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My ass is sliding off my high-topped chair as I round Wells, who just mumbled that Byron Sullivan is about to get his whole ass kicked by yours truly.
It’s not about that.
It’s that I don’t want her getting any ideas of being able to date one of my teammates or getting confused that he might mean something that he doesn’t.
“Shorty,” I practically bark out, causing her to flinch in response to the terseness in my voice.
Hollyn’s blue eyes flick up to me. Her long red hair aimlessly hovers over the green felt of the pool table, but she doesn’t move a fucking inch to get Sullivan away from her.
And that’s when I direct my unamused scowl to my teammate, who only takes his sweet ass time straightening his spine and getting the hell away from her.
“Hey,” she greets me, remaining bent over the table so the whole damn bar can imagine what she’d look like when—“Byron was teaching me how to play.”
“Yeah?” I leer back. “Did it also say that two people needed to hit the ball, too?”
Her brows clash together, and I know I’m being a straight-up asshole. That I’m watching her like a kid sister and cockblocking a moment where she could’ve been enjoying herself.
Sullivan is a way better companion than I’d ever be. There was probably no inner motive for what he was trying to do besides what Hollyn just told me.
And I’m starting to think that I need to socialize more often because, obviously, I’m unable to read the room correctly.
I clear my throat and start over. Hollyn isn’t deserving of my personality, which is always hard, rough, and completely unimpressed with mostly anything. “Focus on the other ball. Aim where you want to hit it so that it goes into the pocket of your choice.”
“She needs to break first,” Sullivan advises as if I don’t see all the balls placed together on the other side. “I was teaching her the best place to break.”
“That requires hands-on instruction, Byron?”
He stares back at me—blankly, unnerved, and completely calm.
That irritates the shit out of me.
But not right now.
Jerking my head to Hollyn, she immediately comes over to me, and I inwardly groan. I just summoned this woman over like a fucking dog, and she came.
“Yeah?” she asks me, stopping within inches of my chest, and she’s so short.
So perfectly perfect in my T-shirt.
This woman is spicy. She doesn’t bring it out that often. When she told me she swallows, I had to rein in all my fucking pent-up sexual longing that I hadn’t ensued on a woman in months.
Maybe even close to a year.
I’ve been so focused on hockey that sex has taken a backseat. My hand barely knows my cock anymore.
“He treatin’ you okay?” I ask her, drowning in those blue eyes that seem to almost suffocate me into chilling the hell out.
“Yeah,” she replies. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
“You sure?”
She nods. “I’m sure. We have a bet going.”
And now I’m back to seeing red again.
“A bet?” I echo through my growing irritation. “What kind of bet, Shorty?”
God bless this woman. She doesn’t recoil back from me. Either that, or she can’t read how fucking pissed I am that Sullivan decided to try this woman when he’s had others throwing themselves at him.
