the slot on the room door, and before I push it all the way in, I consider what is waiting on the other side for me.
Not a team loss.
Not a shitty performance by yours truly.
Not a bitter night of moping.
No second thoughts, recriminations, or self-loathing.
Certainly no fear that I'm losing my touch.
On the other side of this door is a woman who brings so much fulfillment and joy into my world, who believes in me so thoroughly--a woman who utterly fucking brightens even my most miserable fucking situation--there can only be one way that this evening is going to end.
I push the keycard all the way in and when the little light turns green I push down on the lever and open the door.
And there she stands, face all pinched with worry for me and in her hand an icy cold Molson beer that's extended toward me in offering. She took off her Fournier jersey and only has on a pair of jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, her feet covered in fluffy socks.
Stepping in, I shut the door behind me and lock it. I shed my winter coat as my eyes go to the beer. "That for me?"
"Figured you could use it," she says hesitantly and I now see that the worry in her eyes is not only for how I'm feeling after such a loss, but how I'm going to react. "They didn't have any Molson in the minifridge so I went down to the bar in the lobby and got a few for you."
I stare at the beer a minute, then slide my eyes to hers.
"Um...I can get more if you want some," she adds quietly.
I hate that uncertainty in her voice. I hate the way she's unsure of how I'll be tonight after a loss. Or how I'll treat her because I might be in a bad mood.
It's just not something we've had to deal with yet in our relationship.