Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
That can never happen again.
“It’s running down your stomach,” I offer as his mess goes right where I said it would. To the cum gutter groove on his abs.
“Shit.” He reaches off-screen, coming back with what I think is a T-shirt. He wipes at his belly and then rubs it over his now soft, but still large, cock. “That was—” He stops, like he doesn’t know what to call what we did.
“Sexy as fuck. And a really bad idea,” I answer.
He sighs in relief. “Yeah. Both of those,” he agrees, moving the camera higher so I can see only his face, as if modesty just became a thing he’s concerned with.
“We should—” I say slowly, not sure where my sentence is going.
“Yeah—”
I have no idea what we’re agreeing on. Doing it again? Never doing it again? Pretending that didn’t happen?
“Well, uh . . . you should probably go to bed. I know you’ve got a big day tomorrow, and Fritzi will want you to get some sleep.”
He nods, looking off to the side. “Yeah. Seven a.m. call time.”
“Good luck tomorrow, Days.” I use his last name intentionally, thinking we could use the distance it provides.
“Thanks.”
And, both looking shell-shocked, we hang up.
Did I do that? With Dalton Days of all people? I’m not sure I even like him! So why was it the hardest I’ve come in a long time?
Chapter 10
Dalton
It’s an afternoon game, which we win. Of course we fucking won, because not only did I complete my pregame routine, I took it up a notch. A huge, flying leap up, complete with flashing caution signs everywhere telling me to turn around and go back.
This whole thing is stupid. Last night was stupider.
I’m still reeling.
Not from the game or the win. From Joy. From hearing her orgasm and wishing like hell that she’d let me see.
As much as I wanted to watch her, it’s probably better I don’t have that image in my head because I could do filthy, depraved things to that mental picture. And like I keep reminding myself . . . she’s Shepherd’s little sister, and is so completely off-limits it’s not even funny.
So in tune that he can sense my complete distraction, Shep backhands my arm, splashing the water from the hotel’s hot tub against the side of my face. “As captain, I’ve called this team meeting to discuss how fucking awesome we are! Gooo Moose!”
His grin is wide and happy as the guys join in the cheer with him.
As for “team meeting,” I’m not sure this qualifies. After the early game, we all rode the bus back to the hotel and a few of us decided the hot tub sounded like a good plan. I’d considered bailing, but that would’ve brought up too many questions, so here I sit, praying Shepherd can’t read my mind and see what I did last night.
Max high-fives Shepherd. “Glad to skate at your side, El Capitan!”
“Shep! Shep! Shep!” Randall chants.
They verbally pat each other on the back for a few minutes, breaking down some of the in-game scenarios from their various vantage points—Shep and Max as forwards, and Randall as right defense. All together, they can see the entirety of the ice. But none of them see it the way I do.
And though I listen, I can’t find it in me to focus on the game or provide any insight to how we played. My thoughts are too centered on something I shouldn’t be thinking about at all.
“Cat got your tongue, Days? You’re usually all too eager to tell us where we fucked up,” Max says, grinning as he wraps his lips around a straw the size of my pinkie finger and sucks water from a huge metal cup emblazoned with the Moose logo. The team swag’s gotten better this year.
“Yeah, anything we should watch for? Or repeat?” Shep adds, staying positive.
I shrug indifferently, sighing. “I’m tired, guys, so if this is a circle jerk to sing each other’s praises, I’m gonna head to my room.”
“Well, shit. Don’t let us hold you up, Sleeping Beauty,” Randall says with a laugh. “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He waves his fingers at me like I’m already halfway to the door, not still sitting on my ass with a jet perfectly positioned on my lower back and bubbles bubbling up around my chest the same way he is.
Max leans over to Shepherd and mutters, “Tell Randall not to say bedbugs at a hotel. Seems like bad luck.”
Despite them supporting my desire for rest, I don’t move. “Can we just talk about something else? Anything else?”
And though we’re bros bro-ing out after a game, and guys who hide the fact that we care about each other behind teasing and shit-talking, we’re also gossipy as fuck. Don’t let anyone say girls are gossipier than guys. That’s a straight-up lie, because as soon as I make hockey off-limits, talk turns to women.