Set between Chapters Eleven and Twelve. Sarah and Jamie’s first away game as a (secret) couple. October. Three weeks in. Hotel room in San Jose. The team three doors down.

The thing about being a professional athlete, secretly dating your captain, on a road trip to San Jose, is that the team books your hotel rooms in alphabetical order by last name.

Chen, Jamie. Room 614.

Patterson, Sarah. Room 618.

There is, mercifully, a Sundqvist between us — Riley, in 616 — and Vega across the hall in 615, because Mari is also alphabetized into our wing and is therefore, this trip and every trip, a witness.

Mari, who knows.

Mari, who, as we are coming up the elevator from the lobby with our gear bags, says, mildly, looking at the ceiling: “You know what is wild, Cap. Your room and Patterson’s room are very close.”

“Vega.”

“They are.”

“Vega.”

“You have to admit it.”

Jamie pretends not to hear.

I pretend my whole face is not hot.

Riley, who does not know anything yet — Riley is the last person on the team who does not know — leans against the elevator wall in her hoodie and says, “I am going to FaceTime my brother for like an hour and then go to bed. Don’t anybody knock on my door. I am — I have homework.”

“You are twenty-three, Riley.”

“It is for my online class.”

“What class, Riley.”

“Astronomy. Don’t worry about it, Cap.”

The elevator dings. We get out. Mari winks at me — winks, a full wink — and goes into 615 and shuts the door.

Jamie, walking down the hall, does not turn around.

“Goodnight, Patterson.”

“Goodnight, Cap.”

She unlocks 614. She goes in. She closes the door.

I keep walking. Past 616. Past 617 — empty, a single room, kept open by the team because Coach hates having a player in 617, says it sounds like a bad luck number. I unlock 618. I go in. I close the door.

I lean my back against it.

I exhale.

It is nine-fifty-two on a Friday night in October. We have a game tomorrow at seven. I have just spent the entire team dinner sitting four chairs down from my girlfriend trying not to look at her, and I have just spent the entire elevator ride trying not to look at her, and I have just spent the entire walk down the hall trying not to look at her, and now there are four hotel walls and one hallway between her and me and I am absolutely going to lose my mind.

I put my gear bag down.

I sit on the edge of one of the two queen beds.

I look at my phone.

It buzzes.

JAMIE: come here

That is the entire text. Two words. A red carpet rolled out under a door.

me: when

JAMIE: now

JAMIE: shoes off

JAMIE: be quiet

I do not text back. I get up. I take my shoes off. I leave them at the door of 618. I check the hallway through the peephole. Empty. I open the door slow. I do not let it slam. I pad across the carpet in my socks. Past 617. Past 616 — Riley’s TV is on, I can hear her laughing at something. Across the hall, behind 615’s door, I hear Mari and her wife on FaceTime; I can hear Lena’s voice, fuzzy through the door. I do not stop. I go to 614.

I knock — light, two short knocks, the way Jamie knocks on the spare room door at home.

The door opens before the second knock is done.

Her hand finds the front of my hoodie.

She pulls me in.

The door closes behind me.

She has me up against it before the latch clicks.

“Jamie — “

“Shh.”

“Jamie, the walls — “

“I know. I know, pretty girl. That is why we are going to be quiet.”

Her mouth is on my throat. Her hand is at my hip. Her thigh is between mine. She is in a sleep shirt — one of the long thin ones, no bra under it, I can feel — and a pair of soft black boxers, and she has just gotten out of the shower because her hair is a little damp and she smells like cedar and the hotel-soap version of cedar, layered.

I am still in my travel clothes. My jeans. My hoodie. My socks.

She does not care.

She gets her hands under my hoodie. She drags it up. She has it over my head and dropped on the floor inside of fifteen seconds. She pulls my T-shirt up, slow, over my chest, over my arms. That goes on the floor too.

She steps back, half a step.

She looks at me.

Her eyes go down. Just for a second. Just slow enough that I feel it.

