Adrian: An Ironfield Forge Hockey Romance

by Frost, Sosie

  “I’m really busy…”

  She’d probably heard all the excuses before. Didn’t stop her though.

  “Well, who knows when you might have a few minutes to spare,” she said. “It shouldn’t be too bad. I’ve heard the procedure can be quite enjoyable.”

  Somehow jerking it into a plastic cup didn’t seem very alluring.

  “And you can do it in the privacy of your own home.” Her eyebrows rose. “Thoroughly wash your genitals, deposit your semen into the cup, seal it, cleanse the outside with an alcohol wipe, and return it to this office within an hour of orgasm.”

  “Do you talk that dirty to all your patients?” I asked.

  “I’ve never had a bad report for my bedside manner.” She peered at me with a critical, ball-shriveling gaze. “Curiosity kills the pussy, but insecurity chokes the chicken…and not in the good way, Mr. Alaric.” She stood and shook my hand. God only knew where they’d been, but she had a firm grip. “It was nice meeting you. And I hope, for your sake, our appointments are few and far between.”

  I doubted that I’d get that lucky.

  The doctor offered only a wry smile as I grabbed the cup, if only to pitch it into the first trashcan I could find.

  Instead, I tossed it into the passenger seat of my Land Rover and swore.

  This was insane.

  I was not going to have a baby with my best friend.

  But I could make a baby. I was certain of that, regardless of the doctor’s concerns. However, I wouldn’t have a child with Clover.

  I loved her more than anything in the world. Hockey might’ve been my life, but she was a reason to live. Which was exactly why someone had to be logical about this. I had to be the heartbreaker who refused her a child.

  But she’d thank me later.

  I’d make it up to her. As soon as the season was over, I’d fly with her on her dream journey—a whirlwind tour around the world to take a picture with every ridiculously dressed royal guard, from the red-coated Queen’s guard to the dudes with pikes outside the Vatican. After all, she was on country forty-two of her bucket list of visiting one hundred different nations—forty-three with Canada, though she insisted it didn’t count. Sure as shit we could find some goofy-ass country with bizarrely dressed armies for her photo collection.

  That’d keep her happy. Way more than a family could.

  Because making a baby was crazy. Reckless. Trouble.

  …And the sexiest fucking fantasy I’d ever had in my life.

  I debated slamming my head off the steering wheel to get the images out of my mind. Nothing a good concussion couldn’t cure. Maybe I’d let one of the defensemen take their shot at me during practice.

  Getting a woman pregnant? Christ, it’d always sounded like the worst possible mistake a bachelor could make.

  I’d always been careful during my escapades. Wasn’t like I’d slept my way through the city. But a man had needs, and the women were eager to sate a hockey player’s demands.

  And yet, nothing had ever gotten me harder than the thought of what my best friend offered.

  Her body.

  Her pleasure.

  Her womb.

  That was too much power for one man to possess. And yet, something inside me craved it. It was feral. Primitive. A desire which snaked pure temptation from the depths of my darkest impulses.

  And she asked it of me. Wanted it from me.

  Fuck it. I didn’t need to fill a plastic cup to prove I was man enough to fuck a baby into Clover.

  Not when the perfect opportunity to prove my virility had just fallen into my lap.

  All it’d take was a single night entwined in the arms of a beautiful woman. Seemed easy, but what the hell would happen that next morning?

  What man could be satisfied with just one night?

  4

  Clover

  Adrian rolled up to the arena at ten in the morning, a good three hours later than the athlete preferred to work out.

  He claimed the delay was so he could give me a proper tour of the rink with the lights on, the team practicing, and the construction crew finally opening the new wings.

  But I could see through it.

  Cute that he tried, though.

  He hauled his equipment bag from his Land Rover—a vehicle he specifically bought for the word Sport emblazed on the invoice. Adrian wasn’t a complicated man which made it all the more amusing that he tried to hide the truth from me.

