Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) (9 page)

David goes very still again. Another decision point. I can’t get a good read on him; if he’s a dominant, like he implied, then maybe that’s why I can’t seem to bully him the way I can others. Hmm. This new way of viewing things has all kinds of interesting implications for how I approach my work.

“We were just kids still. We didn’t really understand what we were doing. The—the implications.”

I
hmm
to myself. “The psychological implications of submitting yourself completely to someone else’s control?”

“Yeah. Something like that.” His downward frown tells me that’s not quite what he means, but he doesn’t want to correct himself. “For some, it’s a total lifestyle, and they dedicate themselves to it every minute of every day. For others, it’s just a bit of fun in bed. None of us really knew where we fell on the spectrum. How to make it work. And we were so—so dumb, really. We just didn’t learn everything we should have.”

“So what happened?” I ask.

“Marcus’s girl couldn’t live the life any longer. He got his draft offer from the Eagles, and that’s the end.”

David throws back the rest of his scotch and slams it onto the table.

“That’s the end,” I echo. “You’re certain?”

“Completely.” David stares at me again, challenging. “Are you satisfied now?”

“I . . . yes. I think.” I frown and glance at my phone. It’s been buzzing with text messages, but I don’t want to break the spell of the interview. If there’s anything more I can wring out of David . . .

“I’m sorry if it doesn’t fit your narrative of sports and violence.” David smirks. “BDSM isn’t violent, Miss Callahan. It’s consensual. Sure, you get the occasional abusive asshole trying to use it as a cover for their behavior, but trust me, that’s not Marcus. The guy wouldn’t hurt a flea. Not without consent.”

“No, I think I understand the difference.” But really, I’m thinking—I’ve got a lot of research to do.

And if my sports and violence trail runs cold, then maybe the underground BDSM scene can over me a new trail.

“You can shut that off.” David points to my phone. “I’ve said all I’m willing to say. Good luck to you, Miss Callahan. I hope I gave you the answers you were looking for.”

But all I have now are more questions.

Who is this girl, who devastated Marcus Wright so?

What made him change from a dominant to a submissive?

And what does any of this have to do with him and me?

Four days on the road. Canada, West Coast, Arizona. Marcus the ping-pong ball, with a gut full of uncertainty churning around with each takeoff and landing.

“I got some Dramamine if you need it,” Brian Osbourne, our goalie, says from the Eagles airplane seat next to me. “You’re looking a little green.”

I shift in my chair to accommodate the scarring along my back. This itchy wool sweater was a
terrible
idea. “Just got a lot on my mind.”

“Ahh,” he says, a little too knowingly. He must have read the article in District of Sports, too. I don’t know who leaked the story about Coach Isaacs threatening to bump me down to the farm, but it’s all over the place now, and there’s no use denying it.

But unfortunately, that’s not the only thought weighing on my mind.

Fiona Callahan, nearly six feet of flaming red trouble.

She never answered my texts after the game. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Way more than it has any right to. It was just one dinner, just one night, just one delicious fuck-a-thon on my nice white rug . . . Is it really so bad of me to hope for a repeat performance? Or perhaps for something even more?

Brian and I chat all the way to Vancouver, which is a nice enough distraction. He’s really into some anime show about gargoyles and demons, and before I know it, we end up watching a few episodes together on his tablet to pass the time. I’m more of a Marvel guy, but it’s pretty compelling stuff. Enough to keep my mind from straying too much.

Then we land, and it’s the usual frantic shuffle onto vans and hotel check-ins and rallies with Coach Isaacs, who admonishes us to
get to bed early, for fuck’s sake,
we have an eight o’clock skate before tomorrow’s matinee game, and then I’m dropping, shirtless and stomach-first, onto bed in the hotel.

