Page 127 of Forbidden Hockey

“Wish I hadn’t brought up the topic, to be honest,” Dash says. “Alright, I’m good. I can do this. Question, you okay if I chase Trevor and Alvin out of the restaurant with a pool cue?”

“It’s Trent and Alex, and no,” I answer for Travis, because he’ll say yes.

Dash stands, shooting me an expectant look. “You coming with, Dirk?”

His focus is on me long enough that he misses Trav’s slight head tilt, jaw ticking, giving me the look that means,don’t you fucking dare leave this apartment, pretty boy.

I’m not a brat, I swear I’m not, but when am I gonna get another opportunity to tease him like this? Plus, the thought that I might leave’ll make him fucking feral. The way he’ll jump my bones will be worth the mild torture I’ll suffer.

“Am I, Trav?”

He shakes his head, fire burning in his dark eyes. “No. The dresser, remember? I need your help with it.”

Dash looks between us, eyes narrowed. I’m flirting with Trav, right in front of him. That’s as fucking risky as it gets. But maybe I want him to figure us out.

“There you go, can’t. He needs my help. I’ll be down in a bit, I’m sure it won’t take long.” All I need is one solid stroke from Trav’s rough hands, and I’ll blow.

Dash mutters something as he heads out the door, and Trav’s up lightning fast to shut and lock the door. I take another pull of beer, laughing. “That was close. Sell your dresser? Why didn’t you just tell him, Trav?”

When I look up, Trav’s approaching me slowly. Like a predator. “Don’t think it mattered. He’s too focused on Stacey. Look what you’re wearing.”

I look down. Shit. Holy fucking shit. It’s Trav’s Creed t-shirt. My heart skips a beat, and I set my beer down. Dash has been lusting over this shirt forever. He collects concert shirts, and I’m pretty sure he’s hoping Trav will bequeath this one to him or something. If he had noticed, he would have said something.

My cocky attitude evaporates at about the same time my brain tunes into the lion slowly approaching, trying not to scare his prey.

“I noticed as soon as you picked up the dresser. Didn’t realize how fucking turned on it was gonna make me. I love my son, but I’ve never been so glad to see him go.” I expect him to lunge; instead, he watches me with a cool gaze. “Get your ass over here, pretty boy. You’re gonna pay for being a fucking brat.”

What does Jack say he does in an instance like this? Where he’s started a fun bit of trouble, but regrets it when it’s time to pay the piper?

“Now, Trav. I was only teasing?—”

He lunges, but for once I’m faster, the phantom swipe of his grip in my wake as I run. Problem is, Trav’s apartment is too small for real running, so it’s more of a long stride until I’m forced to dive over the couch.

I turn to face him, he’s … not there. What the?—

“Oof!” I land on the couch, sideways, only rolling over on my ass in time for two hundred and ten pounds of Travis to straddle me.

“Never run from a wild animal, baby,” he says in a low voice, full of hunger. “New rule, you wanna act cute with a death wish, you pay an edging tax.”

“Isn’t that what you do anyway?”

“Oh no,” he says in a low growl. “You only thought you knew what edging was. How about we see how long it takes before you regret even thinking about being a fucking tease?”

Icalled it, which is why I’m standing in a courthouse next to Trav in a suit I usually wear for hockey, my messy hockey coif tucked away under my ballcap. There’s a sharp, sterile biteof Pine-Sol in the air. The floors are tile, but everything else is polished wood.

Trav’s near me without touching, his energy taking up most of the space in the room, arms crossed like he’s the bodyguard and not one of the grooms’ dads.

“Smile,” I whisper.

The happy couple’s immersed in themselves—as they should be—but Trav’s lost to his baser instincts. He can’t help it. I know he loves Stace, but Dash triggers his inner “Daddy lion protecting his cub” mode.

“I wasn’t ready for this,” he complains.

“Were you ever gonna be?”

“No.”

Pouting. The man’s actually pouting. Wish I could squeeze his hand.