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I smile sweetly so she doesn’t poison my next drink. I laugh to myself as she hands my card back. Picking my drink up, I leave the napkin with what I imagine is her phone number on the countertop and join my team at our tables.
It’s become a Nighthawks tradition to celebrate at End Zone after a win. Our tables are always vacant, reserved for us after a victory, no matter how packed the place is.
Everyone is out tonight, including the girls, Laura and Charlotte. Laura is sitting next to Kos in the seats across from me.
Brett shouts as he sits beside me, “What a fucking game tonight was. I thought you were going to destroy that kid, Cam.”
“He left walking. He’s fine.” I laugh.
“Yeah, with two black eyes.” Kos chuckles.
Number eight slammed me into the boards and told me to keep my “bitch ass” out of his way. So, the next time the puck was in his stick, I checked him so hard into the boards that it took him a minute to get up after falling to the ice.
He was seething, and I loved every second of it. Our fight was inevitable, but the tension only grew as the time on the clock ran. Third period, he charged Brett and checked him into the boards.
There’s an unwritten rule when it comes to Brett Burns—no one touches him. It’s known to almost all players in the NHL. And if by some chance they don’t know and they plant Brett on the boards, they quickly find out. He is a golden boy with a slight partying streak but aside from a few nights out with the boys, the only thing he does is dedicate his life to hockey. A lot like myself, but I’m not quite the nice guy he is.
If a player touches Brett on the ice, our defenders will light them up. It never fails that a player wants to test that theory, and it ends the same way every time.
Usually, the defenders of our line are the ones to punish the player that checks Brett. But this one was all mine.
“He had it coming.” I smile and take a chug of my drink.
My phone vibrates, and my heart skips a fucking beat at the possibility of it being Nikki. But I’m met with disappointment when I see Olivia’s name on my screen. She and I are occasional friends with benefits. But the thought of her in my bed right now sounds like torture. Don’t get me wrong; she’s hot and great in bed, but I don’t want anything to do with her anymore.
Olivia: Congrats on the win tonight. Need someone to celebrate with?
Me: No, I’m good. Already got someone. Thanks though.
Olivia sends back a thumbs-up. The terms of our relationship have always been clear, and I’ve always appreciated that. We get what we want out of each other—sex—and that’s it.
When I set my phone down, the bartender who hit on me earlier walks over to our group.
“How is everyone doing? Need any shots tonight? More drinks?” she asks the table, holding her flirty stare on me before moving on to Brett.
Kos calls out to the table behind us, “MacArthur!”
Matt turns with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Shots?”
“Fuck yeah!” Matt shouts.
“A round for our group, please.” He quickly gets a head count of the players and the accompanying girls. “Thirty-one of them. Your choice of shot.”
She smiles eagerly. “Coming right up.”
Brett and Kos get into it on what play was the best of the night, and I sit back in my seat in silence, just observing the room and chaos that End Zone is on a Saturday night.
The dance floor is flooded with drunk people trying to have sex through their clothes. Which immediately reminds me once again of Little Dove.
The way she felt in my hands. Fuck. It was pure ecstasy.
I wish that night hadn’t gotten interrupted. I would have brought her back to my place and licked every inch of her body and fucked her until she couldn’t take it anymore.
I want to know what her panting sounds like and the whimpers that would escape her when I gently squeezed her throat.
I’m suddenly aware of the tightness of my pants, and I adjust myself accordingly. If I get this hard from just thinking about her, I can’t imagine what it would actually be like to be with her.