Then she steps back into me, and she puts her mouth at the hollow of my throat, and she says, low, against my skin: “Bed.“

“Which one.”

“This one.”

She nods toward the queen on the right. The one closer to the wall I share with Riley.

“Jamie.“

“I know.”

“That is — that is the Riley wall.“

“I know.”

“You are doing this on purpose.”

“You like it.”

I do not answer. Because I do, in fact, like it.

She lays me back on the bed.

She climbs on top of me. She kisses me long and slow. She is — God, she is so slow tonight, slower than at home, and I do not know if that is because we have all night and a game in the morning and she is making us pace, or because she is making me pay for the four chairs down at dinner. I do not know. I do not care.

She takes off the rest of my clothes.

I am — I am so keyed up I am almost shaking. We have been on this road trip since Wednesday. We have not had a real night together since Tuesday. Three days. Three days of practicing with her, sitting two feet from her in airports, eating across team dinners from her, and being unable — actually unable — to touch her. Mari and Lena had us over Tuesday for dinner because they understand. We did not have sex. Mari poured us both wine, and we sat on Mari’s couch with my hand under Jamie’s thigh, and Lena said, “You poor things,” with her chin in her hand, and I did not know whether to laugh or cry.

Tonight is the first night since Tuesday we have a door we can lock.

I am so wound up I am almost angry about it.

Jamie reads it on me in about four seconds.

“Sare.“

“Yeah.”

“Look at me.”

I look at her.

She is over me. Her hair is falling forward. The chain is at her throat. Her face is — she is doing the captain thing. The one where her face goes calm and her mouth goes a little serious and her eyes go dark, and she says, very quiet:

“You have been waiting.”

“Yes.“

“I know.”

“Jamie, I — “

“I know, baby. I have been watching you wait. Three days. Across team dinners. On planes. On a bus. I have been watching you and I have been making you wait, and I am — I am going to make it up to you tonight, but I have to ask you to do something for me first.”

“Anything.”

“You have to be very quiet.”

“Yes.”

“I mean quiet, Sare. The walls are thin. Riley is six feet away. Mari is across the hall. Vega will not say a word, but Riley will hear it, and Riley will not put it together for about ninety seconds, but Riley will eventually put it together, and you will never live it down. So. We are going to be very, very quiet. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.“

“Good girl.”

Her hand goes to my mouth.

Flat. Palm against my lips. Her thumb at the corner of my mouth.

“This stays here, pretty girl.”

I nod against her hand.

“I want you to know — I am going to make it hard for you. I am — I am going to test this. We are going to find out tonight just how quiet you can be. So if you need to stop, you tap my wrist. Okay? Two taps. Like a tap-out. We stop. Anything else — any sound you want to make, any word — it goes into my hand.”

I nod again.

She moves her hand. Just a fraction. Just enough.

“Say yes, Captain.“

“Yes, Captain.”

She makes a small low sound at the back of her throat — pleased, contained — and she puts her hand back over my mouth.

She takes her time.

She kisses down my throat. She kisses my collarbone. She kisses the dip at the base of my neck. She kisses my chest. She kisses my breasts — slow, slower than usual, with her mouth open and her tongue and her teeth, and I am — already — making sounds into her palm. Small ones. Muffled. She does not stop. She works me up with just her mouth on my chest, in the low light of a hotel room at ten at night with my linemate and her wife on FaceTime across the hall, and I am rocking my hips up against her thigh under her, and she is — patient.

She is so patient.

She kisses my ribs.

She stops at the tattoo.

She presses her mouth to it. The flat press. The thing she does. She does it slow. Long. She kisses it twice.

I make a sound that is not a word.

Her hand tightens, just slightly, at my mouth.

“Shh.“

I shh.

She kisses down my stomach.

She kisses my hipbone.

She does not — she does not put her mouth on me, yet. She kisses my thigh. The inside of my thigh. The other one. She kisses up, slow, until her mouth is right there, and then — then — she comes back up, slow, the entire length of my body, kissing as she goes, and lays her weight back over me, and kisses my mouth, and says, against my lips:

“Your turn.”

