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Bennett - May

Six Years Ago

H ow did I find myself standing at a hole-in-the-wall bar in crocodile cowboy boots, cut-off jean shorts so short I fear my dick will fall out, and a cropped top flannel?

For starters, my fuckface brother chose my outfit for the first night of our childhood friend’s bachelor party.

Griffin Turner is getting married next month, and this is the first of a three-night combined bachelor and bachelorette weekend.

We’re celebrating the festivities over Memorial Day at the cabin of my other teammate, and Griffin’s future brother-in-law, Carson Wilder.

The timing of this trip not only means the lake will be packed, but also that we lost in the first round of playoffs during my first season as the captain of the Minnesota Wolverines.

If I had done my fucking job, we would still be on the ice.

Therefore, Griffin wouldn’t have been able to have this last-minute bachelor weekend, nor would he have asked me to get ordained before his shotgun wedding next month.

For fuck’s sake, who gets married after only being engaged for two months?

Don’t couples typically want to take their time planning a wedding ?

But when it comes to McKenna Wilder, Griffin has never thought rationally.

The moment he moved in next door to his little sister’s best friend, he was smitten.

We all grew up in the same town, which meant I played on the same team as Griffin and McKenna’s twin brother, Carson.

Hell, McKenna even played on our team for a few seasons before she switched to girl’s hockey.

The cabin we’re staying in is a few hours north of home.

Being born and raised in Minnesota, also known as the state of hockey, it was always a dream of mine to grow up and play professionally.

Did I ever imagine I’d be playing for my home state’s NHL team with my little brother and two of our childhood friends?

Hell no. Am I incredibly grateful to have been drafted by the Wolverines straight out of high school?

Fuck yes. Am I humbled that in my sixth season with them, they appointed me team captain?

You’re damn right. Am I also pissed beyond measure that we lost in the first round of playoffs? Fucking livid.

I slam back another shot of whiskey, gritting my teeth as the Jameson burns its way down my throat.

My preference is sipping on an aged pour of Buffalo Trace on the rocks, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Usually, I’m not one to get a buzz, let alone attempt to get shit-faced, but I look like a fucking rodeo clown right now.

My younger brother, Jackson, decided it would be a great bonding opportunity to create a fantasy football league with only him, myself, and Carson last season.

Being absolutely clueless when it comes to the NFL, I, of course, came in last place.

This is how I wound up at the mercy of Jackson and Carson regarding my wardrobe this weekend. Penance is a bitch.

Jackson also happens to love planning and throwing themed parties, so he helped with the weekend’s festivities.

Tonight is Reverse Cowgirl, where everyone dresses as cowboys and cowgirls.

Tomorrow is Golf Pros and Tennis Hoes, where the guys dress in golf attire and the girls dress in tennis attire.

Finally, we round out the weekend with the Blackout, where everyone but the bride and groom dresses in black.

I’m pretty sure they can’t embarrass me as much as they have tonight—or at least, I hope fucking not.

Tonight’s disaster of an outfit is courtesy of Jax.

He dressed me in cutoff jean shorts that are so short I had to resort to tucking my dick in my waistband so it wouldn’t pop out the hem of the shorts and land me in jail for indecent exposure.

My fucking shirt is a cutoff flannel that also happens to be a goddamn cropped top.

And to top off the outfit, he chose a fucking straw cowboy hat that looks like it belongs on a scarecrow.

I’m not a poor loser, so of course I’m following through with my punishment for losing the league, but if the day ever comes for me to get payback, Jax is fucked.

The moment we stepped into the hole-in-the-wall bar on Lake Mille Lacs, heads turned our way. Thankfully, my god-awful outfit has saved me from being recognized by Wolverines fans.

Jax, Carse, and Griff are at a table in the corner waiting for the girls to show up, but I’m bellied up at the bar drowning my sorrows, which will likely be the only way I get through tonight.

I’m momentarily pulled from my sulking when someone bounces into me from behind. A low growl of frustration escapes before I can bite it back, but when I turn to find the offender is a woman, I sigh and attempt to soften my face.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” the woman exclaims as she steeples her hands to cover her mouth with a gasp. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” she asks.

Hurt me? That’s laughable. I’m a six-foot-five defenseman in the NHL. She couldn’t hurt me if she gave it her very best .

