Adrian: An Ironfield Forge Hockey Romance

by Frost, Sosie

  Leo Telane was a handsome, rugged, and drunken fool—same as the other defensemen on the team. More brawn than brains and more balls than common sense. He skipped the slip n’ slide and simply belly flopped into the pool.

  Only to realize he’d landed on a submerged bottle of vodka hidden under the ice. He stood and pulled the chunk of broken glass out of his ribs.

  “Huh.” He wavered on his feet and tossed the crimson shard away. “We’re gonna need more booze.”

  Blood splattered around the patio, but the team simply cheered. Leo grabbed the closest bundle of fabric to blot his wound—one of the pretty pastel pillows I’d picked out for Adrian’s outdoor furniture. The frilly blue pillow allowed Leo to grab an offered drink from Oz, which he shot as he demanded his own turn to surf on the cracking porch swing.

  “These men are animals…” I grabbed Adrian’s hand. “Jesus, they’ve all gone feral.”

  Adrian grimaced as the male strippers remerged from the house, staked a location for their show on the edge of the pool, and began their performance by using disturbingly rigid parts of their anatomy to start the music on their iPhones.

  “I want to say this is normal for a hockey party…”

  Adrian avoided gazing directly into the sequined thong of the lead stripper—especially as the glare from the sun striking the shimmering material did not obscure all the dancer’s blubbery majesty.

  “Hey!” He shouted. “Can someone make sure Rhett is still breathing? Get him out of the pool if he’s passed out.”

  Fortunately, the presence of the male strippers had sobered most of the party. The dancers had decided against any sort of longform choreography in favor of a synchronized humping of any waist-high lawn decoration or furniture within range.

  I didn’t know what the lone dancer in the corner with the helium tank and balloons had planned for the party, but it scared me more than the blood.

  “Adrian, you can’t control these guys,” I whispered. “They’re violent. They’re drunk. They’re absolutely wild.”

  “It’s just a party.”

  “Three of your windows are broken. You have five bathrooms in the house, and these guys haven’t used any. Your hot tub is now clogged with cheese because they thought they could make fondue pot.”

  “They’re just excitable.”

  A gunshot echoed from the driveway. We flinched, but Orion Orlov leapt through the shrubbery and rolled over the grass with a paintball gun. Not sure where he’d found the gilly suit, but he’d concocted Rambo style face-paint with a combination of mud and my peach lipstick. Adrian dove over me before the next shot ran out.

  A splotch of blue paint bullseyed one of the stripper’s ass cheeks.

  To the horror of the party, however, he simply moaned and incorporated the paint into his act.

  Gave a new meaning to the word blue balls.

  “They’re monsters.” I covered my eyes as two of the guys shoved each other near what remained of a food table cracked into pieces. The burgers had been lost an hour ago, and yet some of the team still wandered by and picked up a patty from the ground. “It’s like they have no idea how to live in civilized society.”

  I frowned as Cash Harrington approached, brandishing his phone at Adrian with a snort.

  “Check it out…that stripper said he could shave his pubic hair into the shape of any animal,” he said.

  Adrian averted his eyes like they had been burned. “Jesus Christ, dude. Warn someone before you flash that freakshow.”

  “Thing is…he wasn’t endowed enough to pull off the elephant.” Cash surveyed the photo with a nod. “But he did make himself into a pretty serviceable horse.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Better tell Nova to stop tweeting it though…” Cash did his best to walk in a straight line. “Coach is gonna be worried when he sees Leo bleeding with the hashtag.”

  “What?”

  “#SlipNSlice.” Cash snorted. “Gotta give the kids credit. They know how to have fun.”

  I pulled my phone. Sure enough, the Forge was suddenly trending.

  And not for the right reasons.

  “Why the hell are they tweeting this?” I asked.

  Adrian’s jaw clenched tight as he swallowed a profanity. After a long moment, he drew a sharp breath.

