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“Thank you.” She glances at me again. “Amazing chatting with you as always, prom king.”
“Gisele.”
She struts back to her table, and I can’t help checking her out. She’s wearing denim shorts that cling to a round perky ass. The denim is frayed, strands of whitish-blue thread tickling her firm, tanned thighs. She’s not a tall woman, maybe five-four, but her legs appear endless in those tiny shorts. They’re all muscle too, and shapely, a testament to her training. It’s hot that she plays hockey. Female athletes are a massive turn-on.
The flicker of desire fizzles when I notice who she’s sitting with.
I still don’t know the names of every single Briar player, but I do know the good ones. Will Larsen’s one of those. And I guess as far as assholes go, he’s not as bad as his teammates.
“Order for Ryder?”
A man in a white apron appears holding two takeout bags.
“Thanks,” I say, accepting the bags.
I’m leaving the restaurant when my phone buzzes with a call. I grab it from the back pocket of my cargo shorts. It’s an unfamiliar number, so I let the call go to voicemail.
The walk home takes me down Main Street and through a series of quaint, well-maintained parks. Hastings is a tremendous step up from Eastwood. My former town was very industrial, with a lot of strip malls and nothing too exciting to look at. Hastings, on the other hand, resembles a town from an old-timey postcard. Gaslit lampposts and mature trees line the streets, and strings of lights and banners hang overhead on Main Street, advertising a summer jazz festival that recently finished. The storefronts are shiny and clean, the main strip full of small shops and boutiques, coffee shops, and a handful of bars and restaurants.
I cut down a winding path past a wooden gazebo, then emerge from the park onto the sidewalk. I notice whoever called left a voice-mail, so I key in my password to listen to it.
“Hello, this message is for Luke Ryder. This is Peter Greene with the Maricopa County Attorney’s office. I’m calling in regard to your father’s parole hearing. If you could call me back at your earliest convenience—”
I delete the message before he’s even finished reciting his phone number.
Yeah, fuck that.
I walk faster, passing a lady pushing a stroller. She takes one look at me and ducks her head. I’m wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt, nothing remotely frightening. But maybe it’s my expression at hearing the words parole hearing that’s scaring her off.
When I get home, Shane’s right where I left him. Mowing the lawn, shirtless. Across the street, a few girls congregate on their porch pretending to casually chat with one another while their gazes are glued to Shane’s glistening muscles. I’d bet every dollar I made working construction this summer that one of those girls will be at our place tonight. All of them, if Beckett decides to show his face out here.
Sometimes living with Beckett gets a little loud. That headboard banging keeps you awake a lot. Shane’s quieter with his conquests, but he does have them. Frequently, now that he’s single.
“Oh, sweet. I’m starving.” Shane turns off the mower and comes striding toward me.
We leave his fan club behind and go inside, where Beckett is loading the dishwasher in the kitchen. Shane grabs plates from the cupboard while I open the takeout bags.
“Hey, so I invited a few of the neighbors over,” Beckett says.
I smother a snort. Of course he did. I was crazy to think he hadn’t already made moves on the chicks across the street.
As it turns out, the three girls who ring our doorbell later that night are all nursing students, which leads to plenty of very unfunny doctor and nurse jokes from Beckett. And yet the chicks eat it up, because Beck has that effect on women.
One of them has her sights set on me, though. Her name is Carma—with a C, she makes sure to tell us—and she’s a tall pretty girl with shoulder-length black curls and unabashed hunger in her dark eyes. She’s on me from the moment she enters the house, flirting hard, turning up the charm. At first, I’m sort of indifferent, just nodding along, but two beers later, I find myself receptive to her advances.
When she leans in close and whispers, “Wanna go upstairs?” in my ear, I can’t deny the offer is tempting.
Last time I hooked up was a month ago, when I went to visit Beckett in Indianapolis for a weekend. We hit up a few bars, and I ended up going home with a hot bartender in her late twenties. Fun night.
In the month since, however, I was tasked with finding us a house in Hastings, working twelve-hour days on a construction site, and now, this disastrous training camp.
Meaning my dick could definitely use some TLC.
