Page 23
Twenty-Three
Aiden
I snag my gas station hot dog from the snack table, along with a can of Coke.
There was no morning skate for the team today—something I was very thankful for when I crawled my ass out of the hotel room’s bed this afternoon.
Yup.
This afternoon .
Because Luns and I spent all night and all day in bed. Fucking and laughing, talking and kissing. Eating room service and going through all the towels in the room because we had to get cleaned up…and then I needed to make sure every inch of her was soaped and stroked and scrubbed to perfection.
The best day.
Starting with that beautiful dress. Then the vows, the kiss, the fact that she became mine.
Scorching the sheets. Learning the small intricacies of her again and some I never knew—like how she smiles in her sleep and wants to be held close as she drifts off to sleep.
Remembering the way her cheeks go pink as I tease her and her absolute obsession with watching cooking shows on the Food Network.
Little pieces of her.
And I’m soaking them up.
Because it’s like the last eighteen hours of perfection have existed on a distant planet, just the two of us?—
Smitty’s interruptions.
Okay, not just the two of us.
But luckily, the room service intrusion he orchestrated was much better than him actually showing up with a bottle of champagne.
And it was nice, I guess, sending fuel over so I could continue pleasuring my woman until she completely passed out.
But it was still annoying.
Because it’s Smitty.
And now I’m going to have to thank him for the gesture.
Ugh.
But as I’m eating my hot dog and drinking my Coke, I’m already back to smiling, to feeling like I’m a hundred feet tall.
Because I left Luns passed out in bed—as in, passed out .
So much so that I paid for the room for an extra day and she promised to rest until she my game tonight. She’ll watch me play and then catch a ride to the airport afterward.
I wish I could go back with her, but we have two more stops on this road trip—Utah and Denver.
Then the team will be home for a bit and all will be good.
Or as good as it can be with me returning with a wife my family doesn’t know about and Smitty acting like a dog to a bone wanting to help plan us a party to celebrate.
But that’s a problem for another day.
I’ll break it to my parents—suggest the party…and fucking Smitty as necessary.
Right now, I need to suck back my soda, start in on my dog, and hope that the combination will give my tired ass body enough energy to play well.
Can’t stink it up in front of my wife.
Grinning, I polish off the Coke, toss the empty can in the recycle bin, then feeling the caffeine beginning to hit my blood stream, I reach for another.
Not exactly on the nutrition guidelines, but desperate needs, desperate measures and all that.
Suitably full of sugar after the second can, I turn for the locker room.
“I wouldn’t go in there,” I hear.
Freezing, I glance over my shoulder, not having noticed my teammate—what with my marital bliss and all that. Gray’s wearing one of his fancy, expensive suits and is leaning, arms and ankles crossed, back against the opposite wall from me. “Yeah?” I ask tentatively. “Why not?”
Gray studies me for a long moment.
Then sighs and shakes his head.
Yeah, I don’t like that. Not at all.
“Smitty’s got a bug in his ass,” Gray says. “He’s put streamers and shit up in all the lockers and your stall is currently full of confetti.”
My fingers squeeze on my hot dog, ketchup coating my fingers.
The fucker.
For the confetti and making me smoosh my dog.
“I’m going to kill him,” I grumble.
Gray almost smiles and if I weren’t so annoyed with Smitty, I would file that away for the history books since it happens so infrequently. “Don’t worry,” he assures me. “I’ve called in the reinforcements.”
My brows drag together.
But then my expression clears.
Because then my teammate Joel comes around the corner, his arms full of the one thing that can tame the big, bearded beast currently making trouble in the locker room.
“Jesus,” Gray mutters. “You couldn’t find a bigger one?”
“This is Vegas.” Joel shoves the giant stuffed toy at Gray. “You know they don’t do things small.”
“That’s Texas, dumbass.” Gray shoves it back. “Everything’s bigger in Texas.”
Joel rolls his eyes. “Fine. How about Vegas doesn’t do anything in half measures?”
“Less catchy,” Gray mutters. “More accurate.”
Joel shakes his head, drops the huge stuffed animal on the table. “Either way, I did you the favor. Now I need to get ready for the game.”
“You’re the only guy on the team who was making a pit stop at the toy store.”
Joel narrows his eyes, tucks the arm with the other bag I’d previously missed a bit further behind his back. “How’d you know that?” It’s a frosty question.
One that doesn’t bother Gray in the least. “Alex’s birthday is the day we get back, right?”
Alex? Oh, Alex.
Right.
My brows go up, impressed that my captain has his finger on the pulse of my teammate that closely, and think—perhaps for the first time ever—that Smitty might be on to something with all his nosiness.
Mostly because Joel has the hots for a single mom named Veronica…
who’s friend-zoned him with complete and utter certainty.
And that seems complicated.
And interesting.
And maybe…like we can do something to help him out of the friend zone.
“I’m getting dressed,” Joel growls, not acknowledging Gray’s question as he brushes by us.
“Please don’t accept any confetti from Smitty,” I say—or maybe beg.
Joel pauses, his mouth twitching, just the slightest bit, but he doesn’t comment further. He only claps me on the arm and pushes into the locker room.
Great.
He’s so going to get in on the confetti action too.
And God, I love Smitty—the man’s heart is as big as his body.
But sometimes—or maybe most of the time—I really want to throttle him.
“Finish your hot dog. Down that sugar.” Gray nods to my snacks. “Then take all the time you need to get your head in the game. But”—he jerks his head at the table covered mostly by the stuffed brown-fuzzed marsupial—when you come into the locker room, make sure you do it wielding wombats.”
The wombat works and I manage to only find a few stray pieces of paper in my jock after the game.
I have no clue why Smitty is scared of the adorably cuddly creatures, but he is.
And considering how much of a handful he is, I’m just glad to have a way to kind of, sort of control him.
Off the ice, anyway.
On the ice, he’s as much of a beast as always—skating hard, shooting hard, passing…you guessed it, hard .
And we need it against the Rattlers.
The bite as viciously as the actual reptile, never out of striking range, no matter how big of a lead we have.
Tonight, they almost sneak back in and strike like their namesake.
Luckily, I’m fueled by Coke and hot dog and the night of orgasms.
And that helps me see the breakaway developing the wrong fucking way—that being toward our goalie instead of to the goal we’re trying to score on—before the Rattlers actually send the puck sailing down the ice.
So I’m already hauling ass back, skating hard for our zone when I hear?—
Crack!
Glancing up, I watch the puck fly through the neutral zone, see it land on the Rattlers’ player’s stick.
Even though it’s not an easy pass to corral, Kit St. James doesn’t miss a beat, using his speed to his advantage and quickly getting behind our defense.
I’m ready, though.
I’m sprinting, tearing down the ice, cutting between him and our goalie?—
Right as he winds up for a slap shot.
Fuck.
I brace, turning my head away, knowing there’s no stopping myself now, no getting the fuck out of the way and letting the guy with the specialized pads—our fucking goalie—be the one to stop the wicked fast shot.
Nope.
This is all me.
Another crack!
I have a split second to watch out of the corner of my eye, to watch the puck fly toward me, to know this is going to really fucking hurt.
And then…
The world goes black.
Table of Contents
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- Page 22
- Page 23 (Reading here)
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