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“Address it,” I deadpan, looking across the table at New Brunswick’s center, Graham Sinclair. The team’s golden boy—AKA the captain—who needs to drop this whole conversation.
He lifts a brow at me as if I’m supposed to pick up the narrative of what he’s conjured up in his head. “What’s up with her?”
“She’s assistant coach to the team that Dylan has me coaching. That’s all.”
“So, you bring random women to hockey games now?” That coming from Wells, one of our defensemen, also a normal pain in my ass.
“Don’t you have someone to go fuck in the bathroom?” I shoot back, pinning my glare on him because that’s what he’s known for. And women from all around find that appealing and charming.
I don’t get it.
I also don’t understand why Hollyn is still on this Weston kick, but I’d have to give half a fuck to dive into that.
And I don’t.
It doesn’t matter that I kinda liked her sitting next to me at the game today. That she eats like a grown-ass man. That she doesn’t watch her calorie count because she doesn’t need to.
Nah, that’d be a damn sin if she lost any of those curves that cupped her black leggings and the black New Brunswick Wolverines shirt, I made her put on.
It was mine and way too big for her. But she did this twist thing with the fabric and adjusted it so she wasn’t floating in it, but I can’t say that I minded her skin in my shit.
In fact, the small sliver of skin that she showed at her torso was almost a little maddening.
“Depending on your answer,” Wells states. “I might in about five minutes when I go sweep that girl off her feet.”
“No,” I blurt out before I’m able to stop it. My answer is going to be misconstrued into something that it’s not, but I’m not joking the fuck around right now. I didn’t bring Hollyn out to be mauled by this asshole—the playboy of hockey—so that I could see if she could handle it.
She couldn’t.
Wells has game for days and he could probably talk coach out of giving up his first born if he wanted.
That’s if he swung that way. However, it’s never stopped Wells before from getting free drinks and a whole gay following because he posts Instagram pictures of himself in boxers, shirtless, with some seductive little smirk on his face.
He does the shit on purpose.
And he won’t confirm or deny if he swings one way or another. For all I know, he swings all ways. Anywhere his dick can fight a nice, tight hole to shove itself into.
“No?” Wells repeats mockingly, causing my fingers to wrap tighter around my beer glass. “So, there is—”
“No,” I sneer, feeling a vein tick in my temple. “Just because I don’t want you to take some innocent girl and use her doesn’t mean I like her.”
“Why do you care?”
I’m going to bust his face in with those boy-next-door looks and the smug little expression he has illuminating his face right now. However, that’s only going to get him more attention, and then I’d be doing him a favor by getting him laid tonight by some female who wants to nurse the broken nose I’m about to give him.
“I work with her,” I project. “Which means I’m not dealing with your bullshit and her wanting to talk about it. Because she talks. A lot. She talks and talks and then she reads. Leave her alone and drop it.”
Wells doesn’t drop it.
He glimpses over his shoulder toward the pool tables a few yards away, causing me to do the same and fuck me; the woman is reading the rule book on how to play pool.
“Maybe I should go help her learn how to play.”
My foot kicks his shin, not giving a fuck if he gets a bruise there, and Graham howls with a laugh.
“Ouch, fucker,” he muses, returning his focus to me where it should be. “I was only trying to be helpful.”
“Be helpful and drink your beer.”
