Hate You Still by Lyssa Lemire

CHAPTER THIRTY

EMMA

Katie and I laugh at the end of another funny story Gavin tells us about when he and Knox first started to become friends. Gavin’s laughing, too, reminiscing warmly. But I don’t hear any sound next to me.

Knox is still sulking. Like he has been for almost every minute of the last two weeks.

Ever since he started playing again.

It hasn’t been going well for him. I don’t know anything about football, really. But even I know that he’s hardly caught a single catch and hasn’t scored a single touchdown since he’s been back on the field.

I know what I can read in the headlines of the school newspapers after the last two games. Expressions like washed up. And I know that is coach benched him for the entire second half of the last game.

It’s taken a bad toll on him. He’s like a totally different person.

Dejected. Depressed. Almost lifeless.

I thought going out tonight, the four of us, would help get his mind off things and improve his mood. But it hasn’t. His shoulders are hunched, and his eyes are cast down, like he can’t bear looking up. His brow is low and stormy. His jaw muscles pop, like he’s constantly grinding his teeth.

I reach over to place my hand on his back, hoping my touch can relieve him somewhat. Holy shit, his muscles are tight. It’s like he’s in a permanent state of flexing. It would be hot – if it weren’t so worrying and unhealthy.

We finish our dinner, Knox staying stone silent almost the whole time. Gavin can barely drag a sentence or two of conversation out of him here and there.

I’m really getting worried.

This shouldn’t affect him so badly, right? I mean, don’t all athletes have funks? Periods where they’re not playing at their best? Especially after a long time off?

But it’s clear that Knox feels like his entire world is crumbling around him after three bad games.

We drove here separately, so leave in our own cars, Katie and Gavin in hers and me and Knox’s in Knox’s old Jeep. For a while at least driving his Jeep again was something that cheered him up, after finally having gotten his license back, but now even that doesn’t add as much as a single spark of life to his listless eyes, nor a single tone of cheer to his dreary voice.

I reach over to rub his tense shoulders while we’re stopped at a red light. “Loosen up, baby,” I coo, trying to get to him. “It’ll get better.”

I want to try to reason with him, tell him that it should only be expected that he be rusty after such a long time off, but I have no doubt he’s heard that rationalization over and over and is tired of hearing it. I just want to purely support and comfort him.

He shakes his head. “You don’t get it, Emma.” He quiets as we start driving again, but then adds, in a terse voice, “It’s all I have.”

I know he’s talking about football. The statement feels like a pair of scissors clamping sharpy on my heart.

“Oh. I didn’t know it was all you had.” I can’t hide the hurt or bitterness in my voice – nor do I want to.

He lets out a long sigh. “You’re right. Fuck, that was stupid of me to say.”

“Yeah, it was.” I’m still hurt, not eager to let him off the hook so easily.

We continue to drive home in silence. I’m still stewing in some annoyance and frustration over his attitude. But when I glance to my side and read the worry and anxiety in his face, my feelings soften.

This must really be hard for him. I have to put myself in his shoes. For two long months, he was deprived of the thing he loves to do, the thing he’s the best at. And then, after spending all the time looking on from the sidelines and waiting restlessly to finally get back on the field, once he finally could, his performance was far below his normal standard.

And I know it’s not like he’s slacking off. He’s spending so much time in the gym or on the practice field lately that it feels like I’ve hardly seen him for the last two weeks. When we’re together, he’s totally distracted.

Not at all like before, not at all like the first several weeks we spent together.

I wish I could do something to lighten the load of stress he’s carrying right now.

As the thought enters my head, I sense a lightbulb turning on.

Maybe I can do something to help ease his stress. At least temporarily.

Right now. And right here.

His car stops in front of our houses. He undoes his seatbelt and goes to open his door, but I reach over, grab the door handle, and pull it back shut.

He looks at me quizzically.

“Let’s stay here for a little while,” I say, putting on my best sultry tone.

“What? Why?”

I don’t answer with words, but with my hands. I reach down and start to undo his belt.

“Emma – fuck,” he groans. I can see the fabric of his jeans rising, his cock awakened. “Here?”

“Here,” I whisper saucily.

I unbutton his jeans and slowly unzip his zipper. That metallic zipping sound has never, ever sounded sexier than it does right now. With his zipper undone, I reach into the opening of his boxers and wrap my fingers around his iron-hard cock.

“Fuck,” he growls.

I can feel his pulse in the veins of his cock, I can feel it throbbing in my palm. I slowly stroke up and down his shaft. Looking up at Knox, I see his jaw muscles popping and eyes bulging. I feel a giddiness at having this power over him, knowing how much of a reaction I can get out of his body.

That body might be a well-oiled, precision machine, perfectly engineered for peak performance, massive and hulking – but my tiny little fingers can exert control over it, just by wrapping around his cock.

I guide his hardness out of his boxers. It sticks straight up, tall and solid like a flagpole. Knox darts his head back and forth, looking out the windows of the car.

I know this is risky, and I have a feeling of danger too as adrenaline surges through me, but I don’t care.

I lean over and wrap my lips around his swollen mushroom-shaped head. He lets out a groan as I apply gentle suction, my lips moistening his manhood.

I speed up my pace, gliding my lips up and down his long shaft, applying pressure with my tongue to the tip of his cock. His hips buck forward, fucking my mouth. Soon, he grasps a handful of my hair in his powerful fingers and moans, “I’m gonna come.”

I keep my lips wrapped around him, increasing the force of my suction. With a shout, he comes, unloading himself into my mouth. I swallow every bit of him.

Wiping my mouth, I sit back up in my seat. For the first time in what feels like a long, long time, there’s a look of relief, blissful relief, on his face.

“Feel better now?” I ask.

He laughs and then takes a deep, slow breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Now? I feel a lot better.”