Page 170 of Forbidden Hockey

“Dirk? Shit.” Leather creaks as he races over. “I was gone for twenty minutes. What happened?”

“Had a run-in with a psychotic blond squirrel.” I give him the lowdown as he insists on taking over, taking a peek at the slice, determining that it’s not dire, and rewrapping and holding with the pressure of his strong hands to stop the bleeding.

“Why are you smiling? He stabbed you. I’m gonna kill him.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to fight Hunt—again. Pretty sure Hunter would protect that guy with his life.”

“Are they dating?”

I shake my head. “Don’t think so.”

“Fucking?”

“Didn’t catch that vibe.”

“Then I’m fucking confused. C’mon. Lead me to the first aid kit, and let’s get you patched up.”

Hunt’s sent Riley upstairs to clean up, but he’s pacing, repeatedly running a hand over his barely-there hair. He keeps looking toward the kitchen entryway, the bags of groceries he brought home still on the floor.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Dirk. Everything kinda fell apart today. I didn’t wanna let you down, I thought I could make a quick barbecue meal. I’ve already got buns I’d frozen previously, thawed in the fridge, fries are cut—I’d planned to distract you with beer while I cooked it up.”

His gaze jumped to the kitchen entryway three times over the course of those sentences.

“You’re worried about him, Hunt.”

“I … he gets into trouble,” he huffs.

Trav’s at the kitchen table, still in his leather jacket, sitting with the chair sideways so his back’s against the wall, and his arm rests on the top of the chair back. I smile.

“You know, Hunt, Trav and I make a damn good team when we’re in the weeds at work. Bet we could have this together by the time you finish helping Riley.”

“Yeah? You wouldn’t mind?”

Trav’s already standing, removing his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his red plaid shirt. I take a quick second to admire his biceps—they’re literal works of art with all the ink he’s got on them.

“Yeah, go. We’ll have the wine waiting for you two.”

He pauses. “Uh, is it … expensive wine? That’s all he’ll drink.”

I bite back the laugh. What’s Hunt doing with this guy?

“It’s expensive,” Trav assures him.

Hunter nods, ambling toward the stairs like he doesn’t know the way around his own house. Trav raises a brow, and I wander into his arms, lifting his shirt enough to take another look at the tattoo he got to match mine:Pretty Boy’s Keeper.

He kisses my lips. “Yep, your brother’s fucked. I’ll do the burgers, you’re on salads.” He smacks my ass.

“Bossy fucker.” I roll up my sleeves.

By the time Hunter and Riley return, we’ve got a spread. He’s dressed a lot differently than he was earlier. A black silk—I think it’s silk, but don’t really know shit about fabrics—short-sleeved button-up shirt embroidered with bright pink, red, and white flowers. The shorts match, and hang mid-thigh—he has thin fucking thighs. His hair’s blown out, and he has lots of it. It seems to stick wherever he puts it, and no matter how it falls, he looks like he’s shooting runway. His nose is turned down to all of us, and he’s picking at his juicy burger as if it’s offended him.

Finally, he pushes his plate away. “I can’t eat this, but the wine’s good.”

I want to throttle him for being a dick about Trav’s delicious burgers, but Trav squeezes my leg under the table.

“You said you’d eat them if I got the grass-fed beef,” Hunter says.

“It’s the flavoring. Tastes like I’m eating a campfire.”