  “Because the coaches told the players to be transparent and active on Twitter and Instagram.” His voice shadowed with irritation. “They urged the team to introduce themselves to the world.”

  “No restrictions?”

  “What do you think?”

  My stomach curdled. Twenty young, cocky, and thoroughly unrestrained athletes encouraged to post whatever they wanted at any time on social media?

  Sounded like a PR nightmare.

  Exactly what the Forge wanted.

  “You’ve gotta tell the guys the truth,” I said.

  He tossed his empty beer on the pile of bottles littering his yard. “I brought them here for a party.”

  “And they’re partying. Hard.” I gestured over his yard. Two of his patio chairs had been broken down and become fuel for an unrestrained bonfire. “If this gets out to the media…”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “That the team expects them to act like animals.”

  “And telling the guys that the team wants them to fail won’t fix anything.”

  Adrian’s expression darkened. I reached for him. Hesitated. Somehow, the comforting hug I’d offered him for years felt…different. Complicated. I crossed my arms instead.

  “If I tell them what Coach Harland and John Blanche told me…” He scowled. “I’ll lose them before we play a single game. They’d have no respect for the franchise or themselves. If that happens…we’ll never be a real team—a real family. Like what I had with the Marauders.”

  I never did understand his ability to connect with other people. A single smirk would earn him a pretty girl’s phone number, a conversation over a beer would make a new friend, and there wasn’t a grandmother in a tri-county radius who hadn’t done her damnedest to fatten him up with freshly baked cookies.

  I…never had that.

  Never looked for it either. But it seemed easier that way. Keeping to myself meant I never had to reveal too much. Adrian called me private, or, when he was being generous, busy. Too many hours in the air to foster any real relationships on the ground.

  Until the day it all changed.

  When Adrian got hurt.

  It’d been a horrendous injury, but, until that moment, I’d never realized how easily he might’ve taken a puck to the temple or been hit too hard into the boards. He played a dangerous sport.

  He’d wondered why I wanted a baby so badly.

  Well, I had an easy answer for him.

  Because now…I realized I had nothing else.

  A sudden shout interrupted most of the drinking and bleeding.

  A pallor fell over the party as two of the Forge suddenly tossed aside their drinks. Leo and Felix stood nose-to-nose, their profanities barking into the night.

  I didn’t know the men well yet—but Leo, despite his bleeding, was the more imposing figure. He’d built muscular body built for defense. But Felix had a lithe, sneaky physique. He relied on speed and stamina and quiet domination.

  Either one of them seemed more than capable of taking the other in a fight. In fact, they stared at each other with a vengeful familiarity, as if they’d crossed the line between playful jawing and bloody bruises one too many times.

  Felix spoke as if he loathed gracing Leo with a single word.

  “I will give you a million dollars for your number,” he said.

  The men silenced. I leaned into Adrian.

  “His phone number?” I whispered. “That’s an expensive date.”

  Adrian grunted. “No. His jersey number. Who the fuck let these two get close enough to swing a punch?”

  Beau and Oz pointed toward a passed out Vasha.

  “He was on Leo duty,” Oz
said.

  “Damn it.”

  “Why does he want his number?” I asked.

  Adrian looked like he could’ve used a trip in the Slip ‘N Slice. “They were both number seven before they were drafted. Had it been any other pair of guys, they might’ve worked it out. But Leo and Felix…they’ve got bad blood.”

  And most of it was still flowing outside of Leo. Gave him that tall, dark, and stupidly stubborn look.

  “A million dollars? Thought you hated even numbers?” Leo asked Felix.

  Felix had a golden head of hair, blue eyes, and an angelic face that probably blessed more than enough women with invitations to his bed. But his voice was oddly strained. Too serious. Too defensive. As if every moment of his life was some sort of inconvenient pain.

  “You’re right,” Felix said. “I’ll give you $999,999.99 for number seven. I’m sure someone can spot you the extra penny.”

  “You’re even more of a fucking freak than I thought.”