Oddly enough, I find her genuine concern endearing.

If that feeling wasn’t foreign enough, I also find it somewhat unsettling how adorable I think she is.

Rich copper hair frames her face and falls in waves down to her trim waist. And there’s a spattering of freckles covering her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, leaving me strangely curious to know where else freckles lie on her body.

“While I appreciate your concern, I think it’d take a bit more than your, what, five-five frame to hurt me,” I rasp, quirking a brow at her as I look her up and down.

A low chuckle escapes me when her whiskey-colored eyes widen as she takes me in.

She slowly lowers her hands at the same time as her eyes roam down my body.

Her mouth hangs slightly open as we not-so-subtly check each other out.

She looks gorgeous in a black tank top tucked into a pair of high-waisted jeans.

I watch as she bites her plump lower lip when her gaze narrows in on my exposed, toned stomach.

My stomach flexes on its own accord, which seems to snap her out of her daze.

“I’m actually five-seven. Add in these heels, and I’m closer to five-ten,” she points out as she lifts her foot so I can see her strappy heels.

I swear to god I’m not a creep, but the way her red polished toenails match the red lipstick she’s wearing has my pulse racing.

Catching her checking me out again, I don’t miss her quick inhale just as the emcee for the night announces karaoke will be starting soon. Furrowing my brow, I bite my cheek in annoyance that nobody shared it was karaoke night.

“I take it by the look on your face you’re not planning to partake in tonight’s festivities?” she questions. Her voice has a melodic quality that I find myself drawn to.

In an attempt to get her to talk some more, I answer her. “Honestly, I didn’t have a clue until just now that it’s karaoke night. ”

“Not much of a singer?” she asks, and curiosity sparks behind her amber eyes—a shade I’ve never seen before, like a pool of liquid caramel.

“No, not if I can help it. Though, my mom’s always told me I have a great voice.”

“Doesn’t she kind of have to say that?”

I scoff. “My mother is a saint; she’d never lie to my face.”

The woman before me throws her hands up in surrender. “Woah, woah, woah. I didn’t call anyone a liar—I just meant to point out the fact that no mother is going to tell her child they have a horrible voice.”

“Well, for starters, I’m actually a pretty good singer, so her telling me otherwise would make her a liar,” I state.

“And second?” she asks.

“Second, what?” I shoot back.

“You said for starters, which usually implies there’s a second. But maybe you’ve just had too much Jameson tonight,” she points out as she nods toward the empty shot glasses before me. “What sorrows are you trying to drown out . . . what did you say your name was again?”

I cackle at her theatrics. “I didn’t. I’m Bennett,” I tell her, holding my hand out for her to shake.

She looks down at it and narrows her eyes before gazing up at me through dark lashes.

“And I’m not drowning my sorrows, just trying to help myself forget that I’m wearing this ridiculous outfit for my buddy’s bachelor party. ”

“I don’t know, Benny. I think you look kinda cute,” she teases as she takes my hand.

Hearing her call me my nickname has me humming in response. “And you are?” I ask, trying to ignore the way her touch sends currents of warmth up my arm.

“Not sharing,” she tells me as a mischievous smile lights up her face.

“Playing hard to get, Little Red?” I rasp the question as her new nickname slips out .

Her eyes widen for only a second before they narrow slightly again. “Oh, Benny Boy, for some reason, I don’t think I’m the closed-off one between us.”

“Hmm,” I murmur. “Well, if you won’t tell me your name, tell me what brings you out tonight.”

“It’s my best friend’s twenty-first birthday. We’re staying on the lake for the weekend to celebrate,” she informs me.

“Tell me something else about you,” I request.

She picks up one of the beers the bartender just set down in front of us and tilts the neck of the bottle at me. “You’re pushing your luck, but I’ll play along. Hmm. Okay, I’ve got it. I fall into a slight depression every time I watch my favorite movie,” she admits.

I snort as I take a sip of my beer. “If it makes you depressed, why would it be your favorite movie?”

“Because my favorite movie is 10 Things I Hate About You , and Heath Ledger was a generational talent that died far too soon,” she explains.

“Shit,” I mutter before agreeing. “He was a generational talent.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carson make his way over to the two of us. Red must notice too, because she says, “Come find me later, Benny.”