“What.“

“I want you to do something for me first.”

“Jamie — “

“I want you to use your hand. On me.”

“Oh.”

“Quietly.”

“Oh my God.”

She rolls onto her back beside me. She pulls me against her side. She slides her boxers off in one motion. She is — she is wet. She has been wet, I realize, for hours. She has been wet through a team dinner. She has been wet on the elevator. She has been wet putting me on the bed.

“Jamie.”

“Yeah.”

“You are — “

“Yes. Pretty girl. Please.“

I slide my hand down.

She closes her eyes. Her free hand goes up to her mouth — she presses the heel of her own palm against her lips, the way I usually need her to press her hand on mine — and she breathes through her nose.

I know how she likes it. I have learned. I take my time. I trace her, slow. She makes a tiny choked sound against her own hand. I press my fingers in, slow, a little curl. Her hips lift. She bites the heel of her own palm. I keep going. I find the spot. I work it.

She is — Jamie is making sounds.

Jamie does not make sounds.

She is biting her own palm and making small ragged ones that she absolutely cannot help, and watching her — watching her be the one losing her grip while I keep mine — is a thing I am going to think about for a year.

“Sare — “

“Shh.”

“Sare, oh my God, Sare — “

“Shh, Cap.“

She makes a sound at Cap that I have never heard out of her. A small wrecked one. Her hips lift. I do not stop. I do not slow. She comes against my hand, almost silent, with her face turned into my shoulder and her teeth on the meat of her palm and her whole body going taut and then very soft, and I keep her there, slow, working her down, until she is shaking and breathing through her nose against my collarbone.

I take my hand back.

She turns her face up to me.

“Patterson.“

“Yeah.”

“You are in so much trouble.”

“What.”

“Get on your back.”

“Jamie — “

“Get on your back, Patterson.“

I am on my back.

She is over me. She is — she has come down off the orgasm and she is focused now, in a different way, in the way she gets when she has decided something. Her hand goes back over my mouth.

She kisses my throat.

Then she goes down.

She does not make me wait this time. She does not. She kisses straight down my body — neck, chest, stomach, hip, and then her mouth is on me, and I — I make a sound into her palm that she muffles entirely, that does not get out of the bed, and she does not slow. Not at all. She works me, fast and slow at the same time, the way she has learned, and I am — I am gone within four minutes.

I come.

I come with her hand over my mouth. I come into her palm. My back arches off the bed. My fingers go into her hair. She holds me there, slow, walking me down. I am — I am crying a little, just from the held-down-ness of the sound, just from how much I have to keep in, and she feels it, she has to feel it because my whole body is shaking with the not-letting-it-out, and she works me down soft and then she crawls up my body and she pulls me into her and she gathers me up.

“Hi.”

“Jamie.“

“You okay?”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh my God.”

She laughs, very quiet, against my hair.

She does not move her hand off my mouth, yet.

She waits, until I have caught my breath. Until I have stopped shaking. Until I have come back into the room. Then, slow, she peels her palm away. She replaces it with her own mouth. She kisses me. Long. Slow. Open.

When she pulls back, she puts her mouth at my ear.

She says, low, with a small private note in her voice that I will hear again and again in the next year of my life:

“Good girl.“

“Jamie — “

“You were so quiet for me.”

“Stop.“

“You did so well.”

“Jamie.“

“You took it so well, pretty girl.”

I am — I am going to come again from the words alone. My thighs press together involuntarily. She feels it. She laughs, low.

“Already?“

“Jamie, oh my God, I cannot — “

“You can.”

“I just — “

“Roll over.”

“What.“

“On your stomach. Come on.”

I roll over.

She follows me. She lies on top of me. Her chest is against my back. Her mouth is at my ear. Her hand slides under me.

“Sare.“

“Yeah.”

“Pillow. Bite the pillow.”

I bite the pillow.

She moves her hand. Just two fingers this time. Slow, easy, finding me again. I am wet from the first one. She slides into me, slow.