  “Do you want the money or not?”

  “Fuck you. I’m keeping my number.”

  Felix regained his patience. “Name your price.”

  “I’ve got seniority over you.” Leo checked his side. Still bleeding, it didn’t seem to surprise him. “I have one more year in the league than you. I don’t gotta give you shit, no matter how much you bribe me.”

  “You know what that number means to me.”

  Leo laughed. “What? Is it the number of times you’ve gotta wash your hands before the game, or how many times you’ve gotta flick the lights on and off before you leave the room?”

  Oh.

  Now I remembered Felix Ferraro.

  Adrian had warned me that he was a man whose superstitions verged on obsessions. Hockey players had their rituals, but some took it to the extremes. Even Adrian got a little ornery on game days.

  But he’d never offered to buy a number for a million dollars.

  “I’m trying to be civil here.” Felix said.

  Which Leo apparently found hilarious. “Civil? You’ve never been civil once in your career. And I’ve got the fucking scars to prove it.”

  “This isn’t about the past.”

  “Like hell.” Leo pointed to a discolored and jagged scar from his chin to his cheek. “Remember this hit? You knocked me out cold on the ice. Missed the fucking playoffs because of you.”

  Felix didn’t apologize. Didn’t even seem remorseful. “I spent two goddamned years getting cheap shotted by you. The one time I defend myself, you go down like a baby. Ain’t my problem.”

  “And yet a pretty boy forward gets away with murder. But a guy like me? I gotta play by the rules. Make sure I don’t leave a bruise on your delicate skin or my ass gets thrown out of the league.”

  “You couldn’t take me out during a game. Think you’re gonna manage here?”

  “Thinking I won’t be the one walking out of here bruised and bloody.”

  “Too late.” Felix pointed at the wound on his side. “Or you gonna say the bottle cheap shotted you too?”

  That was the cue.

  I shrieked and covered my eyes as both fists raised, colliding with each other’s chins in a sudden crack of bone on bone.

  Both men grunted, staggered, then launched at each other again. Leo got in three quick jabs before Felix clocked him on the side of the head.

  And the team cheered.

  The greatest morale booster and goddamned trust-building exercise was two of their players beating the stuffing out of each other.

  And Nova live streamed the fight while Beau cranked up the music.

  The strippers, not to be outdone, poured as much water onto the grass as they could, churned up some mud, and lost their thongs in an impromptu wrestling pit.

  And Leo complained about his scars? The strippers seared everyone’s retinas as they twerked with a dance their leader called Lil’ Chubby’s Brown Eye.

  Adrian didn’t lose his temper, but he probably lost what little faith he had in his team. He sighed, ducked a punch, and shoved both brawlers into the pool.

  And then he got mad.

  “Turn the fucking cameras off!” He never yelled off the ice, but his voice simmered with a tempestuous rage. He didn’t let Felix hop out of the pool. With a firm foot to the sputtering man’s shoulder, he splashed him back under the surface. “For fuck’s sake. We’re supposed to be a team.”

  Leo took the long way out of the pool, avoiding Adrian’s reach. “A team? A real team should’ve known better than to put me on the ice next to a goddamned psychopath.”

  Felix swore. “Or me with the dirtiest fucking player in the league.”

  Adrian wouldn’t hear it. “Don’t you think it’s time to move the fuck on? We’re supposed to be working together.”

  “Bullshit!” Leo yelled. “There isn’t an organization in this league stupid enough to draft us both. I don’t owe this godforsaken franchise a fucking thing.”

  Adrian had a mild temper…until it snapped.

  He tensed, breathing quick and furious between clenched teeth, but he didn’t get to answer.

  A drunken, staggering Vasha Morozov stumbled in front of the party and dropped his pants to his ankles.

  I turned, avoiding gazing directly at one of the largest cocks which had ever graced this world.

  “Hey!” Vasha spoke in broken English, his Russian accent as thick as borscht. “Who shaved manly hair into heart?”

