I turn the tables away from my love life, since digging deeper could potentially reveal I’m a married woman now. “What about you? Are you dating?”
“Not sure what I do is called dating, but I had an extended booty call relationship with another photographer going for a while. Biggest dick I’ve ever seen. Like to the point of being uncomfortable at first, but then he had a mouth that would get me loosened up and it was the best dick I’d ever had—”
My mouth drops wide open, and I stare at Willow in abject fascination. We’ve never talked sex before. Maybe it’s because she felt I was too young, but now we’re in penis size and oral sex territory, and it’s all very new to me.
Stopping midsentence, she blushes. “I’m sorry… was that too much information?”
I shake my head hard and fast, wanting to hear more.
For comparison purposes, that is.
Grinning, Willow leans forward. “I’m talking easily nine inches. I mean… it was actually frightening the first time I saw it, but then he assured me he knew how to use it. Well… he did, and really… it’s sad. Because he was so boring and utterly dull, except in bed. I’m not sure I can keep that going. I need my brain stimulated, too, you know?”
I really don’t know. I’m still stuck on exactly how large a nine-inch penis is while wondering how big Dax’s is, because it seemed pretty monstrous to me. My hands involuntarily separate as I measure an approximate distance that might be nine inches. Willow laughs as she watches me.
“Nine inches, huh?” I say in amazement as I study the distance between my palms.
“It doesn’t all fit in,” she clarifies.
“Wow,” I say in amazement. “You really are an adventurer.”
The doorbell rings, and I jump up to grab the pizza. When I return to the kitchen, Willow has refilled our wineglasses and is searching around for plates.
“To the right of the sink,” I instruct as I plop the pizza on the L-shaped kitchen island.
We load our plates up before moving to the table where our wineglasses are, then spend a few silent minutes stuffing our faces. Willow groans over her first three bites, and I’m betting pizza like this isn’t something she gets often in her travels.
She wipes her mouth, a sparkle in her eye as she peers at me. “What kind of trouble are we going to get into while I’m visiting?”
“Trouble?” I ask, eyes blinking.
“In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve actually become of legal age since the last time we were together. So you and I are going out partying tomorrow night. Dax can come, too, if he wants.”
“He can’t,” I say, knowing his schedule well. We have it taped to the fridge, so I know his travel days. “He has their rookie party to go to.”
I don’t have to explain what a rookie party is to her. When in a professional hockey family, the parties are legendary and widely known about, although I’m sure we haven’t heard the real dirty stuff that goes on at them.
Willow’s eyes practically flash with mischief, and she grins even bigger. “Oh, we are so crashing that party.”
“We’re not allowed,” I say, feeling like a damn nun as the words come out. “I mean… you know it’s only for players.”
“Which is why I said we’re crashing,” she replies deviously, and a tiny spark of reciprocal naughtiness flashes within me.
“Dax will be mad,” I say, although I’m not sure if that’s true.
“Don’t care,” she replies. “It will be epic. We’ll crash, get lots of good free food and alcohol, then you and I can go out clubbing after.”
And it’s at this point I realize my life has actually been quite dull, particularly my four years of adulthood so far. I’d been so focused on school and my relationship with Paul, then my diagnosis and losing Lance, that I’ve just never gone out and done something crazy before. Sure, I’ve gone to parties.
But I’ve never crashed a professional hockey team’s closed-door party before. I’ve never done anything overtly crazy, and right now… I think I need to start living a little bit outside the box. Besides, I’m tired of moping around wishing Dax could be something more to me that he clearly doesn’t want to be.
Yes… we’ll crash the party.
She’s right. It will be epic.
My return smile comes slowly, but it’s just as wide. “All right… let’s do it.”
CHAPTER 14
Dax
Rookie parties.
