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They were apparently really fucking into me, asses grinding against my crotch, lips on my neck, hands grabbing my junk. It was hot, but for some annoying-ass reason, my gaze kept shooting to Ramsey and Houston, talking animatedly about something, before Whitt’s stupid face would make an appearance in my mind, the way his head dropped back when he came, the corded muscles in his throat when he’d drained his balls, and the way he’d said my name so softly I wasn’t sure he’d even realized he’d done it.
Why couldn’t I get that dumbass moment out of my head?
So, I got another drink, hoping to numb myself from Whitt taking over my brain like he was some kind of magician or something.
Lydia was in front of me, one of the other women behind me, sandwiching me between them when my cell buzzed against my thigh. I’d already decided I would go home with one or all of these ladies, if they were game. Three women had to make me forget one threesome with Whitt, where I didn’t even get to touch him as much as I’d wanted to, right? No. I didn’t want to touch him. Bad Tucker.
My phone went off again. I had a feeling this was likely Ramsey telling me he was going home to fuck Houston’s brains out or something, so I should check.
The text didn’t use those words exactly but did tell me they were ready to leave.
“You ladies want to get out of here with me?” I asked them. They looked back and forth at each other as if trying to decide before they said yes. “Let’s do it, then.”
When we got outside, I didn’t see Houston, but Ramsey was there. I snuck up behind him, putting my arm around him and letting the whiskey talk for me. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Huh?” Ramsey asked.
“About you and McRae. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. He’s bi, and you guys have been close for years.” Ramsey frowned, likely surprised I’d figured it out. “I saw the way he looked at you in there when you admitted being in a relationship. I’m happy for you guys. You didn’t have to hide being bi from me. No shame in the game. I fucked around with a few guys in college.”
I had a threesome with Whitt and watched him come a while ago, too.
Christ, I couldn’t imagine what anyone would say if they found out. Every member of the Rush fucking hated Whitt. Everyone in Denver did. He was a bougie, stuck-up bastard, and I’d rutted against him and had to fight myself not to kiss him. What had I been thinking?
“Jesus.” Ramsey dropped his head back. “I’m not—”
“Don’t deny it. I won’t believe you anyway. Your secret’s safe with me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have three women to satisfy.”
We ended up taking a car to Lydia’s place, where I did, in fact, satisfy three women. Too bad I was thinking about a very specific prick the whole time.
5
WHITT
“Winter Wonderland” rang through the whole-house speaker system in my parents’ Florida estate as I flipped the switch on the gas fireplace in the great room and then plopped into one of the cushy leather club chairs in front of it. To my left, a twelve-foot tree decorated by Candice stood sentinel over the cavernous space, bright white lights slowly fading in and out. We’d had the colorful kind as a kid until my mom decided they were tacky. I’d loved them, though, and in a moment of orneriness, I hopped up again and approached the tree, squatting next to the power cord to see if there was an option to change the light color, and found there was. I switched the lights and returned to my chair. That was better.
I was three old-fashioneds in and still full from dinner at Candice and Leon’s earlier. My parents’ flight back from London had been delayed, and they wouldn’t get in until tomorrow morning. I was used to that, though. There’d been more than one Christmas when Candice-Santa had delivered presents, or she and Leon had come to stay with me. They’d offered to tonight so I wouldn’t be “lonely,” but I’d laughed them off and reminded them I was an adult and I’d be fine.
Having the house to myself was nice anyway. I wasn’t lonely. Not at all. My head had been a noisy, crowded place for months since I’d hooked up with Tucker. Some peace and quiet back in Florida was just what I needed. Sure, it would have been fun to have some company—who wouldn’t want that on Christmas Eve?—and I’d considered hitting up some of the parties I’d been invited to, or clubs, but I didn’t want to chance running into Tucker, no matter how unlikely that was since he was probably spending the evening with his mom and siblings anyway.
I poured a fresh whiskey and gazed between the tree and the fire. Yeah, this was nice. Peaceful. Just the respite I needed before playoffs started next month.
Except half an hour later, my head started getting noisy again. I’d ruminated for weeks after the incident with Tucker, alternately wondering what the fuck I’d been thinking and then reliving every brutally erotic second of that morning until I thought my head would explode. But I hadn’t reached out to him or contacted him, and he hadn’t gotten in touch with me either, so I finally decided it was a one-off thing that we never needed to speak of again. Hell, for all I knew, Tucker had had a ton of other hookups like that in the intervening months. Meanwhile, I’d thrown myself into turbo game mode and couldn’t remember the last time I’d looked at a woman with anything more than passing interest.
Picking up my phone, I idly scrolled social media to see what my teammates were up to. Family pics were abundant. Dean, the fucker, was celebrating in the Turks and Caicos with his gorgeous wife and their new baby. Barker was with his parents in Ohio. It looked… snowy. LaForge was in Vegas.
I clicked over to my page, which mainly featured team pics or PR photos my PA posted. Somehow, I still had a shit ton of followers.
On a whim, I found Tucker’s account and clicked on it. Unsurprisingly, he had more followers than me, because of course he did. I skimmed through the photos, pausing on one of him at the beach with his sisters during the off-season. The most recent photo was predictably a shot of him, his mom, and sisters grinning in front of their Christmas tree, the quintessential happy family.
I hopped back over to my contact list and scrolled down to his name. I could text him. I debated as I took another slug of whiskey. It was going down extra easy now, and my limbs had a pleasant, soft-at-the edges feeling.
I went back and forth with myself, because why the fuck was I considering reaching out to him after so much time unless I was some kind of masochist? Besides, it’d probably just blow Tucker’s head up even more if I did. Still, I’d been fighting an incessant curiosity to know if he’d enjoyed himself, if it’d been some power play of his that he hadn’t gotten off that morning. It had to be.
I sawed at my lower lip in thought, going around in mental circles. Christ, if I was a band, I’d be called Conflicted. I should go buy some Ed Hardy tees and riveted jeans. Grow my hair out. Growl into a microphone about my angst.
I chuckled to myself at the idea and realized I must be a little drunker than I thought if I was band naming my own dumb ass.
Fuck it.