  Wish I hadn’t but I’d peeked.

  Vasha’s pubes had been manscaped into a lovely little heart—with his cock serving as a literal love arrow. It was well-done. Professional, even.

  The strippers howled in the mud pit and motioned with their hands like they wielded scissors. Vasha swore in Russian before holding two fingers into the air.

  “Second asking question…why do I like?”

  Adrian rushed to save the kid before he plummeted beneath the water and drowned while tangled in his own pants.

  I sighed, wishing I might’ve sipped a little alcohol to tame my spiking headache. But I was being good—staying sober for my next night with Adrian.

  If we survived this one.

  Cash appeared at my side, surprisingly agile for a mountain of a man who’d drunk his weight in tequila.

  “Glad to see you here with Adrian,” he said.

  “He said I wouldn’t want to miss this…”

  “And now no one online will miss it either.”

  I didn’t need to check my phone to know we’d gone viral.

  “Team’s in trouble, isn’t it?” I said.

  Adrian had warned that Cash’s divorce had beaten the patience out of him. He no longer bothered with pleasantries, they just cost him more in lawyer’s fees.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “And Adrian thinks he’s gotta take it on the chin.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Can you skate?”

  “Not really.”

  “That’s all right. Most of the team’s too drunk during practice to stay upright anyway.” His sigh hurt. At least Adrian wasn’t alone in his fight. “He’s gonna need someone.”

  “That’s the plan,” I smiled. “We’re trying to make a little someone.”

  “He’s gonna need you.”

  “Oh, don’t get the wrong idea. We’re not…together together.”

  “Ever think you should be?”

  Cash was a man of few words and harder hits.

  I quieted.

  Once upon a time, I had more than enough fears, hesitations, and concerns to ensure I didn’t make a terrible mistake with Adrian. I kept things casual, hoping that my silly, spontaneous proposition would distract us from the very real consequences of having sex.

  Now?

  I’d fallen for Adrian and landed right in his arms. I’d slept next to him, woken at his side, and committed to memory the serenity I’d found cuddled against his body.

  And all the reasons I had for playing it safe and denying my feelings were suddenly disappearin
g with every stolen kiss and wayward touch.

  My goal was to have a baby with Adrian. Nothing more. Nothing complicated. Nothing that could risk our lifelong friendship.

  I couldn’t let anything ruin what we already had.

  Because the closer I got to this man, the more I’d realized that being best friends would never be enough.

  13

  Adrian

  Sign of a good team party was a decent fight.

  A few good punches were as important to the health of a team as a solid practice or flawless drills. Cleared the bad air. Let guys sort out their problems.

  Usually, it was all forgotten after a cold beer.

  Not this time.

  The rift between Leo and Felix wouldn’t be mended after a dip in the pool and a couple of hot dogs.

  Especially after the slip n’ slide, strippers, and their brawl went viral on Twitter.

  On any other team, the head coach would’ve hauled our asses in at one in the morning, dressed us in full pads, and forced us to skate until either the exhaustion or the hangover made us puke.

  Didn’t get a call from Coach Harland.

  Got one from Magnolia Mallory instead.

  She left me a voice message warning about the story she’d have to run. The organization wouldn’t mind a little rotten publicity before training camp. Only problem was that the insanity had happened at my house.

  So much for my spotless reputation.

  Not that it mattered now.

  I’d peeled the men off my patio and sent them home in UBERs sometime after midnight. An early night for the team, but most of the guys had passed out long before then. My home was trashed, but I’d deal with it later. A shower was all I needed, and I let the hot water nearly scald me for a good ten minutes before facing the one I feared I’d disappointed the most.

  I didn’t bother dressing. The towel was fine. The cool air perked me up.

  As did the woman waiting in my bedroom.

  Clover snuggled against my pillows. She’d wrapped herself in my old Marauders’ jersey and a pair of booty shorts. Her socks were stark white and innocent.