Even after my usual swill of Vitamin K and other vitamins and minerals to speed wound healing, my back is on fire. I needed it so badly, but good lord, am I going to be paying the price for Victoria’s last session for days and days. In a few minutes, I’ll get up and run the water for a nice, hot bath to soak and let my muscles unwind. But for now, I think I’ll just lie here another minute . . .

My phone pings with a text. Almost undoubtedly it’s my mom, hassling me about Christmas plans, as usual. Or my little sister, bragging about her test scores. I almost don’t muster up the energy the fetch my phone from the desk where I plugged it in.

But something urges me to check it anyway.

Fi says: So I’ve been doing some digging…

My chest tightens. Even though I’m thrilled Fiona finally deigned to text me, that can’t mean anything good.

And?
I text back.

The ellipses bubble for a few minutes. A long response, or is taking her a while to summon up the nerve to say whatever she’s going to say? Oh, god, please tell me she didn’t decide to keep chasing down ghosts . . .

And I think I know just the word for what you are
, she finally replies.

The tensions releases by a few notches. I have no idea what she’s on about, but this sounds like a much safer path than it could be.
Yeah? And what might that be?

More hesitation. Finally:
Submissive
.


I laugh, though it’s cut short by the ache it puts through my ribs.
Someone’s been looking at a few naughty websites. Careful. That’ll do nasty things to your browsing history.

I’m a reporter. My browsing history is plenty nasty
, she replies.

I briefly consider not texting the first thought that pops into my mind, but what the hell:
So are you.

No thought bubbles, no response. Shit. I’m a few epic fails short of sending her dick pics. Instead I keep typing:
But you’re wrong. Or rather, half-wrong.

Okay, Mr. No-zero-sum, why am I half-wrong and not half-right?

I set the phone down for a minute to start the bath water running, then type out a reply.
I’m a switch. Top or bottom, pain and pleasure, I love it all.
Then I mimic her smiley-face.

But you like me dominating you,
she says. Not a question. I’m not sure she means it as flirtatious as it comes off, but it sends a shiver down my spine.

As frequently as possible,
I reply.

I’m sitting on the closed toilet seat, waiting for the bathtub to fill up, half-dressed and grinning like an utter moron. This girl is some kind of magical, I swear. But then my smile fades. God, I hope she isn’t just digging for more dirt on me. Surely not.

I don’t really know what I’m doing
, she finally replies.

Baby, you did just fine. Damn fine. I can show you some tricks, though, when I’m back in town if you like…

No. I mean, with you. With my life.

I frown. Well, that’s not quite what I was hoping for. But it has to be encouraging, right, that she feels safe opening up to me? That she sees more as more than just a boy toy, too.

I’m always here if you need to talk. Hard to believe, but I AM more than just a handsome sex god.

I set the phone down on the tile and shut off the water, then strip down and twist around to check the cat-o’-nine-tails marks along my back. Light-colored marks score my dark skin, but nothing’s bleeding, nothing’s deep enough to have scabbed up. Despite my pleading, Victoria chickened out, in the end. Stopped well ahead of where I wanted her to stop.

I just couldn’t help it. I had to drive Rajani away. Shut her up once again.

My phone buzzes again.
I dunno . . .
Fiona says.
Maybe sometimes I just need a handsome sex god.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, this is getting ridiculous. I hit the button to call her, set the phone close to the tub, put it on speaker, and then sink into the water. The heat sizzles against my wounds, but already I can feel the knots in my muscles unwinding. God damn, it feels great.

Maybe not good enough to have me completely healed up for tomorrow’s game, but it’s at least a start.

“Hello?” Fiona asks, sounding a little groggy. Too late, I remember she’s three hours head of me now that I’m on the West Coast.

“Hey. Sorry. Hope I’m not bothering you. Just figured this would be easier.”

“Not bothering me at all.” I can hear the faint smile in her voice. “I’m editing the student paper. Aka, the worst part of my week.”

“So how many dirty martinis does that require?” I ask.