“Mm.“

“Quiet, baby.”

“Jamie — “

“Pillow.”

I bite the pillow.

She moves slow. Lazy. Her mouth is at my ear. She is — her whole weight is on me. She is small and lean and I can feel every inch of her against my back, and her hand is doing something soft and devastating between my legs, and her mouth is at my ear, and she is — she is narrating, low, slow, almost humming —

“Look at you. So good. So quiet. I have been thinking about this all night, Sare. I have been thinking about you across that table, in that little black tank top. Pretty girl. I was watching you.“

“Mm — “

“I know. I know, baby. Take your time.“

“Jamie — “

“Bite the pillow.“

I bite. I am — I am going to come again, I am, in about thirty seconds, and she knows it, she can feel it, she slows down — and I make a whine into the pillow, a real one, and she laughs against my ear —

“Patience.“

“Jamie.“

“Patience, pretty girl.“

“Please — “

“Mm.“

She brings me back down. Slow. She does it twice. Twice. Once when I am on the absolute edge, where I can feel my hips trying to lift off the bed against her weight; once when I am already shaking. Both times she lets it ebb. Both times I sob, quiet, into the pillow. Both times her mouth is at my ear and she is whispering, low, patience patience pretty girl I have you breathe.

By the third time, I am — I am wrecked. I am liquid. My legs will not work. My hands are in the sheets. I am muffled-sobbing into the pillow.

She finally — finally — does not pull back.

She lets me have it.

She finishes me with two fingers and her mouth at my ear and her thumb hooked under my hip and she says, just as I tip over: “Mine, Sare. Say it.“

“Yours,” I gasp into the pillow.

“Whose.“

“Yours, Captain.“

“Good girl.“

I come.

I come into the pillow, into the sheets, into her hand, into her arm slung across my back. I come hard, almost silent, a long shake that goes from my pelvis through my whole body and comes out of me as one ragged exhale and a sound that is more breath than voice. She holds me through it. She holds me down with her body. She does not stop until I am empty, and then she does, and she rolls off of me, and she pulls me against her side.

I cannot speak.

I cannot speak for a long time.

She does not push.

She just — she holds me.

Eventually I turn my face up.

“Jamie.”

“Yeah.”

“I am — I am ruined.”

“Yeah.”

“I cannot — I cannot move.”

“Okay.”

“My team is six feet away.”

“Yes.”

“Riley is six feet away.”

“Yes.”

“Riley has astronomy homework.”

“Yes.”

“Riley does not have astronomy homework.“

“Riley does not have astronomy homework. We know.”

“Oh my God, Jamie.”

“Sare.”

“Yeah.”

“You did so well.”

“Stop it.“

“You were so quiet.”

“Stop.“

“I am so — I am so proud of you.”

I laugh. I cannot help it. It comes out of me as a wet, half-broken giggle, and she laughs too, low, against my hair, and we lie there for a minute — sticky and tangled and ridiculous, with the AC unit humming under the window and a faint laugh track from Riley’s TV through the wall — and I think, with absolute clarity:

I am going to remember this for the rest of my life.

At some point, she gets up.

She gets a glass of water from the bathroom. She brings it to me. She makes me drink. She gets me up. She walks me, naked, into the bathroom. She turns on the shower. She gets in. She pulls me in after her.

We stand under the warm water.

She does not start anything.

She just — she puts her arms around my back, and I put my face in her neck, and we stand there for a while. The chain is in my mouth. Her hand is on the back of my head. The water is warm.

“Sare.”

“Yeah.”

“Sleep with me.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Cap, the team — “

“I know. We do not — I know we have a rule about away games. I am asking — I am asking tonight. I want — I want you here tonight. I will set my alarm for five-thirty. You go back to your room before the breakfast call. Nobody will know.”

“Mari will know.”

“Mari already knows.”

“Riley — “

“Riley has astronomy homework.”

I laugh into her neck.

“Yeah?” she says, quiet.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course yes. Are you kidding.”

