Page 83 of Get Me to the Starting Line
“I don’t need range of motion yet,” he says, eyeing the TV as the Whales skate onto the ice, effectively shutting down our conversation.
It’s game time.
Paige and Adam left last night for Florida. Julien holds his breath when McKay, the second line goalie and Julien’s replacement, gets in net.
My fingers twitch, wanting to comfort him. I know how hard it’s been, not that he’s told me in words. But it’s in the tension of his neck and shoulders, the downturned corners of his mouth.
Even though he’s a serious guy, he never frowns, his mouth usually in a straight line or that infuriating smirk I wantto bite. But these past few months, he frowns through every game until I hold his hand, and the tension eases a bit.
He’s not like other hockey players or fans I know. There’s no screaming or yelling at the TV. No getting flustered with bad calls or plays. He’s a statue, eyes the only thing moving as he watches.
Florida scores the first goal of the game and Julien’s response is to hunch his shoulders. I don’t think, and my body is in control as I scooch closer and bring my hand over to massage the back of his neck.
He goes impossibly still at my touch, his chest frozen like he’s stopped breathing. I dig my fingers in, forcing him to relax.
“You’re going to have back problems if you stay this tense,” I whisper, continuing my one-handed massage. Though he doesn’t answer, his body slowly eases, relaxing. I’ve touched him so much today. If I don’t stop soon, I’m in danger of going overboard.
I begin to pull away when I’m content with his relaxed posture.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice hoarse.
Dangerous. Dangerous territory.
“Do you want both hands?” Whoops. That sounded so dirty. I definitely meant massaging, not ... other things.
His head turns and it’s then I realize how close we’re sitting. Our bodies are a hair away from being completely flush, so when he turns his head, our faces are lined up.
All it would take to close the distance would be for one of us to lean in. My mouth feels dry and I have to lick my lips. Julien tracks the movement, his breathing coming in hot and heavy.
I have to move away, I can’t—
The TV erupts with cheers, breaking the moment. Julien closes his eyes and glances back. Florida scored a second goal.
“Fuck,” he whispers under his breath. I don’t know if it’s for the game or me.
I’m not moving my hand anymore. It rests there, soaking in his heat. My fingers move of their own accord, and I swear I’m not thinking about it as they trail up to his hair, playing with the soft curls.
When I rake my nails up his head, I’m rewarded with a deep rumble from Julien’s chest. His eyes drift closed as I continue to play with his hair.
This feels powerful and reckless, exhilarating. Levi isn’t here, and we’re on the couch, alone. With the dying sun, the room becomes darker and darker, the only light now coming from the game.
I don’t know how long we stay there, bodies close but not touching, my hand in his hair, soft moans escaping his lips when I play with the curls around his ear. He’s not the only one being teased because it’s not enough for him and it’s not enough for me.
But I can’t make myself do anything more than what I’m doing now.
The first period ends and commercials blare during intermission. This is usually when I pretend to be busy for twenty minutes, cleaning up or getting food and drinks for us. Well, food for me, drinks for him. Or when Levi needs to be put to bed. But Levi isn’t here.
It’s just me and Julien sitting on my couch, my hand in his hair.
Iwaitwithbatedbreath. She’s not moving away but she’s not coming closer. I don’t want to misread her body language. Desire pulses around the room, through my blood, in the tremble of her fingers as she traces the skin around my hairline on my neck.
I’m aching.
Her hand stills and I suck in a breath. Then she’s pulling away.
“No,” I plead. She freezes. I honestly hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it wouldn’t stay in.
I turn towards her again and she doesn’t flinch away this time—she’s ready to be closer.
