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Heat twists low in my belly, and I head to my closet to pull out another piece of lingerie—a baby blue balconette bra with a matching lace thong and garters.
It’s just a picture, I tell myself as I set my phone up and snap the picture of my back, hair draped across my shoulder, lacy strap visible. It’s just for fun. I’m always telling my students that they deserve to feel good, so why can’t I? Sending sexy pictures to Rory and seeing his admiration of my body makes me feel hot. That’s all.
I won’t let it get away from me. I know what I’m doing.
My pulse jumps when his response arrives, and I flush with pleasure.
Holy fuck, Hartley.
CHAPTER41
RORY
Good game tonight,Hazel texts a week later while I sit in a bar with the guys, celebrating the game. She and Pippa are on their weekend away in Whistler.
We won the game tonight four-nothing, and not a single one of those goals was mine. I smile down at my phone. A half-full beer sits on the table in front of me after Owens shoved it in my face.
One beer isn’t going to ruin my career, and it’s so good. So fucking good.
You watched my game?I reply.
Her typing dots appear, disappear, and appear again. I hope she’s getting flustered on the other side.
It was on in the background.
My grin widens.You watched my game.
Christ, I miss her, but the photos we’ve been sending back and forth? My cock stiffens just thinking about them. Prickly, guarded Hazel, sending me glimpses of the lingerie I bought her. Every time my phone chirps with her text tone, my balls tighten in anticipation.
I haven’t jerked off this much since I was a teenager. I scroll up to the photo she sent this morning of her cream-colored lace panties stretched over the long line of her hip, and I scrub a hand over my face.
Hazel Hartley has me under her thumb, and I love it.
Something on the TV screen behind the bar catches my eye—my dad. He’s in the studio as a guest commentator. Replays roll of the Storm game, and a familiar weight settles in my gut. They replay me passing to another forward before he snaps it into the net.
That play was everything I love about hockey—speed, skill, and luck. Teamwork, too, I guess. Fuck, that was a nice goal.
“What a waste,” the captions read as my dad talks.
Pain rips through me. I hope Hazel isn’t watching this.
“I know he’s my son, but Rory Miller is a weapon on this team, and Ward’s using him to prop up other players,” my dad continues, and my molars grind. “Ward makes Miller captain but has him passing to other players like they’re at summer camp.”
“Don’t,” Streicher mutters beside me, staring at his own phone, probably texting Pippa.
“What?”
He tips his chin at the TV before meeting my eyes with his usual serious expression. “Don’t watch that shit. It doesn’t matter what they say. They’re not on the ice with us.”
“He’s right, though.” I rub the back of my neck. “I was traded to the team to score goals and win games.”
Streicher watches me for a long moment, frowning. “Why don’t you leave that up to Ward?”
“I just want to be a good captain,” I admit to my oldest friend. I blow a long breath out. “What would you do in my position?”
He shrugs his big shoulders. “I’d do whatever Ward thought was best. I trust him.”
“Me, too.” The urge to make Ward proud fights with my need for my dad’s approval. “I don’t understand him, though.”
