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I can’t believe I was about to mention breastfeeding for the second time in less than a week, and in front of the whole hockey team no less.
Jesus.
And now I’m glancing down to try and sneak a peek at her breasts, which are sadly mostly hidden behind the jersey.
Luckily, the rest of the team are talking amongst themselves and not paying Avery and I the slightest bit of attention.
“I’ve never been a drinker.” Her cheeks turn that adorable shade of pink and she turns away from me, like she can’t look me in the eyes and continue. “My dad was a terrible alcoholic. It’s not that I think I’ll be like him, but I don’t ever want to take that risk. He did things when he was drinking. Terrible things. He tore our family apart.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” I lay my hand back on top of hers. “But I know you could never be that person.”
“Oh, shit. You’re Foster Craig.”
Several squeals sound off behind me, breaking this little bubble Avery and I were starting to create, and I close my eyes for a moment.
Between the intensity of the game and Avery, I really wanted to be left alone tonight.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my fans, but sometimes, I’d like to go out for a night and not get interrupted.
I turn and look around the table. The Bruiser Brothers, along with the goalie and a few of the rookies, have a group of bunnies around them, but I’m the only one being approached down at this end of the table. I guess I did score the winning goal tonight.
Too bad Rhett’s face didn’t scare them off.
Avery pulls her hand out from under mine, and I instantly feel its loss, which is strange, because I never want to hold a girl’s hand before. Never cared enough.
“Can we get some pictures with you?”
The three girls look at me expectantly, their eyes lit up, and they seem so excited I can’t tell them no.
What my agent said about Avery—about her being real—is starting to sink into my bones, my very core. I knew he was right, but now Iknow.
These girls all look the same. Long blonde hair styled to perfection. Tans that look fresh, despite the Tennessee winter trying to settle in, and all three of them wearing a version of a little black dress. They’re a slightly different style, but they’re all short and low cut.
They don’t look real.
They look generic.
One of many, while Avery is one of a kind.
The old me, the one from a couple weeks ago, would have gone home with all three of them and shown them my version of a hat trick, but the new Foster—the one that’s on a bunny diet and pretending to be someone’s boyfriend—isn’t even interested.
I nod and push away from the table, but before I leave, I lean over and press my lips against Avery’s temple.
“Be right back.”
She’s tense, and I can tell she’s watching me out of the corner of her eye. No doubt she’s remembering all the girls I picked up over the past year that looked like them.
Not today, Princess. Today I’m all yours, if you’ll have me.
“Can you sign this for me?” One of them pulls out a small llama covered notebook from her purse and opens it up to a blank page.
I take the pen from the blue spirals holding it together and sign the page, making sure to put my jersey number beneath my signature. As I close the book and reach out to hand it back, one of her friends snatches it and rips out a piece of paper.
She turns her back to me while she bends over a nearby table and scribbles something on the page, making sure to wiggle her ass with every stroke of the pen. I have to give it to her; she has the attention of several men in this bar. Several, but I couldn’t care less.
“For later,” she says with a wink and slips the folded up paper in my pocket. “Can I get a picture?”
“Sure.”