  “So…” I adjusted the collar on his black polo shirt and resisted the urge to button him up. He had a hard-enough time fitting into shirts without choking him to death before practice. My hands lingered a moment too long over his hardened, muscle-stacked chest. “What did the doctor say?”

  Adrian attempted to conceal his frustration behind a slick-as-ice smile.

  “What doctor?”

  “Spare me. You’re late to the team’s second day of unofficial workouts because you had an errand to run.”

  I searched his expression for the first crack. He did better than usual, hiding the truth behind a confused shrug.

  “Since when do you run errands?” I asked.

  “I’m a busy man. I’ve got shit to do.”

  “I don’t think lying qualifies as an errand.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Only because you didn’t answer the question.” I tossed him a heavy paper bag from our favorite breakfast joint. “Keep your secrets. I’m not interested.”

  “Now who’s lying?”

  Definitely me.

  If the man had gone to a doctor, it meant he was considering my proposition.

  And that made my morning all the sweeter.

  He rifled through the bag. “What’d you bring me?”

  “Breakfast.” Though I wasn’t sure how he’d be able to skate after eating it. “Low carb tortilla, four eggs, heavy on the cheese, double vegetables, with ham, not bacon.”

  “Hot sauce?”

  “A little bottle of Sriracha is in the bag.”

  “You do spoil me.”

  That was the plan. “You know what they say. The way to a man’s sperm is through his breakfast burrito.”

  “Just as long as the sperm isn’t in the burrito.”

  “Wasn’t offered on the menu, but I can’t vouch for their mayo.”

  He ripped the foil away with his teeth and took a satisfied bite. I followed him toward the arena, my stomach bumbling like I’d stuffed the breakfast down my throat.

  I’d acquired a tremendous reserve of patience in my career—flight delays, screaming children, screaming businessmen—but my tolerance waned when both of my feet were on solid ground. I glanced at Adrian.

  “So…how are your testicles?” I asked.

  One of the world’s most graceful athletes nearly stumbled over his own feet. “Retracted…thanks to that question.”

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Was until we started this conversation.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” He tensed, and the little wrinkle between his eyebrows returned. Gave him a distinguished, agitated look. “I told you—everything is fine. I just had to introduce myself to the new doctors here.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  I hopped the curb in front of the arena and stood before him. The extra inches helped brought me to his chin’s level, though I was still dwarfed by the two-story, frosted blue glass façade that welcomed Ironfield into the newest, most technological and architecturally advanced arena in the league. The sun glinted against the windows, and the reflection of the city skyline welcomed those who approached the main gates.

  But Adrian led me around the building, searching for a player’s entrance not yet cordoned off by scaffolding and yellow tape.

  “Come on, Adrian, it’s me,” I said. “You can tell me anything—how the doctor’s visit went, what your breakfast order is, how the sausage and eggs are frying in your pants today…”

  “
Do you know anything about the male anatomy?”

  I grinned. “I hope to learn a lot more soon.”

  “It was a mistake inviting you to the arena. You better behave if I’m giving you a tour.”

  “What are they gonna do? Kick you out?”

  “Worse…” Adrian guided me through the maintenance tunnel to the main entrance wing of the rink. “They might ask you to stay.”

  The Maxwell Intimates Hockey Arena was a state-of-the-art monstrosity of a project, so new the crews were still hanging bright blue-and-white Forge banners, cramming vendors and their stoves into the food courts, and finishing the last stripes of paint leading fans to their ticketed sections.

  And, after following Adrian across the country for his away games, I could definitively say I enjoyed the arena far more than the concrete labyrinths other teams called home.

  This place had a certain class that seemed…out of sorts for a town like Ironfield. Elegant restaurants and suites had claimed the ground floor of the arena, no doubt enjoying new clientele from the high-roller casino next door. A few shopping outlets had set up inside too—the usual sports apparel shops now featuring the frosty blue merchandise of the Forge—but also some rather exquisite lingerie shops.

