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“That is a you problem. My teammates are definitely not staring at my crotch while we’re traveling.”
“I can guarantee they have noticed. It is not subtle, this outline.”
“Why are you really here tonight? Because I’m not sleeping with you again.”
The need to prove this statement wrong, to assert his power over this other man burned in Nico’s chest. It would be easy, no? Bennett had already demonstrated how receptive he was to Nico’s commands. With one or two well-placed words, Nico was confident he could have Verreault again tonight.
Madonna santa—he was acting a fool. Years usually passed between his random male hookups, until he saw someone who caught his eye or the itch became too distracting to ignore. It wasn’t difficult; he didn’t need dick to get off and women were readily available. Men were easy and fun and a way to blow off a different kind of steam. He certainly didn’t need to chase one. Even one as beautiful as this.
“I wasn’t offering,” he said flatly.
“Bullshit.”
“And you are a fucking expert, Mr. I Have Never Heard of Lube?”
“Do you always talk with your hands?”
Nico shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, as if this would prevent hundreds of years of Milanese ancestry from displaying itself. “Dai, you are bold for a man who may be hiding something from me.”
Verreault’s chin lifted, his lips pinching in apparent anger. “I’m not hiding shit, Marzano.”
That remained to be seen. And a point needed to be made. This attitude from Verreault was intolerable. Nico wouldn’t allow it from anyone else in his life, and he wasn’t allowing it now from this man, tight ass or no.
Keeping his hands tucked away, he advanced across the tiny kitchen, moving toward the other man, slowly eating up the distance that separated them. Verreault paused mid-sip, unmoving except for his eyes, which tracked Nico’s progress with incredible concentration, almost as if he were watching an opposing player on the ice.
Nico didn’t speak as he crowded into Verreault’s space, leaving only centimeters between them as he angled to the side, their hips almost touching, and he let the other man feel the heat from his frame. Unfortunately, this meant he was affected too—by Verreault’s spicy cologne, the inviting warmth of his skin. The rugged shadow of dark stubble. That tiny scar on an otherwise impeccable jaw. Nico tried to ignore the sizzle behind his balls, the tightening of his groin, and placed his mouth near Verreault’s ear. “We will soon learn if you are lying, bello. Because I am conducting my own investigations. And if I find out that you knew who was responsible and covered it up, I will make your life a living hell.”
Verreault swayed ever so slightly toward Nico—and it almost destroyed his plans. Nico nearly lost his mind right then and there, going back on every promise he made to himself to not fall victim to his lust, to resist the urge to have this incredible body, this high-performance machine, under him once again. Fuck.
Before he did something stupid, he forced himself to take a step back. He nodded to Verreault’s paper-thin pants where the outline of a phone was clearly visible. “Text your team. Organize a night out at The Loop. Get them drunk and see if anyone gives something away.”
Verreault’s tongue appeared to moisten his lips. “It’s too late to text them.”
“This is not a democracy. You don’t get a vote on which orders you follow and which you don’t.” He started to gesture with his hands, but caught himself in time. He lifted his chin instead. “Text them. Now.”
“But . . . we never go clubbing as a team, and if we did it wouldn’t be so late in the season.”
The sheer audacity of a refusal. Was Verreault crazy, or too comfortable? In a clipped, harsh tone, Nico snarled, “Sei un rompi scatole—pain in my ass! I don’t care what you’ve done in the past. You have the next two nights off. Text them fucking now.”
“Fine.” Verreault took out his phone, unlocked it, then typed quickly with his thumbs. “I’m only doing this because it’s not a bad idea. But they’re going to think I’ve lost my mind. We’ve literally never done this before.”
“Tell them it is a way to relax before your playoffs start.”
“How do you know about playoffs?”
Nico wasn’t about to answer that. It was unhealthy and embarrassing, and would only give Bennett a reason to gloat. Instead of answering, Nico patted Bennett’s cheek twice. “Sleep well. Not to worry, we will speak soon.”
CHAPTER 9
Bennett clutched his vodka and soda, the same one he’d been nursing all night, the ice long melted, and tried to look like he was having fun. Maybe not fun, per se, but he couldn’t appear completely miserable. The entire team was in the VIP area at The Loop, along with a group of beautiful young women who were definitely not WAGs, enjoying drinks and loud, thumping music. Bennett made the outing mandatory: pre-playoffs team bonding, he said. He also offered to pick up the tab. Once everyone got over the shock of his offer, they were on board. Enthusiastically.
Now Bennett was in a booth, watching the guys as best as he could. Noah was helping, but the chance of one of the boys being stupid enough to slip, to say or do something incriminating, was probably zero. Still, Bennett was hoping to see a blue pea coat or a plastic bracelet—something that would help him identify this guy before it was too late.
Alex Sewell dropped into the empty space on the other end of Bennett’s booth. The rookie’s eyes were bright and unfocused, his body swaying. “Cap, this is epic. So fucking glad I’m on this team!” He pounded the table as if to prove his point, rattling the glasses and bottles.
“Settle down, Welly,” Noah said from beside Bennett. “And remember what we said about puking.”
That was the one hard rule about tonight: those who puked had to do bag skates in the morning. Bennett hoped that was enough of a deterrent for everyone to stay mildly sober. Though looking at Sewell, maybe not.