People either love ’em or hate ’em, and most players love them. I think they’re great. Not only because I’m guaranteed an exceptional meal and all the best and most expensive booze I want, but it’s also a way for me to kick back with my teammates and just enjoy being with them. Sure, us veterans like to give the rookies a lot of hell. That’s why we run the dinner and bar tab up as high as we possibly can. It’s an honored tradition on virtually every professional hockey team, and it occurs every year.
They had gone all out and rented an entire restaurant and bar. My belly is happy with the bone-in ribeye with lobster tail I had, and now we are congregating in the expansive bar area with its sumptuous leather seating, dark lighting, and top-shelf liquor.
The bartender approaches me as I step up to the polished wooden bar with brass railing. I scan the bottles on the shelf behind me. “Let me have the Balvenie forty-year-old Speyside.”
One of the rookies, Vance Gather, comes to stand beside me. At the end of the night, all the rookies will pony up an equal share to cover the exorbitant cost of our evening of camaraderie.
I go ahead and rub it in a bit. “How much is that?” I ask the bartender, knowing the answer will make Gather a little green around the gills.
“One hundred and seventy-five dollars, sir,” the bartender replies smoothly. I can see Gather grimace in the reflection of the mirror behind the bar.
“Perfect,” I say with a wide smile.
When the bartender brings my drink, I take a grateful sip, savoring the complex flavor of peat mixed with possible vanilla and a hint of cherry. I’ve got a pretty sophisticated scotch palate for a middle-class dude from Michigan. Lance and I had gone to Scotland over one of our summer breaks. While there, we’d done a scotch-tasting tour. It’d been fucking fantastic—even made the haggis taste better.
I prop an elbow on the bar, surveying the room. The night is just getting started now that the niceties of dinner are done. The drinking and women are next on the agenda. About twenty minutes ago, the doors had opened and scantily clad women started pouring in. Not sure where the rookies got them, and I mostly definitely don’t want to know either.
There are a few people noticeably absent from our team gathering. Legend wasn’t budging from Pepper’s side since she’s still recovering in the hospital. I’ll just make sure to drink an extra Balvenie for him.
Tacker is also absent. Although he has been indefinitely suspended, everyone would have loved for him to show up tonight. Hopefully the fact he didn’t—despite many of us extending the invitation for him to come—is not indicative of his lack of desire to stay with the team.
Also missing are the members of the coaching staff and the front office. That’s because they were purposely excluded. This is purely a player event. Which is good, because things will get wild tonight. Most of the single dudes in here are going to get laid, probably by more than one woman. Some of that will most definitely occur right on the premises.
“What are you drinking?” Bishop asks as he comes to stand beside me at the bar.
“Scotch,” I reply, then nod toward my glass. “Ask for forty-year-old Balvenie. You’ll love it.”
“Sounds great,” Bishop replies with an evil smile, knowing it costs some serious bank. “And just keep them coming for both of us.”
Gather swallows hard, then turns to leave. Bishop and I tap glasses once his drink arrives.
“Here’s to bankrupting the rookies tonight,” I say before taking another sip. Bishop does the same, hissing in appreciation.
“Told you.”
We move from the bar area and step off to the side, taking in the players—comrades, really—congregating. Laughing. Joking. Talking strategy. Talking shit.
Brotherhood stuff.
Bishop sidles in closer, tilts his head in, and asks in a low voice, “How are things going with Regan?”
I hunch slightly over my drink, not wanting to talk about her. I’m fucked up in my head in about a million different ways whenever I think about her. Part of me is telling myself it’s wrong to pursue something with her. I’m a brother figure. Some lines shouldn’t be crossed.
The other part is telling myself to be a selfish son of a bitch and take her. I hurt her with my rejection, but I know Regan is into me because she was hurt. This makes me realize something potentially wonderful could develop between us.
Then there’s another part that says, “Don’t fucking go there. Commitment is not what you want, and it’s a lot of damn work.”
“Are you going to answer me?” Bishop asks.
I twist my neck to regard him. “Nothing to say, brother. Things have settled, and we’re back in the friend zone. It’s all working out well.”
