My dick has never reacted in any way like it did around Marcus.
Fuckthis,honestly.
“Point is,” Kane says with a note of exasperation, having always hated playing the role of a mediator. “You played perfectly against the Ravens. We need that tomorrow. We’re only one point ahead of the Wolves, and one loss puts them in first.”
“Not on my watch,” I snarl.
“Exactly. So do whatever you did before the last game to play like that again.”
Ah yes.
Skating around with a bruised, throbbing ass courtesy of Marcus Osborn, that’s what I did.
And absolutely fucking not, that isnothappening again.
I’m not about to use “getting manhandled by my rival” as my pregame ritual.
I’m going back to my default setting—women.
Now if I could just find one—anyone—attractive enough to awaken my borderline-insubordinate dick, that would be fantastic.
Like, please, universe, I’m begging.
Send a hottie immediately before my sexuality finishes its Windows reboot and picks Marcus as the default browser.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Once, then again.
I pull it out, and fuck my life, it’s Marcus.
Seriously, universe? I ask for a hottie, and you sendhim?
I meant a hot woman, goddamn it.
Marcus is now namedProblem #11in my contacts—forhis jersey number. Hilarious, I know. I had him asPMS (Perpetual Male Syndrome)for a few days after that night, which was genius, if I may say so myself.
After that incident, I expected him to come find me in the locker room, which is why I was basically fleeing, just putting my jacket, pants, and shoes on, then I was out, leaving the place a fucking mess.
I just couldn’t face whatever the fuck happened in that penalty box—and no, it wasn’t me. I’ll deny it until I die.
The following day, I went back early in the morning, like at four a.m., and deleted all the security footage so no one could prove it happened.
But the thing is, I noticed something. The mess I left in the locker room was gone. My skates, gloves, and stick were stored neatly in my locker, and I found two candies on top of my folded clothes.
The rink was also clean and tidy. It was highly unlikely that the cleaning staff came in, and sure enough, I confirmed it when I watched the footage. Marcus was the one who tidied up.
I fast-forwarded to the part where I punched him and skated away like my ass was on fire.
Marcus just stroked his chin as he watched the direction I went in. He sat down on the bench in the penalty box and just stared. Like a creep. For a long time.
Then he stood up and winked at the camera before he got on with tidying.
As if he knew I’d watch it. I mean, yeah, makes sense, neither of us wanted the others on the Vipers to know I invited the Wolves’ captain for a late-night game.
In which I had my ass spanked.
Okay, fine, maybe I made a copy of the footage and sent it to myself before deleting it from the arena’s servers.
It’s so I can study it and make sure that I didn’t make a complete fool out of myself and that it’stotallynormal for a straight guy to come that hard from being touched and spanked by another man.
