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“Not really.” I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her into me. “But what he did wasn’t right. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know.” Her breath collects in a cloud of warm air between us. “But the thing is, it tookthatto make me realize I don’t want that life anymore. I feel like I have no one to rely on and that sucks.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“What’s not true?”
I bump her shoulder with mine. “That you have no one to rely on. You have me, and Mase, and Ami.”
Callie smiles, but it’s forced. “I know, but I don’t know. I feel like an idiot.”
“Why?”
“I can’t… well, I stopped sleeping around. After I found out that Dave did that to Ami, I got legit scared. It’s like reality smacked me in the face and said, Jesus, pay attention. I was a slut, Leo. There’s no other way to put it.”
“No—”
She stops me. “I’ve slept with the majority of the Chicago Blackhawks andmaybea good portion of the Boston Bruins. That’s horrible of me.”
My heart thumps harder. Like it legit skips a beat. I don’t want to hear about how many guys she’s slept with, but I can never look down on her for who she’s fucked. If she wants to lick a different stick each night, who the fuck really cares? I hate the double standard that men can have as much pussy as they want, and they’re never looked at as a slut. They’re praised. And if a woman does it, she’s an automatic whore. And honestly, I’ve probably slept with more than the Blackhawks, Bruins, and the Penguins combined. Maybe even the Oilers too. Ya never know.
I never thought of Callie as a slut. Ever. Sure, she’s been around, but above all that, she’s my friend.
I’m not sure who slept with Callie first… me, Remy, or Mase, but we’ve all had her at one time. And I’m certain I rocked her world better. Fucking certain.
Callie isn’t easy. That’s not why any of us have slept with her. Bitch, please. Callie Pratt, she puts supermodels to shame. She’s beautiful, and her body…goddamn. I’d lick every square inch of her even after a sweaty run in Florida. Still, that isn’t why I’m sleeping with her either. I guess I can’t say I am, because we’re not currently, despite my many attempts to change this. I love her. There. I said it. I fucking love this girl and wish I had the balls to tell her.
Instead, I keep my mouth shut and fuck her when she lets me.
I’ve tried to date her, take her out and show her she’s special, but she doesn’t do dates. In any event, I want this girl to need me for more than just a quickie.
“You know you can trust me, right?” I ask, watching her reaction to my words.
She looks over at me, a smile ghosting on her lips, but it fades quickly. “I know.”
“I never thought of you as a slut.Ever.”
“That’s nice. I feel loads better, like the weight of the world has been lifted,” she teases, amusement finally in her tone.
I wink. “You’re welcome.”
Her eyes brighten, and she gasps, reaching in her pocket. “I got something for you too. For Christmas.”
“Oh yeah?” I look down to see what she’s holding.
Her fist closes, but when she holds my hand with her left hand and presses the cool metal into my palm, I smile. It’s heavy.
She laughs. “I’m not sure if it’s a paperweight or what, but I had them put your number on it.”
I’m kind of speechless that she got me something in the first place. It takes me a minute to look because I’m too caught up in the smile on her face. But when I do, my heart beats faster. There in my palm is a black solid metal hockey puck with a silver number eight engraved on it. My number.
My stare met hers. “You get one for Remy and Mase?”
She blinks. Twice. “No.” Her lip catches between her teeth. “And don’t be all weird about it. Don’t tell them.”
I tuck the puck inside my jacket and then lean in to touch the side of her face with my hand, my thumb brushing over her bottom lip before sliding both my hands over her jawline to cup her face. “Thank you,” I whisper, hoping my words are sincere enough for her to see no one has ever bought me something so special.
“Leo—”