Van (Cold Fury Hockey 9)

Etta picks up her cup and takes another sip. Her eyes shine at me over the rim, and when she lowers it, she tells me, "I think Van was just waiting for you. He needed someone who could push at him, hear all the ugly and still be strong enough to shoulder it. There aren't many women like that, and he knows it. Trust me when I say he knows how lucky he is."

"I think I do know it," I say with a fond smile over the many ways this past week Van has shown me a sweeter, gentler side. A side where he actually has conversations with me, and he jokes and laughs. He may not be able to express all of his emotions, but I think the most important message has been in his actions.

Van is ready for something new, and even though I know he probably still has fears and uncertainties, I'm going to be by his side while he figures it all out.

--

There's not much upside when a professional athlete has a bad game. Particularly if it occurs during the play-offs. I've borne the brunt of my brothers' tempers and frustration before, and I was not looking forward to seeing how Van would process the horrible game he'd had tonight. It's the first time he truly played bad since we started seeing each other, and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out he has other things on his mind.

I'd like to say it's just the stress from a reporter calling Etta yesterday, but I'm smart enough to know it's a myriad of things, with the reporter being the proverbial straw. Van's been involved in a secretive sexual relationship with his teammates' little sister, he has a serial killer father with terminal cancer whom he recently saw for the first time in almost two decades, and now he has an actual girlfriend...the first one in his life. Add that he's playing in the Stanley Cup finals before the two women in his life who are most important to him, and I'm sure that's sufficient reason for the way he played.

He passed wide, missed checks, and fanned on a few shots. He got in a fight and got his ass kicked, much to the shock of the Vancouver home crowed who went apeshit when he caught a hook to the side of the head and lost his balance. That resulted in some stitches to his left eyebrow, and I try not to focus on it as I sit on Van's cock while I ride him.

"Faster," he growls at me, his hands going to my hips. Big, strong hands pulling me up, slamming me back down...not giving me a chance to give him what he wants.

His mood seems to get pissier the more I undulate on top of him, but I'm not surprised. The mood was clear when he walked into the room we're sharing tonight and put me on my knees before him.

I didn't mind, and in fact was turned on as he leaned back against the door with his pants undone and his hands holding my head in place so he could fuck my face.

But that didn't seem to appease him. So he stripped me, then himself, and planted me on his lap in the bed. He ordered me to ride him hard and I've been doing so for several minutes. I've been on the verge of an orgasm, but I've been holding off, wanting us to come together.

He's not giving it to me, though.

I can't figure out if maybe my shine is indeed wearing off, he's pissed at his game play, or maybe he just can't concentrate right now.

Regardless, my sexual esteem is at an all-time low right now and I have the first moment of doubt in my ability to maintain a relationship with Van.

This is deepened when with a snarl of frustration he pushes me off his cock and flips me over. He jerks me up to my hands and knees and drives himself deep into me from behind, our flesh cracking hard against each other.

And yes, fuck yes, it feels good. Van pulling out slowly just to punch back in with almost a brutal focus. No dirty words or soft praises. He grunts every time he bottoms out, sucking in air when he pulls back. His fingers dig into my hips, and I know he's taking out his anger and frustration on my body.

He doesn't know it, but he's taking it out on my heart too, but I will bear that silently. He doesn't need to know that he's slightly hurting my feelings right now. What he needs is a release, and then he needs to let me hold him.

I'm convinced of it.

So Van fucks me from behind, sharing nothing with me but a powerful hip action so he hits me deep. His grip on my hips is to hold me still, not to caress, and he doesn't say a word to me.

I bear this as well, and figure this might actually be the first time that Van comes that he doesn't get me there first. But then to my surprise, he curls his body over my back, bringing one hand to my clit. His grunts turn into soft groans as he fucks me a little slower, playing with that one spot that will absolutely get me where he wants me to go.

When I get close and start to tighten up, and he can always tell when I suck in that last big breath before I explode, he starts hammering at me again. My hope and faith is restored when Van growls out my name with his climax and only as I start to come apart first.

