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“Ooh.” Tristan uses a hand on my shoulder to boost herself up even higher to look in the glass. “What isthat?”
“Thatis a pink bikini,” Pelletier smirks. “Cap’s drink of choice.”
It’s not, but I’m game to try it. Or I would if I was drinking. Sending Pelé to the bar had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with his proximity to my… Tristan.
“You don’t drink during the season,” she says, a little furrow between her blonde brows. I want to smooth a finger over it.
Pelletier grins at me. I can see every one of his teeth. Including the fake front one.
“That’s not why he asked for it,” he says, leaning in like it’s some big conspiracy theory. He’s opening his mouth, probably to tell her I was scaring him off, pulling rank, peeing on her like a dog, when she cuts him off.
“Can I have it?”
I can’t help the way my hand slips around her waist again, pulling her into the heat of my body. I stare at my teammate and the man stares back. All the teasing gone from his expression. As much as I wanted him away from my kitty cat, I know he wouldn’t have done anything to this drink. Still, I’m having a hard time reminding my nervous system that she’s safe. She’s okay. Beau Pelletier is a horrendous flirt. He isn’t great with boundaries, but he would neverdrugsomeone. Neverhurtanyone off the ice.
Pelletier’s dark eyes are wide as he shakes his head back and forth. The movement is slight, just a small tip side to side, and he follows it up with, “I watched them make it, Cap. I would never…”
Tristan takes the glass from his hand and wraps her lips around the narrow black straw.
“There’s coconut in this,” she tells me with a sweet smile, and my fingers flex against the slippery fabric of her dress. Her voice drops to a whisper. “It’s delicious.”
And something hits me like a freight train.
The tension locking down my muscles isn’t jealousy, it’s worry. I’m not worried about my teammates. I’m not worried any of them is going to put a move on her or that she’ll let them. I’m worried because Tristan is not acting like her normal self. She’s loose, relaxed, smiling. Her walls are down. And I want to take credit for it, but it’s not that at all.
She’s drunk.
It’s not surprising, given her size. I knew she was cagey about coming here with us. Nervous. I know she ordered a drink when we got here, but I guess I didn’t know she’d be such a lightweight. Not that I blame her for taking the edge off. My chest puffs with pride. I think it shows her trust in me. In the team. She knows we’ll take care of her. We won’t let anything happen to her. Ever.
I don’t need to protect her from the guys on the team.
I just need to be here. To keep an eye on her. To know she’s okay.
I can do that.
Pelletier turns back to the stage, leaving us with a semblance of privacy. The woman dancing wiggles her fingers from behind a large, feathered fan. She’s holding it over her front until all that’s visible is long legs and a head of dark curls. She sashays into the wings as guys around us holler and whistle. I keep my eyes on the empty platform as Tristan leans her weight against me and sips more of the frothy pink drink. She’s right about the coconut. I can smell the Malibu from here. My arm slips more fully around her waist. She isn’t sloppy, but I’ve got her, anyway.
“I can dance like that,” she says, and I’m startled enough to tighten my forearm before I make myself relax. She pats the back of my hand, blowing any hope I had that my reaction went unnoticed.
“Like that?” My voice is hoarser than I anticipated.
“There was a movie that came out years ago, the one with Cher in it? I taught myself some of the dances because it looked fun. I never got to take actual dance class as a kid, but I think I would have liked it.”
“I bet you’re a great dancer,” I say, trying not to imagine her naked except for a bedazzled thong and pasties, playing peekaboo from behind a large feathered fan. She’s pressed too tight against me to not notice the state of my dick. My self-control is excellent, but even I can’t stop myself from getting a fucking erection.
“Wanna see?” She asks, pushing her now empty glass into my free hand.
Yes. More than anything. But I don’t want anyone else to.
Then again, she’s not naked.
“Do you want a chance to dance on the stage?”
“Yes,” she nods her head, “No. Yes.” Strong white teeth bite into her plump lip. “There are a lot of people here.”
Not really, but I can change that.
“We can shut the place down,” I tell her. I can cover the cost on my own, but I’m sure the guys would chip in if I asked.
