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And yet, that banging body is doing absolutely nothing for me.
Which is troublesome. I almost want to take her upstairs just to prove to myself that everything is in proper working order. But I won’t.
As I hit the first step, Cooper breaks away from his girl. “WTF, McKinnon? Where you going?” He waves a hand around the room. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of entertaining?”
“I’ll leave you to take care of our guests,” I say, trudging up the staircase.
“Well, if you insist,” he slurs happily.
My bedroom is at the end of the hall, away from the noise of the first floor. As a general rule, no one is allowed on the second floor except for the guys who live here. I pull out my key and unlock the door before stepping inside.
My duffel gets tossed in the corner before I open my Managerial Finance book. I thought I’d have a chance to plow through some of the reading over the weekend, but my dad and I were on the go the entire time. Meeting people from the Milwaukee organization, hitting a team party, checking out a few condos near the lakefront. Just getting the general lay of the land. On the plane ride home, I had every intention of being productive, but ended up sacking out once we hit cruising altitude.
Three hours later, there’s a knock on the door. Normally an interruption would piss me off, but after slogging through thirty pages, my eyes have glazed over, and I’m fighting to stay awake. This material is mind-numbingly boring, and that’s not helping matters.
“It's open,” I call out, expecting Cooper to try cajoling me back downstairs.
When that guy’s shitfaced, he wants everyone else to be just as hammered as he is. I’ve never seen anyone put away alcohol the way he does. It’s almost as impressive as it is scary. And yet, he’s somehow able to wake up for morning practice bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like he wasn’t just wasted six hours ago. Someone from the biology department really needs to do a case study on him, ’cause that shit just ain’t normal.
When I suck down alcohol like that, the next morning I’m like a newborn colt on the ice who can’t keep his legs under him.
It’s not a pretty sight. Which is why I don’t do it. Been there, done that. Moving on.
The door swings open to reveal Blondie-With-The-Toddler-Voice. And she’s not alone. She’s brought a friend.
I raise my brows in interest as they step inside the room.
In the three hours since I’ve seen her, Blondie has managed to lose most of her clothing. The brunette she’s with appears to be in the same predicament. They stand in lacy bras and barely-there thongs with their hands entwined.
My gaze roves over them appreciatively.
How could it not?
Their tummies are flat and toned. Hips are nicely rounded. Tits jiggle enticingly as they saunter toward the bed where I’m currently sprawled.
I should be a man of steel over here. I haven’t gotten laid in three weeks. Which is almost unheard of. I haven’t gone that long without sex since I first started having it.
But there’s nothing.
Not even a twitch.
Which begs the question—What the hell is wrong with me?
It must be the stress of school and the skating regimen I’m on. Even though I’m already under contract with Milwaukee and don’t have to worry about the NHL draft later this year, I’m still under a lot of pressure to perform this season.
National Championships don’t bring themselves home.
I’d be concerned that I have some serious erectile dysfunction issues happening except there’s one chick who gets me hard every time I lay eyes on her. Rather ironically, she wants nothing to do with me. I think she’d claw my eyes out if I laid one solitary finger on her.
Actually, all I have to do is stare in her direction, and she bares her teeth at me.
Maybe these girls are exactly what I need to relieve some of my pent-up stress. It certainly can’t hurt.
Decision made, I slam my finance book closed and toss it to the floor where it lands with a loud thud. I fold my arms behind my head and smile at the girls in silent invitation.
And the rest, shall we say, is history.
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