Page 5 of Hotshot
MK snorted. “Colorado is huge. Just because Denny lives there now doesn’t mean?—”
“Denny knows Cunningham?” Micah set his phone down. “No way. How?”
I ignored MK’s exasperation and the ensuing squabble as I tried to work through the puzzle pieces clicking together in my brain.
The Cunninghams, the billboards on I-70, the Rocky Mountain Mill…
I saw advertisements for the RM Mill all over town in Denver. Huh…it seemed improbable that they’d expanded this far east, but that had to be why the guy looked familiar. The hottie in the hat might just bethebillboard cowboy who graced the giant sign near the off-ramp to my condo.
Picture this: a supersized cowboy perched on a horse in front of a log cabin, his shirt hugging his biceps like a glove, snug jeans with holes in the right places, snow-peaked mountains in the background advertising sustainable logging products. I mean, c’mon…how could I not notice? It was borderline obscene, and I was all for it.
Actually, the ads were perfectly tame, but they had sex appeal. I noticed. And I’d kept right on noticing something new every time I made the turn onto my off-ramp—the tilt of his hat, the slight cleft in his chin, the stretch of denim across his thighs.
I tried to tell myself the ads only caught my attention because they were ridiculous—too big and kind of corny. Real cowboys weren’t that hot, were they? He was like…a model, for fuck’s sake. A modern-day Marlboro man minus nicotine and carcinogen hazards. As far as advertising went, it was a hit.
Folks talked about that billboard everywhere in the city. I overheard the baristas at my local coffee shop fawning over it, and Trinsky joked that he wanted to be the billboard cowboy for Halloween. Everyone had laughed and teased him that he wasn’t handsome enough, and objectively speaking, Trinsky was a good-looking dude. Just not as hot as the cowboy who was currently sitting on a barstool in my town, chatting with my favorite bartenderandmy old biology teacher.
Real life was definitely stranger than fiction.
Of course, it was too dark in the bar to be sure the new guy and the billboard model were one and the same. There might be some other reason he seemed familiar, and if I were a normal person, I’d march up to him right now and ask him point blank. Even if I was dead wrong, a selfie with this guy would be worth its weight in gold. My teammates would think I was some kind of hero. As the new, quiet, awkward rookie on the team, it was social currency I desperately needed.
But introducing myself to a stranger was—no way. I’d need alcohol for that.
Well, I was in the right place for it, I mused as the decibel level returned to normal and conversation at my table resumed to the usual friendly banter and basic catch-up involving hockey, more hockey, and a little town gossip.
Abe was dating a girl from Fallbrook, Micah talked about doing a marathon in spite of the fact that he hated running, and Niall had signed on to do some coaching for the junior varsity team.
“Coach Smitty wants to spend more time with his family and I want to spend less time at the mill, so…it works out,” Niall said.
“Did you hear that Coach Smitty and Mr. Milligan have another kiddo on the way?” MK reported. “How cute is that?”
“Three kids under five years old? Sounds terrifying,” Micah huffed.
I nodded absently, intermittently participating in the conversation while clandestinely checking out the cowboy straddling a stool ten feet away.
Oh, and I drank.
A lot.
Our pitcher was never empty, and shots showed up with alarming regularity. I usually passed my alcohol on to my friends who all had better tolerance than I did, but I was hopelessly distracted tonight.
It wasn’t just the cowboy. I had shit on my mind.
My fledgling career and living up to that stupid nickname, being in Colorado and the memories it stirred, the weirdness of the new status of my relationship with MK, the homesickness…in short, I was anxious about every fucking thing lately.Were my skates tight enough? What time was my flight? Did I check Grams’s smoke alarms?
I’d been told I had obsessive-compulsive tendencies and that was probably true. I had a hard time relaxing and if a little buzz shook a layer of anxiety off tonight, I was all for it.
I drank at least three more beers and powered through a few complimentary tequila shots over the next hour and damn, that shit worked!
Seriously. In my tequila-and-beer haze, life was grand and I loved everything and everyone. My new team rocked, Denver was freaking amazing, and being besties with my ex was awesome sauce. And that cowboy over there…damn, I’d do him in a heartbeat.
Or he could do me.
As long as he kept the hat on. Even better if we could do it in front of the foggy mirror on the wall leading to the restrooms. That was the kind of pornolicious hotness I’d need to see. Our jeans around our ankles, his fingers digging into my hips, my hand on my cock and?—
Oh, shit. I was drunk.
“D’ya guys ’member that time we went bowling in Pinecrest and Niall threw a strike in the lane next to ours?” I snickered. “It was so funny. I love bowling. We should go bowling. Want to go now? Let’s go bowling.”