Page 1 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

Chapter

One

PARKER

I hate weddings.

And love.

And tuxedos.

Okay, fine! I love weddings and love, and I’m honored to be one of my best friend’s groomsmen. I’m just cranky about romance at the moment.

And I look incredible in a tux, but fuck …couldn’t Grammercy and Elly have had this renewal ceremony indoors in the air conditioning instead of out in Maison Monteleone’s courtyard?

I get that this is where they met, yada yada , but we’re only two days into June, and Louisiana is already as hot as my big, saggy balls after a five-mile run.

I’m probably tremendously fertile and will make super-talented, good-looking babies someday, but my balls really are too much.

At the moment, they’re flat-out swampy, right along with the rest of me.

Sweat pools at the base of my spine, soaking through my dress shirt and into the tux jacket that feels like a torture device in this heat. Even with fans set up to stir the air, the humidity is intense.

But of course, Blue isn’t sweating. Not a fucking drop. The Voodoo’s star defender is built like a refrigerator and stays just as cool. He’s probably meditating the perspiration away. Or just willing himself not to sweat with the force of his Yoda vibes or something.

“Why aren’t you sweating?” I mutter. “Are you an alien?”

“Stop fidgeting,” he murmurs, barely moving his lips.

“I’m not fidgeting,” I whisper, tugging at my bow tie. “I’m suffocating. There’s a difference.”

I’m also suffering.

Because right there, across the aisle, the woman I’ve been dying to share air with since October is completely ignoring me.

Probably because I’m sweaty and gross, but I can’t help it!

I’ve always been a sweater. Allegedly, my mother took me to a dermatologist when I was just four months old.

She was that concerned about how sweaty my feet were, especially considering I didn’t wear shoes at the time.

But I have talcum powder and very good deodorant.

Even for my balls.

Ball deodorant is a thing these days.

When this drip fest is over, I will still smell fresh as a fucking daisy—a fact I could explain to Makena, if she would speak to me.

Or look at me.

Or acknowledge my existence in any way.

I narrow my eyes across the aisle, willing her to glance my way, to see that I’m still hot and kissable even when drenched in sweat, but she’s locked in on the happy couple.

I follow her gaze to see Grammercy beaming down at Elly like she hung the moon and discovered the cure for cancer, all while giving him the best blow job of his life. Beautiful, sure, but so over the top it’s enough to make a chronically single man set things on fire.

And isn’t a vow renewal a little much? Considering they’ve only been married eight months?

But since their actual wedding was just them and the justice of the peace, they wanted to celebrate with friends and family.

Hence, a hundred of their nearest and dearest packed into this courtyard, sweating through formal wear, while Elly and Grammercy stare at each other like there’s no one else in the room.

“Eloise Thibodeaux Graves,” Grammercy says, his voice carrying easily through the hushed crowd.

“How to tell you what you mean to me? I worked for hours on these vows, but couldn’t find the perfect thing to express how grateful I am to have you as my best friend, my partner, and my girl.

Not in English anyway, so I’ll just say…

C’est toi. Toujours toi. La vérité de ma vie, et la gardienne de mon c?ur. ”

Fuck.

French.

He always has to whip out the French and make the rest of us seem like idiot cavemen with no game.

Blue leans closer. “He said she’s the truth of his life and?—”

“The keeper of his heart,” I whisper, cutting him off. “Yeah, I know.” I sniff hard before adding through clenched teeth, “He won’t be happy until we’re all crying like babies.”

It’s like they’re trying to twist tiny beauty knives deep into our hearts.

I have to look away, blinking fast.

That’s when it happens.

My gaze drifts Makena’s way to find her big blue eyes locked on me, her expression soft, rapt.

In her flowy bridesmaid’s dress, with her curly blond hair framing her face like a halo, and her glossy pink lips parted, she looks like a sexy angel come to earth.

Then her lips curve and her eyes begin to shine, and the air punches out of my lungs.

It’s been seven and a half months since we made out at The Brass Monkey, seven and a half months of her avoiding me like a highly contagious disease, and now she’s looking at me like she feels the ache in my chest.

The longing.

The need to reach out and touch someone—and God, I hope it’s me.

But before I can mouth “Can I have the first dance?” Grammercy starts up again, and she jerks her gaze back to the front.

Fuck, Grammercy!