“Lying motherfucker,” he says with a chuckle, shaking his head.
There’s no sense in arguing with him. He can totally tell when I’m laying down bullshit. But if I refuse to take the bait and keep my mouth decidedly shut, then we won’t have a conversation about this, which is what I prefer.
Bishop’s large hand comes down on my shoulder. He gives me an affectionate squeeze, which actually hurts a bit since he’s trying to make a point.
I give him my attention because I would never disrespect his advice.
“Take it from someone who has recently realized the benefit of falling in love with a wonderful woman. Don’t pass up something that could be amazing just because you have a few doubts. Something great is worth the risk, my man. Without risk, there is no reward.”
“Yeah? What if I take the risk and then decide it’s not for me? What happens then? I’ll tell you what… Regan ends up incredibly hurt. And I sure as shit don’t want to do that to her.”
That expression on her face when I told her what we’d done was a mistake had been enough to last me a lifetime.
“Maybe that’s for Regan to decide,” he suggests slyly. “It’s not all about you. She should have a say so.”
I know the bastard’s right, which causes me to growl in frustration before I down my drink. Turning toward the bar, I immediately catch the bartender’s eye. I hold my glass up, indicating I want another, and he gives me a thumb’s up in return.
If Bishop is going to insist on warm and fuzzy talks tonight, I’m going to need more liquor.
“Well, will you look at that?” Bishop says, his eyes on the bar entrance.
Angling my body, I glance that way, stunned to see Dominik Carlson walking in, which is shocking for many reasons. The first and most obvious is he’s the team’s owner. As far as I know, a team owner has not only never been invited but has also never dared to crash such an event in the history of professional hockey and rookie parties. Another reason this is eyebrow raising is because he lives in Los Angeles. He doesn’t spend a lot of time in Phoenix, despite the fact he owns our team. He has so many other diverse business holdings originated in California he isn’t frequently seen in this area.
The final thing that has my jaw hanging low is how he walks in with his head held up and his chest thrown out with the confidence of a man who knows he’s going to be welcomed even if he wasn’t invited. Not one of us would dare try to kick him out.
I actually wouldn’t want to. Everything I’ve seen about Dominik Carlson tells me he’s different from any other team owner out there. I could cite example after example where he has gone out on a limb or done something special for one of the team members. He’s personally invested in us. He may not be on the ice doing battle with us day in and day out, but I think it’s safe to say we all feel his presence there with us.
Carlson makes the rounds, stepping in on subgroups of people, shaking hands and clapping backs. He’s got a billion-dollar smile that keeps him rolling in hot women. I’m sure the fact he’s actually a billionaire doesn’t hurt, either. While I’m a dude and normally don’t notice such things, I would have to say he was blessed with good genes.
He’s a total stud.
Erik comes up behind Bishop and me, throwing his arms around our shoulders. “Can you believe Carlson showed up?”
I take my attention off the owner, grinning at my teammate. “He certainly marches to the beat of his own drum.”
Erik nods, then glances at his watch. “I think I’m going to head out.”
Under his breath, Bishop mumbles, “Pussy whipped.”
“Goddamn right I am,” Erik says with a cheesy grin. “Why would I want to hang out with you losers when I can be at home with Blue?”
Bishop sighs, then empties his drink. “I guess I should head out, too.”
I glare at my best friend. “Don’t you even think about it. Bros before hos.”
“Call Brooke a ho again and I will punch your teeth down your throat,” Bishop growls.
We stare at each other a long moment before we both burst out laughing.
“Come on, dude… Stay out with me tonight,” I cajole. “We never hang like this anymore.”
This is absolutely true. While I’d never begrudge Bishop and Erik falling in love and settling down, it sucks being the lone wolf these days. I could try to bond harder with Tacker—who I believe will remain single forever given his past—but that seems near impossible to me these days with the way he’s acting.
Before Bishop can answer, Dominik Carlson himself walks up to our small group. He smiles, shakes our hands, and asks if we’re having a good time.