She laughs, low and throaty. I can imagine how she looks, her head tossed back a little, that red hair sweeping her shoulders. “Umm . . . let’s pretend it’s only been two.”

“Okay. I’m good at make-believe.” I ease back against the tub and prop my arms on the sides. “It’s called ‘scening,’ by the way.”

“In . . . in BDSM?” The phrase sounds a little clunky coming out of her mouth. It’s adorable.

“Yeah. Or ‘the scene,’ if you wanna call it that.” I grin. “What sent you tumbling down the rabbit hole, anyway?”

“Just a wild hair.” She pauses, and snorts. “Wild hair, wild hare. Get it?”

My grin widens. A secret dork. Be still, my hardening cock.

“Anyway, you seemed to really be into it, so I thought . . . well . . .” She clears her throat. “Let’s just say it was a good sight more interesting than these student columns.”

I grab a washcloth from the shelf next to the tub and lather it up with soap. “And what did you find?”

“Well, umm . . .”

Oh, my god, she’s totally blushing right now. She blushes with her whole body, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

“They were—um, giving suggestions on beginner scenes, if you’re new to it . . .”

I wince as I reach behind me to scrub my back. “Go on.”

“What, you want me to—to describe a scene to you?”

I ease back with a full-body grin. “Only if you’re comfortable with it.”

She laughs to herself and doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. I continue scrubbing myself, water slopping out of the tub as I move around.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Soaking in the bath.”

“So you’re naked.” Am I imagining it, or is there a new huskiness in her tone?

“That’s how I usually bathe, yes.”

“Mmm. I see. Er—I mean. I wish I saw. I mean—”

I laugh with her this time. “I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Pretty damned well, yeah.” She sighs, tinged with longing.

“Well?” I ask. “Are you going to tell me what you’re wearing?”

She hesitates. “It’s not very sexy.”

“It’s on you, isn’t it?”

Nervous laughter again. “Okay, fine. A gray t-shirt and my underwear. Curled up in bed . . . with my laptop and a martini glass.”

“Sounds incredibly sexy to me. I have to say, I’m pretty jealous of that laptop. No, wait—make that the martini glass. Since you put your lips on it.”

“I wish I could put my lips on you.”

We’re both silent for a moment. Her, maybe, because she didn’t quite mean to say it out loud. And me because—well, because I’m done washing up, and I just realized I’m gripping my shaft.

“You were going to tell me more about this scene,” I murmur.

“Mm. Right.” Okay, there’s
definitely
a hint of something in her tone now—huskiness, lust, maybe even an edge of danger. Perfect. She may be in new territory, but she’s never not in control. “So, it says for you to start out with some scarves—”

“Fiona.”

She’s flustered now. “Yeah?”

“I’m going to ask you do something. And if you’re not okay with it, or if you decide in the middle that you’re not okay with it, you just tell me so. All right?”

She exhales. “All right.”

“I don’t want you to describe the scene to me.”

“Oh.”

“—I want you to describe the scene as if you are
doing
it to me.”

“. . .
Ohhh.
”

“Is that okay with you? Remember that at any time, you can change your mind. Consent is very important in a scene. But if you’re willing . . .”

“Yes,” she says, breathy. “I’m willing.”

I grip my shaft a little harder. “Good girl.”

I hear the sound of her shuffling around on her mattress. “So I’d use some scarves—cotton to start out with, because they’d have more give. And I’d tie your arms wide to the bed posts.”

“Mm. Perfect. And what do you want to do with me next, Mistress?”

If the title flusters her, she doesn’t let it show. “I’d tell you to shut up and listen to me, for starters. I didn’t ask for you to interrupt.”

I laugh throatily. “My apologies, beautiful and commanding goddess.”

“I’d slap you across the face for that.”

My body tenses. I can imagine it now, her standing over me, hands planted on those beautifully curvaceous hips, that wry twist to her ruby lips. I’d give anything to see it right now, hear her scolding me in person . . .