  “We’re calling it The Panty Drawer.” Adrian snickered. “The guys say Cameron Mitchell—the so-called billionaire Panty King—wanted to build a world-class lingerie shop in the city. But, while he was at it, he added an ice rink above it.”

  “Too bad you don’t have cheerleaders—would make for a great fashion show,” I said.

  “Hockey doesn’t need cheerleaders. It has fights.”

  “True. Nothing like watching two unbearably handsome men beat themselves black and blue.”

  Adrian guided me over an uneven patch of unfinished flooring. His hand swallowed mine, and the heat tickled from my palm all the way up my arm, through my chest, and down to the curious swirl in my tummy.

  “Am I one of those guys?” he asked.

  “No, you never fight. I should get a refund on my jersey.”

  “I meant…am I one of those unbearably handsome men?”

  He knew the answer to that. I hadn’t found another man in this world with Adrian’s dark eyes, stubborn nose, or straight-edged jaw. And I’d looked. Hard. In every conceivable corner of the world. Adrian was it. Handsome. Strong. Fierce.

  And, because of that, he every other guy frustratingly dull.

  “You’re the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.” I grinned as I stroked his ego. “Wanna have a baby?”

  “Should’ve known you’d never answer seriously.”

  I’d never lied to him. Problem was, I usually toyed with him so much he never knew which way was up or when we’d finally go down. Seemed easier that way. Less complicated. It was hard enough realizing no one else could ever measure up to my best friend, but revealing it to Adrian?

  Seemed like it violated some sort of important relationship commandment.

  Thou shalt not compare thy best male friend to the sleezy men frequenting the layover hotel’s bar.

  Seemed just as important as thou shalt not contemplate fornication with thy best friend and the immutable thou shalt not bear the fruit of thy best friend’s loins.

  But it was better to break rules than hearts, right?

  Adrian guided me through the first stop on the tour—a glance into several restaurants that would never see any patrons. Our city wasn’t a sushi or tapas sort of town. Most of the Forge’s fans would line up outside the smallest of the arena’s shops, the one serving the classic Ironfield sandwich—a monstrosity of a meal piled high with pastrami, cheese, coleslaw, and French fries, all tucked inside two slices of soft Italian bread. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t pretty. And the guys behind the counter would be damned before they cut it in two, even for a lady.

  But I’d flown from Ironfield to Istanbul, Iceland to Italy, and I’d never found a greasier, heartier, or more challenging sandwich. Good thing the arena had the sandwich to pull people in. Wasn’t sure the Forge could do it by themselves.

  Adrian tugged on my arm, sneaking me through a cordoned off area to overlook the rink itself.

  I hitched a breath. “That’s a lot of seats…and not nearly that many hockey fans in Ironfield.”

  “Yet,” Adrian promised, overlooking the multicolored sections. “Not many fans yet. But we’ll change that.”

  “So…” My fingers curled over the edge of the bright blue chairs. “Do I get season tickets?”

  Adrian pointed across the twenty thousand seats. “Look over there…count five rows up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You get the box above that row.”

  “You got me a box?” My squeal echoed over the empty section.

  “Well…technically…you’ll be sharing it with nineteen other friends and family members of the team.”

  No more nacho-cheese-stained jeans, beer-splattered hoodies, and drunken men offering me a corndog for my phone number? Sounded like a boxed seat in Heaven.

  “I never got good seats when you were in Atwood,” I said.

  “Those tickets were harder to come by…” He stared out over the ice. “These…were a little too easy.”

  “Give it time, Captain. You’ll be selling out arenas again.”

  “Ironfield is a tough city to please. They’ll expect a lot from us.”

  “No more than what you’ll demand from the team.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Adrian went quiet as he led me through a hastily constructed corridor—plastic sheets protecting the area from dust, scaffolding under the unfinished lights. The door to the player’s locker room and lounge had nothing to distinguish it from a regular supply closet save for the new murals painted on the cement walls.