“It’s the best of times,” Erik replies with a grin. “But what are you doing here?”
I cringe slightly, and Bishop rolls his eyes. Erik isn’t known for his tact.
Carlson laughs—a big, booming one that tells us he is amused by his player—and shrugs. “I heard through the grapevine the rookie party was going down tonight, and I didn’t have any better plans. Thought I would check it out.”
And there it is.
As simple as that.
Our team’s owner didn’t have anything better to do so he hopped a private plane—he owns several—and flew from Los Angeles to Phoenix to have a few drinks with his players.
When I look at it like that, it doesn’t seem to be that big of a deal. Although I certainly hope if any of the rookies have paid prostitutes in here tonight, they keep that shit on the down low. I’ll go out on a limb and say Carlson would most definitely not like that.
“Well, let me finish making the rounds so I can order up the most expensive drink they have,” Carlson says with an evil smile.
We all laugh because that’s exactly what’s expected at rookie parties.
But then he leans in so no one else hears and murmurs, “But between us, I’m probably going to put a little money on the tab to help the lads out.”
Erik chuckles, not afraid to ask the nosy questions. “Oh yeah, how much?”
Dominik’s teeth flash, and he gives a slight shrug. “Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? How hard do you guys party?”
Erik throws his hands up in mock surrender. “I have no clue these days. I’m a taken man. And with that, I am out of here.”
Carlson reaches his hand out and shakes Erik’s, who then makes a prompt exit.
“I’ll catch you guys later for a drink,” Carlson says as he looks around for his next group of players to go talk to.
After he walks off, I turn to Bishop. “Stay out tonight, dude. Don’t turn all grandpa on me.”
Bishop’s gaze flicks past me a moment, eyes widening slightly, and then his smile turns practically gleeful. “Oh, I’m not leaving now. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
>
“Miss what?” I mutter as I turn to take in what has his attention.
And just fuck me.
Into the bar comes Willow and Regan, both dressed in incredibly short dresses. I ignore Willow because she is her own woman and if I ever tried to get her to wear something more sensible, she’d kick me in the nuts.
But my entire body flames hot when I fully take in Regan. She’s got on a teal-blue dress that’s cut so low I’m surprised her belly button isn’t showing. It’s also cut wide, the inside swells of her breast on magnificent display.
For. Everyone. To. See.
My vision turns red, a phenomenon that has never occurred in my entire life, and I have the insane and overwhelming urge to throw a blanket over the top of Regan so no one can see how gorgeous and sexy she is.
“Easy there, buddy,” penetrates through the buzz that’s taken up residence in my ears, and I realize Bishop actually has a restraining hand on my arm. I’d taken three steps toward Regan. “I think you need to calm down and stay right here beside me for a few minutes until you get your shit under control.”
My head snaps his way, and I growl in fury and frustration.
He grins, poking me in the chest. “Dude… you have it so bad for her. Just give the fuck in and make something with her, okay?”
Returning my gaze to Regan, I stare. She’s fucking stunning.
And young and innocent.
She’s also mine if I just fucking take that last step.
My attention is interrupted by the bartender coming out from behind the bar to hand me a refill. I take it, graciously downing about half the drink in one swallow. I have got to get my shit together, so I don’t act like an idiot tonight.
CHAPTER 15
Regan
Subconsciously, I pull at the hem of my dress. I swear I feel air on my ass, but I don’t remember it being exposed in the dressing room mirror when I tried it on earlier today. Willow had talked me into this scandalous garment. She took me out to lunch, plied me with wine, and then took me shopping. I couldn’t have afforded the extravagance of a designer dress for one single night out on the town, but Willow could. She insisted she pay for it because she makes damn good money at her job and essentially has no bills to pay as she doesn’t even own a home. When she’s in between assignments, she just crashes at her parents’ house in Michigan and otherwise hoards most of her money.
Dax Page 10
