Page 31 of Breaking the Pucking Rules

“I’m going to look online when you’re at training,” Sutton announces.

My stomach tightens as fear shoots through me.

“That’s okay, isn’t it, Daddy?” she asks, letting me know that I failed at keeping my reaction from my face.

“Just make sure you do it with Gran,” I say, reminding her of the rules regarding internet use.

“Of course.”

“Granny is interested too,” Mom quips.

“Okay, great. I’m going to shower. I need to be at the arena in thirty.”

I rush out of the room, leaving them talking about what color dress Sutton would wear if she were allowed to go last night.

“Fucking hell,” I groan, scrubbing my hand down my face as I take the stairs two at a time.

The second I kick my bedroom door closed, I undo my shirt buttons and shrug it from my shoulders. My slacks and boxers go next, and I walk into the bathroom wearing nothing but the ink that covers my skin.

Without overthinking it, I stand in front of the mirror, my eyes going to my throat.

“Thank fuck,” I hiss when I don’t find any evidence of the night before.

I lean a little closer to double-check that she didn’t leave her mark on me, but there’s nothing.

Shaking my head, I step into the shower and turn it on, letting myself get hit with ice-cold water in the hope it might wash away the memories of last night.

Who was she?

And why did she refuse to remove her mask?

“Rivers.” I wince as his deep voice booms down the hallway. “Wait up.”

Our captain’s footsteps ring out around me, getting closer with each one he takes.

“Hey,” I say when he finally catches up to me a few feet from the dressing room door.

“Whoa, you look like a man who had a good night,” he announces the second he gets a look at my face.

“Can we not?” I groan as he pushes the door open and steps inside.

The dressing room is quiet, but then I guess that’s to be expected seeing as I’m early.

Our training session doesn’t officially start for almost an hour.

“Oh, shit,” he gasps. “Didn’t it happen?”

“Fletch,” I groan.

“She looked so fucking into you. I can’t believe?—”

“Good morning, lights of my life,” Lincoln sings as he bursts into the dressing room like it’s his personal stage. “How the fuck are we all after a fan-fucking-tastic night?”

“Jesus,” Fletch mutters, scrubbing his hand down his face.

“Aw, Cap, was the ball and chain too exhausted after her big night to celebrate?”

“Fuck you,” he scoffs.