She kisses the top of my head.

We get out of the shower. She wraps me in a towel. She wraps herself in another. She walks me to the bed. She pulls back the duvet. We climb in.

The sheets are cool.

She turns out the lamp.

She pulls me into her — my back to her front, her chin on my shoulder, her arm across my stomach, her thigh between mine. We have, in the last forty minutes, been louder than I thought we could be quiet. We have, in the last forty minutes, also gotten away with it. I can hear, faintly, through the wall, Riley’s TV playing the credits of whatever she was watching. I can hear, faintly, through the door across the hall, Mari and Lena’s FaceTime ending — Mari’s love you, baby. Sleep well.

In the dark, very small, against my ear, Jamie says:

“Sare.“

“Yeah.”

“You really were so quiet.”

“Stop.“

“I am proud of you.”

“Jamie.“

“Good girl.”

I make a sound. A small ruined one. She laughs against my hair.

“Sleep, pretty girl.”

“Okay.”

“Game tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“You are going to score.”

“I am going to score.”

“Good girl.”

I close my eyes.

I am asleep in about two minutes.

In the morning, at five-thirty-one, her alarm vibrates against the nightstand. I do not know I have woken up until she is kissing the back of my shoulder, slow, and saying, very low:

“Sare. Time. Go.“

“Mm.”

“You have to go back. Before Coach is in the hall.”

“Okay.”

“Hoodie. Jeans. Shoes by the door. I packed your stuff. It is in a pile.”

“You — “

“Shh. Go.”

I get up. I am — I am sore in the best way. I am moving slow. I get into my clothes. She watches me from the bed, propped up on one elbow, her hair a disaster, her mouth a soft happy line. I lean down. I kiss her forehead.

“Cap.”

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”

“I love you. Go.”

I check the peephole. The hallway is empty. I crack the door. I slip out. I pad down the hall in my socks with my shoes in my hand. Past 615 — Mari is, I am pretty sure, already awake; goalies sleep light; she will not say a word. Past 616 — Riley’s TV is silent now. Past 617 — empty. I let myself into 618 with my key card.

I close the door.

I lean back against it.

The bed in 618 has not been slept in.

I make it look like it has. I rumple the sheets. I sit on it. I put my head on the pillow. I get up. I go to my own bathroom. I take a real shower this time. I brush my teeth. I put on my game-day outfit. I drink water.

At seven, I go down to breakfast.

Jamie is already there. She is in her travel suit. She is sitting at a four-top with Christine and Mari. She does not look up when I come in.

I go through the buffet. I get my eggs. I get my toast. I get my coffee. I sit at the open chair beside Christine, across from Jamie.

“Morning,” I say.

“Morning, Patterson,” Christine says.

“Sleep okay?” Jamie says, perfectly casual, perfectly bored.

“Slept great,” I say, perfectly casual, perfectly bored.

Mari, behind her coffee cup, lifts her eyes to mine over the rim. She does not smile. She does not comment.

But the corner of her mouth quirks once.

She holds the cup up an extra second. Like a toast.

Riley sits down next to her with a plate of eggs and bacon.

“You guys,” Riley says, around a mouthful of toast, “I am going to tell you something. I had the weirdest dream last night. I dreamed I was — I dreamed I was watching this very intense documentary on stars, and there was this — “

“Eat your bacon, Riley.”

“I am eating it, Cap.”

“Eat it faster.”

“Captain Chen.“

I do not laugh. I do not laugh. I drink my coffee. I do not look at Jamie. I do not look at Mari. I watch Riley eat her bacon and tell us about her dream, and I do not laugh, and after about ninety seconds the table moves on to talking about the line matchups for tonight, and I sit there with my eggs and my coffee and a hotel room down the hall I am never going to forget, and I think:

Today, I am going to score.

And that night, in the third period, on a feed from my captain through two defenders, I do.

Thank you for reading 🌹

If you loved Sarah and Jamie, the full novel — Power Play, Pretty Girl — is available now.

More from Aurora North → aurora-north

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