Page 1 of Flagrant Foul (Totally Pucked #3)

Teddy “T-Dog” O’Reilly

There he is, the bane of my existence. The man otherwise known as Sev Delorean, the Blackeyes’ first-line defenseman.

He’s sitting directly across the table from me, so close that if I were to kick my foot out, I’d connect with his shin.

I’m tempted to do it, but that probably says more about me than it does him.

The waitress places his food in front of him, fawning over him as expected. She makes a big song and dance about how hot his plate is, how he should be so careful not to touch it, and how he should let her know if he needs help with anything, anything at all .

Strangely, she seems happy enough for the rest of us to learn that our plates are hot the hard way.

Still, in the scheme of things, she’s doing all right. She’s not blushing furiously or touching his arm, she hasn’t asked him for his number, and she hasn’t forgotten to leave the table, so all in all, she should feel pretty good about herself. I’ve seen worse .

He does this stupid thing when he looks down at his plate, a little dance of sorts.

He always does it when he’s happy with his meal choice, and he’s one of those people who is always happy with his meal choice.

It’s a little hip wiggle combined with a shoulder shuffle.

It’s meant to be adorable, and sadly, it is.

It annoys the unholy crap out of me.

His eyes are still trained on his plate, fork in hand, loaded and ready to go. I tighten my core and arrange my face into a passive, expressionless mask as I wait for it. I count down slowly, taking care to breathe through my nose.

Three

Two

One

And there it is. Barely audible, but there.

“Hmm.”

A hmm so soft and throaty, no one else at the table hears it. Or if they do, it doesn’t affect them the way it affects me. I don’t just hear it. I feel it. In my mouth. On my lips and my tongue. I feel it all the way down my body. It tastes sweet at first but quickly turns bitter.

I drop my gaze to my wrist without moving my head.

Eight minutes. It’s been eight fucking minutes since he looked at me.

I wish I didn’t notice things like this.

I wish I had it in me not to count and keep score.

It’s just that the man has known me most of my life and is sitting right across from me.

Directly across the table. Less than three feet away, yet he still somehow manages to render me invisible.

That takes some doing at this proximity.

If things were different, I might be impressed by his skill.

A minute ticks by.

And another.

My agitation increases exponentially with each one.

I know myself well enough to know I’m going to react soon.

I’ll try not to, but I will. I’ll do something inane like accuse him of chewing too loudly.

He’ll shrug as though he doesn’t care, but at least he’ll look at me.

It will be a sheepish look with a trace of hurt that I passionately hate, but it will give me the thing I need.

The thing I crave more than anything else.

Sev’s attention.

The tight burn of tension makes my joints lock. There’s a push and a pull. A fight between the desperate, childish yearning to feel his eyes on me, and the utter humiliation of having to stoop to such depths to achieve it.

“'Sup, T-Dog?” he asks, saving me from myself.

He takes care to look at my mouth, not into my eyes. My pulse spikes. From rage. Mainly from rage. I hate it when he calls me by my team nickname. I hate it more than I can say.

For one thing, I hate the nickname with the fire of a thousand suns, and for another, I hate the way he says it.

That low, sluggish drawl kills me dead. Literally stops my heart.

Cuts my chest open and rearranges my organs.

Still, the real reason I hate it isn’t the nickname or the way he says it.

It’s the fact that it’s not the name he knows me by.

The name I know myself by. The name he gave me when we were kids. The name no one calls me but him.

“Not hungry? Food okay?”

There are lots of ways this can play out from here. I know that because I’ve played them all out many, many times over.

If I were feeling greedy, I could shake my head sadly and tell him there’s something wrong with my meal.

My chicken is dry. My veggies are underdone.

My fork tastes funny. You name it, I could claim it.

It wouldn’t matter how stupid the reason, he’d have his new bestie, Sasha the waitress, over here in double quick time.

He’d have my meal sent back and charm the poor girl to such an extent that while he was at it, she’d thank him for bringing the matter to her attention, and mean it. It’s happened before. Lots of times .

If I were in the mood for something a little stronger, I could say, “What’s it to you?

” in a mild tone, and add a venomous, “Butt out, asswipe,” when no one was looking.

Hurt feelings would turn his mouth into a frown that would vanish so quickly it would be hard to believe it was ever there in the first place.

He’d throw his head back and glare down his nose at me.

His expression would harden, and from there, there’s no telling what we’d say to each other.

One thing is for certain: it would be unpleasant.

I consider this tactic a failure. It’s completely beneath me. It’s lacking in maturity, shows zero emotional intelligence or self-awareness, and speaks to a level of neediness that’s frankly, deeply humiliating.

That said, it’s the tactic I employ more often than any other.

Tonight, I’m better than that. While I certainly wouldn’t claim to know what I’m doing all the time, I do have some of my shit together.

I’m in a good mood because we won our game tonight, largely thanks to me—that’s no humblebrag, by the way, I’m simply stating a fact—so I’m going with my most rarely used option.

“All good, thanks,” I say quietly .

It’s an option that gets me nothing. No concern. No being saved from a funny-tasting fork. No exasperation or fury. Nothing.

Across the table, a single brow rises, drawing a question mark on a devastating face.

It’s a face I’ve spent years studying. And I really do mean years.

It’s one of those faces that possesses an attractiveness that can’t be explained in words.

Deep-set dark eyes that narrow when he’s particularly happy or angry.

Eyes so deep-set they laugh in the face of perfection and give it the finger.

His nose isn’t interested in perfection either.

It’s bigger than it would be if it cared about things like being pretty.

The bridge is curved just enough to give him a haughty, hawkish air.

