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No sex for a week.
Still no invite to Hunt’s poker game or the team group text.
So, not great. There was only so long a man could skate by on his natural-born talent, and the people Dex needed to help make this right might have finally run out of fucks to give.
Leaving Rebels HQ, a sneaky feat Dex managed to engineer by keeping his head down to avoid a bout of real-talk with Sophie, Fitz, or, God forbid, Tara, Dex ran into Banks with his gym bag, also headed for the exit.
“What the hell happened to you?”
Dex filled him in as they walked out.
“Only you, O’Malley. Why do you make it so difficult for yourself?”
“Some people aren’t as boring as you, Banks.”
The man snorted. He and Dex were the same height—six-two—but Banks was a husky guy who took up a lot of space.
“Better boring than the shit you seem to spend your life dipped in.”
Dex sighed. Maybe he was right. Boring seemed to have its perks, such as stable careers and teammates who invited you to card games and what Dex imagined was a lack of anxiety about what came next.
“So my car is back at the shelter. Could you give me a ride?”
Banks squinted at him, and Dex was feeling low enough that he actually expected the guy to tell him it wasn’t happening.
“Alright. And I’ll throw in dinner at the Sunny Side Up.”
An unexpected offer, but Dex wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to get some man-to-man time with one of his teammates. At the diner, they took seats at the counter. Dex ordered the meatloaf while Banks asked for two turkey burgers because, in his view, they were tiny.
“So what do you think I should do?”
“About?”
“Everything. My legal issues. My fast-fading hockey career. The fact I haven’t gotten laid in a week.”
His teammate sniffed. “You expect me to fix your getting laid problem?”
“No. But it’s piling on, man. It’s like everything is going wrong at once. And I don’t feel like I’m in control.” He’d never felt that. Being shunted from place to place as a kid kept him in a perpetual state of insecurity. Hockey was the constant.
Hockey was still the constant.
“The Shelter Chick thinks I’m a loser.”
Banks stared for a long beat. “And you care because?”
He didn’t. But no one could possibly enjoy being judged with those shamrock-melted eyes, even while her gentle hands soothed and fixed him up. He shouldn’t care a jot about some rando’s opinion, but Ashley Adams seemed like the kind of person whose opinion carried weight.
“She pretty much said I wasn’t suitable for the job. Like I can’t figure out how to look after a few puppies.”
Banks dropped his gaze to Dex’s bandaged hand but remained silent.
“Well, yeah, there was this, but that couldn’t be helped. Okay, so it could be helped. But I can figure this out. I don’t need some crappy volunteer shelter gig. I just need to charm some stone-faced judge, make sure I’m back on the ice soon so no one forgets me, and get some action for my neglected dick.” The server put down a couple of Diet Cokes and gave Dex a grin. Yeah, the dick part of this problem wouldn’t be an issue for long.
But the rest of it seemed like a slog.
Banks’s phone buzzed and he checked what looked like a group text thread.
“The guys?” Jesus, why did it feel like someone had jammed a puck down his throat?
