Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
The slam of the closing door sounds so final that my heart stutters. What’s worse is my cock jumps, pre-come sliding down my length. I was basically jacking off in front of her and am closer than I’d like to admit to coming.
My cock argues with me as I shove it back into my jeans and close my zipper. The constriction hurts, but it’s a pain I need. A reminder that this is a favor Joy’s doing for me, a good luck thing, and I need to treat it—and her—with kid gloves.
Or else my season’s fucked.
And so am I.
Chapter 9
Joy
The Moose win their next game.
And then again. And again.
At this point, I’ve seen Dalton’s penis five times, and each time the Moose have won the subsequent game, making this the start of a great season. Five and one, it’s a once in a lifetime start for the team.
It doesn’t get any less weird each time, but tonight is going to be extra strange. It’s the eve of a run of three away games, and after Dalton freaked out about me coming with the team so he could fulfill his superstition—sorry, “pregame routine” as he insists on calling it—I reminded him that FaceTime is a thing.
So yeah, I’m video chatting with his penis tonight.
That’s something I never thought I’d be doing, but here I am—sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed, phone in hand waiting for it to ring.
Which it does, right on time.
I accept the call, and Dalton’s face fills my screen. He’s in bed, too, at whatever hotel the team’s staying at. He’s leaning back against the tufted headboard, one arm behind his head, showing off the full curve of his bicep. His hair’s wet and messy, his beard freshly trimmed, and his chest is bare. His pecs are big slabs of muscle, covered in a dusting of dark hair that’s short enough to reveal the tattoos on his skin.
“Hey,” he says, sounding tired. But I see the way his eyes scan over me on his screen.
Is it stupid that I chose a cute pajama set when I changed out of my workwear tonight? Yes, completely idiotic. Did I do it anyway, thinking the blue top would look good with my eyes? Also yes.
And given the way Dalton’s mouth ticks up at the corners and then presses into a firm line, I was right. Then again, I’m pretty damned sure he didn’t just flop into bed all shirtless and looking like a wet dream on accident. Or he might have, all things considered.
“Hey yourself,” I reply, trying to sound at least a little normal. “How was practice?”
“You don’t have to do that. I know you don’t give a shit.”
Okayyy. Not sure where that’s coming from. I mean, we’re not buddies. He’s not the person I’d call if I needed to bury a body or anything, but we’re usually at least friend-ly when we do the penis parade. Like friend-adjacent at a minimum. And when you add in postgame check-ins and conversations, we’re downright chums. I’ve talked to him more than my own brother or sister in the last few weeks.
But whatever. If he’s grouchy, it’s fine.
“What climbed up your ass and died?” I snap back.
All right, maybe not fine.
He slams his head against the padded headboard, thankfully moving his hand out of the way because he needs it to hold his stick. His hockey stick, I mean! He lays his forearm over his eyes and groans out, “Rough day.”
“You wanna talk about it?” He peers at me from beneath his arm, looking surly and like he definitely does not want to talk. So I pry like a crowbar. “I mean, how bad could it be? Did you throw up on the ice? Trip over your own feet in front of the other guys? Call Coach Wilson Daddy?”
“The fuck?” he grumbles, moving his arm back behind his head. But I see the tiny quirk of his lip, so fast I might’ve imagined it. Except I didn’t. I made a grumpy Dalton Days smile, and that feels like an accomplishment. “No, I didn’t puke, trip, or call Coach . . . that. But we’re starting a run of games and I’m . . .”
He trails off, not explaining what he is, so I offer suggestions: “Sore? Nervous? Constipated? Homesick?”
“I’m fine,” he says, shaking his head. “Tell me about your day.”
He’s not fine, but he doesn’t want to share whatever’s bugging him. He’s retreating to his default mode of assholery, which is fine by me if that’s how he wants tonight to go.
But I haven’t forgotten the night in his truck when I saw behind the veil that is Dalton Days’s stoic, iceman exterior.
Despite that one-off peek at the Wizard, I’m not giving away my thoughts and feelings to him so he can shit on them and take out his bad day on me. If he wants quick and cold, call me Frigidaire. “Same old, same old. Five o’clock report, eleven o’clock report. And now I’m here, dealing with your cantankerous ass because, for some idiotic reason, I do give a shit.”