  I posed for a quick picture with Adrian’s painted portrait, modeled with his stick raised to take a shot.

  Adrian rolled his eyes. “Are you done?”

  “Just needed a selfie. You do look cute in acrylics.”

  He pointed toward the door to the players’ suite. “This is the main show. Can I trust you’ll put the camera away before you admire the showers?”

  “Oh, it won’t be the showers I’m admiring.”

  “And that is why I never gave you a tour of the Marauders’ locker room.” He ran a hand over the unpainted door. “Though this one is more impressive.”

  He wasn’t lying.

  The players were given a suite for their own personal entertainment, a lounge which branched off toward the lockers, showers, weight rooms, and rink. Adrian led me to a sitting room stocked with leather chairs, a coffee bar, and an entire wall of refrigerated cases full of waters, Gatorades, and soft drinks. Two oversized televisions hung on the walls—complete with an X-Box and Playstation.

  “Make yourself at home,” Adrian said. “The player’s lounge is relatively nudity-free.”

  And yet, the echo of the showers promised more excitement than the pop station blasting from the radio.

  I hesitated by the door, whispering before I entered. “Should I be in here?”

  “No.”

  “Forbidden tours…” I beelined for the puffy couch. “Finally, some perks for knowing the captain.”

  “Don’t get used to it. You’re only here because it’s still the off-season. And no one shows up for the workouts.”

  I didn’t like his tone. “Are they supposed to be?”

  “It’s not required…but attending gives us an idea of who is putting in the extra work.”

  “How many are here?” I asked.

  Adrian ran a hand through his hair. “Ten.”

  “…Of twenty-three?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “Oh.”

  It probably didn’t mean anything.

  Hell, Adrian had only just arrived to Ironfield. The other players were probably in the same state of utter chaos as they upended their lives and moved cross-country. The unofficial workouts weren’t indicative of the team’
s enthusiasm.

  It’d all work out once training camp started.

  It had to.

  I glanced over the suite. “Catered food?”

  Adrian hardly paid it any attention. “Three square meals.”

  The men had it all, including a stocked pantry and kitchen loaded with breakfast cereals, milk, juices, and three steaming catering dishes brimming with eggs, bacon, and sausage.

  “Guess I didn’t need to bring you breakfast,” I said.

  Adrian tucked into his burrito. “I like a change of pace sometimes.”

  He was such a bad liar. “You hate changes to your routine.”

  “Breakfast isn’t a routine.”

  I’d only been delivering him the same breakfast for ten years. I recited the order from memory again.

  “Low carb tortilla, four eggs, heavy on the cheese, double vegetables, with ham, not bacon.”

  He swallowed a big bite. “Am I that predictable?”

  “Know what might just spice your life up?”

  “Let me guess…” He dabbed his tortilla with hot sauce. “A baby.”

  “I was going to suggest oatmeal with blueberries, but your idea is much more intriguing.”

  Adrian passed me a bottle of water from one of the cases. “So, you little minx, should I take you right here, right now…or should I shove you in a cold shower and come at you later?”

  He wasn’t scaring me. “You make wanting a baby sound so dirty.”

  “You did research how to make one, right?”

  “What’s the big deal?” I checked over his shoulder. The door to the weight and conditioning rooms remained closed, despite the rancorous laughter from a few players and trainers hitting the iron. For the moment, we were alone. “Do you remember junior year, when I learned how to tie a cherry’s stem into a knot with my tongue?”

  “When you choked in the middle of the cafeteria?”

  “And you gave me the Heimlich. The whole school was talking about it. You not only saved my life—you also got to second base.”

  Adrian’s brow furrowed. “And how is that relevant?”

  “Well, that means we’ve already been halfway there.”

  He wasn’t convinced, though his dark eyes sparked with curiosity.