I mean, yeah, it’s your wedding. But you’re technically already married and the happiest man I know. Would it kill you to throw the rest of us a bone once in a while?

Then, the man proceeds to kneel down and give his new stepdaughter, Mimi, a necklace he had made just for her, and a promise to always be her daddy…and that’s it.

Man overboard!

Tears ahoy.

Fuck, that motherfucker and his gorgeous fucking heart and that little girl with her scrappy-smart-cute kid energy and Elly bending to gather them both in her arms for a family hug, while the rest of us weep like Sam when he said goodbye to Frodo at the end of The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

We weep because it’s glorious.

We weep because we know there can be no truer way than this.

We weep because we wish the world could be a finer, gentler place where love was the rule, not the exception.

We weep because the most beautiful babysitter a man ever had won’t let him pleasure her into half a dozen orgasms and show her that we’re fucking perfect for each other.

And yeah, Makena used to be my babysitter.

So what?

That was a lifetime ago. I was twelve, and still being treated like a fetus by my parents.

She was eighteen, and made the best grilled cheese sandwiches I’d ever had.

We shared a mutual love of raunchy cartoons, jumping on my trampoline, and Wheel of Fortune, and spent many a Saturday night laughing until we snorted soda out of our noses over the latest episode of Saturday Night Live.

I wasn’t supposed to stay up that late, but Makena didn’t care.

She said she enjoyed my company and that a twelve-year-old should be able to decide when he went to bed on the weekend.

I enjoyed her company, too.

I enjoyed it so much that I developed a deep and lasting crush that has never left me.

Not even when she graduated and moved away.

Not even when I was recruited to play hockey at the University of North Carolina, drafted into the NHL my junior year, and instantly plunged into a world of easy pussy unlike anything I’d ever known.

Fact: I’ve always been a good-looking guy.

Even as a twelve-year-old, with baby fat lingering on my cheeks, acne, and nothing resembling game, the girls in my class regularly fought over who got to dance with me at school parties.

In high school, dating was easy. College was more of the same.

When I wanted to get laid or dip my toes into the relationship waters, it wasn’t something I had to work too hard for.

But none of that prepared twenty-year-old me for drop-dead gorgeous puck bunnies throwing themselves at me outside the rink.

Did I become a huge slut, you ask?

And to that, I reply…define huge .

I definitely did my share of sleeping around, but even as my star grew and puck bunny attention gave way to supermodel and pop star attention, a part of me still held Makena close.

Because she wasn’t just beautiful or sexy—though she absolutely was, and is , both of those things—she was funny.

And real. And raw and a little wild and fearlessly determined to live her life the way she wanted to live it.

She was also my friend. A person who seemed to get me, and like me, for exactly who I was, in a time when that wasn’t the norm.

I’m a likable guy. I’ve always known what to say to get a laugh, but I also feel things clear to the fucking bone.

I always have. Most people—namely, my parents and other twelve-year-olds—weren’t interested in indulging that part of me.

But Makena was. We spent almost as much time in deep conversation about our hopes and dreams as we did giggling over cartoons.

That mixture of depth and silliness isn’t something that’s easy to find.

Or to forget. So, when we ran into each other again as adults, I didn’t hesitate to shoot my shot.

At first, it seemed to be going well.

That night at The Brass Monkey, as Makena and I made out over deliciously rancid cocktails, I was positive we were well on our way to making all my adolescent dreams come true.

I was going to pleasure Makena DeWitt out of her goddamned mind, make her my girlfriend, and hell… maybe even live happily ever after.

Stranger things have happened.

With the salty-sweet-sour-meat-stick taste of my second Trash Panda cocktail and Makena mixing on my tongue, anything felt possible.

Then, she ran away. Flat out ran from me, leapt into a getaway Uber, and refused all my attempts to figure out what spooked her, no matter how many times I begged our mutual friends to beg her to give me her number.

I was starting to think that maybe I’d lost my touch with the opposite sex. That Makena was never going to let me take her to coffee, let alone take her as my lawfully awesome girlfriend.

But maybe I was wrong about that…

That look…

That wasn’t just a horny-bridesmaid-at-a-wedding look. There were feelings in those baby blues, I’d bet my lucky game day socks on it.

And sure enough, fifteen minutes later, when we’re finally allowed to adjourn to the air-conditioned ballroom for dancing and drinks, I’ve barely shucked my coat and downed half an icy beer, when Makena is suddenly there.