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I bend down to meet his gaze and reach into my gym bag. “I can do you one better, kid.” Gripping an extra jersey, I rest it on my thigh and sign my name in the white lines of my number—thirty-three, the same number I have worn since I was a kid. I always keep a few pucks and jerseys in my bag to give to the fans. I was like Rico at one time, and I know exactly what it’s like to look up to a player, only to have them pretend like you don’t exist.
My father played in the NHL for five years before a high check to the jaw gave him a concussion that ended his professional career. My mother didn’t want him to play anymore, and it’s not like he had a choice. Not long after his injury, we moved to Boston where he became a college hockey coach. Because of his reputation as a no-nonsense coach with the wins to back it up, my father eventually got an offer as an assistant coach with the Bruins.
That worked out well for my mother because that meant we could still live in Boston, and she could maintain her lifestyle as a lying, cheating whore. Little did my father know that her real motivation for wanting to stay was the athletic director at Boston College, whom she was banging behind his back. After their divorce, it was just my dad and me…until this past summer.
The first time I met a professional hockey player, I was just as excited as Rico, but it was a complete disappointment. My father was furious with his player for being such a jerk, and I always promised that, if I ever made it pro, I would never be that player, the one who refuses to acknowledge their fans.
I offer my jersey to Rico, and he gladly takes it, showing it off to Charlotte. She glances down at me, her eyes wide with excitement for Rico, as he holds it up.
As I stand from a crouched position, Charlotte places her hand on my shoulder and leans into me. “Thank you so much, Alex. I know that meant the world to Rico. Maybe you’re not as bad as I thought.” She moves closer, her voice almost a whisper. “But, if you ever tell me to put my tits on the glass again, I’m going to kick your ass.”
I laugh into the crook of my elbow, attempting not to draw any attention from those chatting around us. “I wasn’t talking to you when I said that, just so you know.”
She takes a step back, and her hand drops from my shoulder to her side. “You looked right at me when you said it.”
“I was talking to the girls behind you.”
Charlotte scowls at me. “You are such a pig. It’s a shame because you have moments when I think you’re a decent guy, small things that make me like you, and then you and that stupid mouth of yours have to go and ruin any chance of us ever getting along. Just because you’re rich and famous doesn’t mean that every girl is going to spread her legs because you say hello.”
I laugh, now wanting to challenge her. “And that is where you are wrong, sweetheart, because it has worked so far.”
I realize what I have said and instantly regret it. I’m a fucking idiot.
I keep talking to her as if she were a puck bunny, not the sexy, sporty agent who works for Mickey. With Charlotte, I keep saying and doing the wrong things. Every time we are close, my chest fills with nervous anticipation. She’s unlike any girl I’ve ever met.
We’ve entered into a staring contest—me wanting to take Charlotte into the locker room and fuck her brains out, and her looking as though she wants to murder me. The tension between us is so thick, it makes my head spin.
She sucks in a deep breath and draws my attention to her breasts. I can’t wait to get her out of the bulky jerseys I’ve seen her wear so far.
As if she knows what I’m thinking, she says, “Not a chance, Parker,” as she presses her finger into my chest.
Now, she’s acting like I’m her client again, flipping back to professional mode, with the same attitude she gave me the night we met. I guess I should feel lucky that it’s not Mr. Parker today.
“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” I counter.
Jamie hooks his arm around Charlotte and says, “Ready, babe?”
Without a glance in my direction, she turns her head to face Jamie and smiles lovingly. “Yep, let’s go home.”
Jamie thanks me for the tickets with Charlotte in his arm, and as they walk away, he pulls her close to his chest into a hug and kisses her forehead. Clearly, Charlotte has a man, but all I know is that I want her more than I have ever wanted another woman.
Alex
By the time I find Scores, the parking lot is crowded, and my stomach is going apeshit. The amount of cars in the parking lot on a Saturday at six p.m. takes me by surprise. They must have, like Kane said, the best tits in the city. I can’t imagine they come here for the food.
I get out of my car and make my way toward the door, dressed casually in jeans and a fitted shirt. My only hope is that no one recognizes me and takes my picture. I probably should have worn a hat, but I wasn’t thinking when I left the Wells Fargo Center after the game. The last thing I need after less than one week in Philadelphia is another publicized scandal.
Kane and Donovan greet me at a door on the side of the building, talking to a beautiful woman in her mid-twenties. She’s wearing a tight black dress that shows off her cleavage and long legs. Black hair falls in waves over an impressive rack.
“You showed up,” Kane says, almost surprised. “Nichols bailed on us, so it’s just the three of us tonight.” He turns to the woman and says, “Drea, we’re ready. If you wouldn’t mind, please show my new friend here the VIP treatment.”
Drea moves closer and holds her palm out to me, her lips curled up into a tiny smile. I place my hand in hers and allow her to lead me into the dim club, flanked by Kane and Donovan.
It looks like your typical strip club—neon lights, mirrored walls, leather benches, tables with chairs, three stages toward the front, and a shitload of guys who are crowded around the girls. But it actually smells good. The scent of herbs and spices lingers in the air instead of the usual smell of cigarettes, desperation, and sex.
“Alex, right? I hear you’re new to Philly. I’ll make sure our girls show you a good t
ime.” Drea winks at me.
