Page 11

Eleven

Aiden

My mom is my wingman.

I don’t know if that’s pathetic.

Or brilliant.

Because Luna couldn’t turn her down.

And now I’m eating my pregame snack—a gas station hot dog (don’t judge)—and staring down at my phone’s screen, a grin playing at the edges of my mouth.

Because my mom just texted me a selfie of her and Luna.

In Grizzlies jerseys.

Christ, I shouldn’t like that so much.

“And now I’ve gotta know why you’re smiling so wide,” I hear. “Because I don’t think it’s that the hot dog is extra delicious today.”

Okay, so it’s less hear and more boom.

Because my teammate, Smitty, has exactly one volume level.

And it’s loud as fuck, even though he’s sitting right next to me.

Case in point? His voice booms across the locker room, drawing everyone’s focus.

To me.

Great.

I scowl at him even though I know it will have absolutely no effect—the man has no shame. He’s been my teammate from when I first came up in the league—when I secured a roster spot on the Breakers—and he was part of the trade that brought me back to California, to the Grizzlies.

He’s also a pain in the ass.

He’s loud and brash and never gives an inch. Maybe that’s part of the reason I like him so much—he fits in with my family. Hell, the last time my mom was in town for a game Smitty and his—much quieter, but very lovely—wife Kailey ended up out at dinner with my parents and me.

Where my mom declared him and Kailey honorary members of the Black crew.

Something Smitty has taken very seriously.

Case in point? Him leaning over and snatching my phone from my grasp.

He’s a big guy, nearing retirement age, but he can still move as quick as lightning.

I don’t even have a chance.

He glances down at the unlocked screen and whistles. “Who’s this pretty lady?” He lifts his head, holds my gaze, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “And I don’t mean your mom.”

“Dude,” Gray, another teammate, mutters. “Not cool.”

He’s our captain—quiet but a good leader, always putting in extra effort and time to be his best, both on the ice and in the locker room.

But he doesn’t exactly scream open book.

And I’m not sure I’ve ever made it beyond the outer walls of his personality.

Another one with Shrek-like layers.

That shit is catching around here.

“What?” Smitty says…or rather booms. “A-Man’s mom is smoking hot?—”

I groan but he isn’t fazed in the least.

“—it’s just that the girl beside Mrs. Black is next level.”

“And now we’re doubling down on the not cool,” Gray says, rolling his eyes.

I can’t say he’s wrong—hearing another man say Luna is hot pushes a button inside me I didn’t even know I had. Certainly, I’ve never cared enough about any of the women I’ve dated over the last decade to be annoyed at the thought of someone else wanting them.

But Smitty noticing my Luns? Yup. That certainly pisses me off.

And I don’t give a fuck that he’s happily married.

Because Luns has made me go full caveman: Woman mine. Kill all who look at her.

Only, this is Smitty—pushing the envelope is his superpower—so I table the prehistoric rage that will only have him pestering me more and get back to typical locker room shenanigans—giving each other shit.

“I’m glad you think my mom is hot,” I say dryly.

“Notice how he didn’t say anything about the woman,” Smitty—not wrongly—points out.

Partly because of those caveman feelings…and partly because I don’t know how to begin to explain Luna.

A childhood friend? My first love? The woman I want to make…

Mine.

Because that’s the truth I feel deep inside me, even after all these years.

But that’s also about a dozen steps ahead of where I need to be.

First, I need to get to the truth of the marriage contract. Second, I need to figure out why those shadows are clinging to her eyes—because it’s not just her loss of Grams. There’s more to the story, more I need to pull out of her, so third , I can see about making her mine.

Forever.

I know I’m not going to be content with stolen kisses or hesitant caresses, not going to be content with one night, one week, or even one month.

This is Luns.

And even after a decade apart, nothing’s changed for me.

Focusing on the now, I put my hand out for my phone, a silent demand to Smitty to cut the shit and focus on the game ahead of us.

A demand he ignores—both on the cutting the shit part and the focusing on our freaking job portion of my warning.

Instead, his eyes go back to the screen and he whistles again. “Someone’s got your name on her back, bud.”

“What?” I frown.

He tosses my cell over to me and I nearly drop my hot dog trying to catch it.

But I manage to save both.

The picture on my phone’s screen, though, has my dog slipping from my fingers, splatting to the floor, ketchup spraying on my skates.

I barely process that.

Because I’m staring at the next photograph from my mom that’s popped up, at the playful look that Luna’s tossing over her shoulder, gorgeous gray eyes staring directly into the camera, smile wide and beautiful…and my name emblazoned across her shoulders.

Fuck, I like that.

Far more than I should.

“She is pretty.”

I jump, not realizing that Gray’s leaned over, is staring at my phone.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, locking the screen and shoving it onto the shelf over my head.

“What?” he says and, swear to fuck, but this may be the first time I’ve ever seen my captain’s eyes filled with humor. “I didn’t say she was hot.” A beat, the corners of his mouth tipping up, just the slightest bit. “Or your mom.”

I glare at him. “Fuck off.”

He winks then tosses me a towel, jerking his chin in the direction of my skates and the mess I’ve created.

Scowling, I swipe at my skates, the black mat beneath my feet, then scoop up the remains of my hot dog and walk to the trash can, dumping the rest of my lucky pregame meal inside before tossing the towel into the dirties bin.

Then I go back to my locker, grumbling, “Are we going to stop talking about my personal life and focus on the game?”

“That sounds a lot less fun than giving you shit,” Joel, another teammate, says, his mouth curved into a smile.

Damn.

This shit is catching.

Fucking great.

“Personal lives are on the table?” I ask quietly, knowing that his—mostly because of the woman he loves—might be the most complicated of anyone in this room.

A lifted brow.

A knowing look.

But he doesn’t comment further, just goes back to winding tape around his shin guards.

“Yes!” Smitty booms. “Personal lives are definitely on the table.” He stands up, snagging his jersey.

“There are far too many single fuckers on this team, but don’t worry”—he yanks the blue and black and white material (a color scheme that, in my opinion, is completely incongruous with the name Grizzlies)—“Matchmaker Smitty is on the case! True love is coming for all of you assholes and I’m going to make sure you’re not too stupid to miss it. ”

“Such inspiring words,” Gray mutters, snapping on his helmet.

Smitty opens his mouth.

But our captain is not done talking—and his words have even Smitty shutting up for once.

“Game time, boys,” Gray says, shoving on his gloves and heading for the door. “Let’s fucking go.”