And his lips? Don’t get me started on his lips.

I feel his gaze on me, the heat and weight of it warms me so much I almost forget what’s happening. Where I am. Who he is.

I allow myself a moment to drift, to luxuriate in the warmth, before coming back to my senses with a jolt.

I know from experience that I have about three seconds to start being believably fine, or he’ll report back on my mood the next time he talks to Nathan.

I plaster a bright smile on my face and turn my attention to Bryce, who is sitting to my right .

“How’s Kell and the baby, Cap?” I ask.

Bryce’s wife is five months pregnant, and he’s about as excited as a man can be about becoming a father. He’s only too happy to talk about anything Kell or baby-related, so it’s a really good question to ask since my primary goal is distraction.

He takes off at a canter. “Did I tell you we went to our first prenatal class?” He did.

Twice. I shake my head. “It was awesome. We met a great bunch of people and learned so much. The baby has been doing this thing where they roll themself into a tight ball. Seriously, so tight that Kell’s belly goes rock hard.

We thought they had, like, this weird talent for making themself into a ball, but no.

It’s actually Braxton Hicks contractions.

We had no idea. We thought she wasn’t getting them.

” He laughs uproariously, and I give him a chuckle.

It’s not that what he’s said is particularly funny.

It’s his excitement that’s infectious. “What about you, Tee, how’s the roommate from hell treating you? ”

“Ugh, he’s history. I threw him out last week. I’ve had a professional cleaner in twice, and I still can’t get rid of the smell.”

Leyton, the roommate from hell, seemed perfect at first. He had very little to say for himself, worked late most nights, and was good with Ragnar, my Siamese fighting fish.

It seems excessive to admit aloud that the main reason I have a roommate is Ragnar, but with all the traveling I do, it’s necessary.

I can’t leave him alone. I need someone to be at home with him when I’m away.

I’ve spent ages looking into fish-sitting services, but have come up with nothing. Nothing reliable, at least.

My nerves can’t take that kind of stress, and God only knows Ragnar is one of those creatures that wasn’t built to live an uncomfortable life.

Sadly, after a few weeks of domestic bliss, it became clear that Leyton was the sort who thought bathing was optional, and I have a nose like a bloodhound. It wasn’t a good fit, and my subtle requests that he address the situation went down like a lead balloon.

In truth, there’s a chance Leyton got pissed off with me and moved out, more than I kicked him out, but I don’t think Bryce is interested in that level of detail. He’s likely only asking to be polite.

“That’s too bad. Are you looking for another roommate, or are you finally giving up and flying solo?”

I think the rest of the team finds my perpetual quest for a roommate quite odd.

It’s not like I can’t afford to live alone, and it’s also not like I give off the vibe of being someone who loves being surrounded by people.

The last time I mentioned Ragnar as a reason for needing a roommate, Sev got super determined to fix my problems for me.

When he was unable to find a fish-sitting service—no surprise there—he suggested I bring him along when we travel.

I swear to God that was his proposed solution to my fish-care woes.

Can you imagine taking a fish on a plane on a regular basis?

I told Sev in no uncertain terms what a stupid idea it was and that even if I could get a baggie with a fish in it past TSA, I’m not sure Ragnar’s gills could survive regular exposure to altitudes of over thirty thousand feet.

Sev, being Sev, googled it right then and there and spent the rest of the night gloating loudly about the fact that, according to the internet, you are allowed to fly with fish as long as the flight is domestic, the fish is in a transparent airtight container, and it’s stowed in carry-on luggage, not checked baggage.

The whole thing annoyed me so much that I’m loathe to bring Ragnar up again, lest he launch himself into a repeat performance.

“I am looking for another roommate,” I say, trying to think of a way to change topics without making it obvious .

“I’ll let you know if I hear of anyone,” says Bryce.

“I’d appreciate that.”

He means well, but it’s a terrible idea. The last thing I need is someone who’s mutuals with the captain of the Blackeyes living with me. I love these guys, but I see them enough as it is. I don’t need them more up in my business than they already are.

I raise my glass and take a sip of water, turning my head and angling my body just enough to let Sev know I don’t want his input on the topic.

The weighty heat of the thing I crave most lifts and retreats, leaving a chill in its wake.

I know without looking up that a pair of dark eyes has wandered and found an alternate place to land.

Sev says something to one of the players on the other side of the table and everyone around him cracks up. He laughs too. Riotously.

I can’t stand him when he’s like this.

He leans back in his chair when he laughs, buying a little extra space between him and the table. Enough space that I can count six individual mounds of muscle neatly arranged on his abdomen.

He’s wearing a charcoal-gray T-shirt with a deep V-neck tonight.

It’s one of those up-your-own-ass shirts that costs a fortune even though it’s designed to look old.

Weathered and worn in. The fabric is soft.

I can tell without touching it because of the way it falls.

It clings to his chest. His pecs. His abs.

His shoulders are impossibly broad, so broad they graze the shoulders of the players on either side of him. I have a big problem with his shoulders, that’s for sure. But they’re nowhere near as bad as his arms. Or his hands. Or the way his upper body tapers into his waist.

He keeps talking, getting louder and more ridiculous as the night wears on.

There were times, now long past, when I used to let myself believe performances like these were for my benefit.

They aren’t. They’re for him. He enjoys regaling the entire team with obvious jokes, and for their part, they find him hilarious.

He finds himself hilarious too. When he’s like this, when he’s being this dumbed-down version of himself, he laughs at his own jokes before he even delivers the punchline.

It’s the worst.

He’s the worst.

I wish I could say I only want him for his body.