Page 42 of Forbidden Hockey

I grab a headset from behind the bar and slip it over my ear. “Travis, may I?”

“Go ahead,” his gruff voice comes through.

“We’re eighty-six Caymus,” I tell him. That’s restaurant speak for “we’re out of it”. Only we shouldn’t be. We should have one bottle left. That bottle was happily drunk with chicken parmesan.

Stacey’s jaw drops, hearing the conversation via his headset.

“Get your ass to my office, Boulder.”

“Sorry, can’t. We’re in the weeds up here.”

He swears over the radio. Mission accomplished. I don’t head to his office until much, much later. I have a restaurant to run.

Chapter

Four

Travis

After a long fucking night of cursing him, I finally have him alone in my office.

His hair’s … gone. Didn’t realize how pissed I’d be about that. And the reason I’m pissed isn’t just because I won’t be able to maneuver him like a puppet when his bratty mouth is around my cock—that day is fucking coming—but a deeper, darker reason.

He’s fucking mine, goddammit.

Shorter hair hasn’t taken away from his beauty either. If anything, the haircut makes his pretty eyes pop.

“I didn’t authorize a haircut,” I say, pushing my luck.

“Yeah, well you don’t make decisions like that.”

Right. Apparently, Hunter does. “What happened to my wine?”

“Don’t you mean our wine, honey? Thought you wouldn’t mind donating it to dinner tonight.”

Cocky little shit.

I barely hear my chair scraping across the floor. I’m up and out of my seat, caging him in against the back of the door. I run a hand over the plaid he’s wearing, hardly able to believe he’s here, which is fucking ridiculous. During the off-season, he’s always here. Close to me. In my space.

“I missed you,” I admit, already forgetting about the bottle of wine. He’s right. If I’d known he wanted it, I would have given it to him. I’m not supposed to be touching him, or telling him how much I pined for him all damn night, but we opened Pandora’s box, and all the unhinged desire I have for him refuses to remain dormant any longer.

It wants. It burns.

His hand drifts to my shirt, toying with the buttons like he’s not sure if he wants to undo them or just feel them under his fingers. There’s hesitation in him tonight—what happened at Hunter’s, pretty boy?—but it’s paired with undeniable reverence, grateful to be here.

Here with me.

He looks up, fluttering his pretty lashes. That’s all he has to fucking do, and I’ll bend the knee for him. I secure a knuckle under his chin and claim the softness of his lip with my thumb.

“I-I wasn’t gone for very long.” He swallows.

Fuck, I want to kiss him so badly.

“Something you wanna talk about?”

“Hunter’s just … intense.”

As a dad, I get Hunter. I’d be worried about Dirk if I were him, too. Not that Dirk’s doing anything to warrant Hunter’s level of helicopter parenting, but it’s just what parents—and brother-dads—do.