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mad dog

I wasn’t in the office long. The paperwork was the usual—contact details, emergency info, and a dozen signatures. They snapped a photo for my ID and parking pass, and I was getting up to leave when the photographer handed me a Warriors jersey.

“Roster shot,” he said. “For the website and game-day handouts.”

Fuck. This was real. I wasn’t just filling in. I was a Warrior now.

Heading back downstairs afterward, I thought about Holky. The whole team had been welcoming, but he stood out in my mind. It could have been the “roommate” thing, but I didn’t think so. His humor had bite—dry, and sharp as a skate blade. And with a little space from it, the coffee incident was funny. Over-the-top didn’t begin to cover his award-winning meltdown.

But “Meltdown Holky” wasn’t the same guy I’d talked to after practice. That Holky had been funny, easygoing, and even a little warm, nothing like the overgrown toddler who lost his mind over a little spilled coffee.

I hadn’t planned to live with anyone, but having a built-in wingman didn’t sound bad. Something told me life with Holky wouldn’t be dull. The guy had energy to spare, and he probably knew every good place in town. He’d mentioned girl trouble, so maybe I could help him shake it off.

My own love life had tanked last spring when my girlfriend shattered the illusion of monogamy by screwing two of my teammates. Losing her sucked, but the betrayal by guys I’d called family was even worse.

Down on the lower level, I realized I only knew how to get to the locker room. Thankfully, a couple of equipment guys were restocking stalls, and they pointed me toward the players’ lounge.

Loud music blasted from inside, and as soon as I stepped through the door, I lost my shit. Holky was alone in the middle of the room, absolutely going for it.

Whatever song was playing had fully possessed him. He launched himself into the air like an over-caffeinated antelope trying to fly. His arms flailed, and his head thrashed. He looked like a fan in the front row of his own private concert, and I clutched my stomach as laughter tore out of me.

The music was so loud it swallowed the sound, and Holky had no idea I was there. His mouth moved like he was singing, though he was at least two beats behind. And then—sweet baby Jesus—he spun around and started pumping his hips.

I nearly died. That move did not belong in a players’ lounge. His big hockey butt was fully committed, doing something I could only describe as aggressive thrusting—as in pounding the shit out of somebody. Goddamn. If I’d been into guys, I might have jumped him.

Wait. What the actual fuck?

Before I could dig into that thought, Holky saved me by spinning around. Our gazes locked, and I watched him go from full-speed overtime breakaway to a cartoon crash. His mouth stopped moving, and his hips stuttered to a halt. He dropped his arms, but they still twitched as if they hadn’t gotten the memo that the performance was over. The moment was so painfully awkward I howled all over again.

He lunged for a table, grabbed the remote, and shut off the music. “Dog!” His expression wavered between outrage and a desperate attempt to save face. “Why the fuck are you laughing at me?”

I tried to rein it in, but the vision of him dancing was seared into my brain. It took a monumental effort to stop laughing, and even then, there was no hope for my twitching lips. I gave up and rolled my eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you looked ridiculous?”

He scoffed like I’d insulted his ancestors. “I’ll have you know I’m considered one of the best dancers in the league.”

“Who thinks that? Fans trying to get money out of you?”

He stepped closer, smirking like I’d walked into a trap. “Oh no, my friend. Not even close. My dancing skills have landed hotter women that you can imagine. Once they dance with me, the panties drop.”

“Your dancing probably scares them to death. Their bodies clench so hard the panties give up.”

“Ha! Let me tell you what happened the last time we were in Denver. I was at?—”

I shoved a hand against his chest. “Nope, absolutely not. I refuse to hear whatever bullshit story you’re about to tell until I’ve had at least three drinks. Besides, aren’t we supposed to get my stuff?”

Holky scowled, then cracked up and threw an arm around my shoulders like we were old friends. “You’re a good man, Dog, but I can see I have a lot to teach you.”

“Fuck off.” I tried to shake him loose, but his grip was iron. As we walked toward the exit, his arm still draped around me, I laughed again. “I think I’m the one with lessons to give. Let’s start with teaching you how to dance, and then I’ll tell you how to really make those panties drop.”

He laughed, tightening his hold on me. “Buckle up, rookie. You’re in for a wild ride.”

I had no doubt.