Van figured out how to get us there together, and that was clearly important to him.

Yes...this gives me great hope.

After our heart rates calm, and Van situates us in the bed so that he's spooned around me, I ask him hesitantly, "You okay?"

I don't think he's going to give me much, as he's quiet for what seems like ages, but then his arms tighten around me. "Just got a lot on my mind. Sorry that wasn't the greatest sex we've had."

I can't help it, but I burst out laughing. I can almost feel the offense in his body as I turn in his arms so I can look at him, and yes...he's offended that I'm laughing.

"Jesus, Van," I chide softly. "If you don't think that was great sex, and that's bad sex with you, then I'm okay with us having bad sex the rest of our days."

"I was rough," he points out.

"I love it rough," I remind him, and then I press the front of my body close to his, pushing my face into his neck. "Now...want to talk about what's on your mind?"

"Do I really need to?" he asks. "You're like the most intuitive woman I know. I'm sure you have me figured out."

He's giving me an opening. He's allowing me to explain all the ways in which his head is fucked up right now.

But I don't need to. He knows what's wrong, and I know what's wrong, so all I do is validate him. "You have plenty of things on your mind, and I'm pretty sure I know what they are and how they rank in order of importance. Want to talk about any of them?"

I wait for him to say no, because that's what I expect out of this stoic man, and I'm okay with that. I'm even ready to lighten the mood with a joke, or perhaps I can tease his body back to life for round two.

Instead he surprises me with, "I want to know how it went with Etta today. It's important to me that you two get along."

There have been a few times over the past week that Van has made my heart clench with pure emotion, but nothing he's done has made me feel this way. I can feel my entire being just melt with absolute joy that that is what weighs the heaviest on him right now.

"We're like peanut butter and jelly," I tell him. "She's the type of woman I could talk to for hours, and well...she's got all these embarrassing stories about you growing up."

Van gives a soft, relieved laugh.

"Seriously, though," I tell him. "She's amazing, and it's no wonder you love her so much."

"I'm glad," he says, and then I can feel his body settling. I take this as an indication that he's at peace enough with everything else that we should get some shut-eye. It's been a grueling two days between the reporter's call, traveling across the United States, and the first away play-off game for the finals, which they lost.

But just as I wiggle a little to get more comfortable in his arms, he makes me go still when he mutters, "I played like fucking crap tonight."

I hold my breath, afraid to even move. I have no clue what to say. Van and I don't talk about his hockey prowess. We've never needed to because he always plays so damn great. But more than that, I don't know the game on a level deep enough I could help him analyze the mechanics where he was failing. I just know he missed some passes, but how or why, I have no clue.

So I wait and see if he just wants to vent.

"Too much shit on my mind," he continues, and I let my breath out slowly. I do nothing more than squeeze him with my arms. "Losing my focus out there."

"You'll get it back." I feel safe enough to say that because Van is one of the most determined men I know. "Everyone has off days."

"Not during the play-offs," he argues and there's no mistaking the bitterness. "Fucking Arco's still messing up my life."

God, I want to take him, palms to the side of his head, and squeeze so I have his undivided attention. I want to laser my eyes onto him with such intensity he will be powerless to look away.

And then I want to tell him that's not fucking true. Arco is done. He's dying. Van has the rest of a glorious life in front of him. Concentrate on that. Celebrate that. But don't boil a shitty game down to the fucker who fertilized your mom's egg.

But I don't.

I can't say that because Van doesn't want to hear that. More important, he doesn't want to hear that from me. Van has come to expect that I will give him the time and space necessary for him to figure out his limits. It's a given that Arco will continue to hang over some of the decisions he makes in life.

It's a given that Arco will continue to influence just how far Van will be able to open himself up fully to a relationship, and possibly love.

I don't even dare to think past that, because that's so far down the road the distance could be unsurmountable.

So I do what I think is best to deal with Van in this situation: give him another squeeze of validation for his feelings.