Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“It should be easy from here. I’m checking in at the Lakeshore Hotel and heading straight for the bar.” He made a drinking motion and stepped aside with an awkward chuckle. “I hear a martini calling my name.”
“Cool. Our team is staying there tonight. Maybe I’ll see you.”
Bryson did one of those cartoon head-swivels and damn, I couldn’t blame him.
Who the actual fuck was running my mouth?
Fifteen minutes ago, I’d left my teammates with a halfhearted thumbs-up at their standard invite to come out for a beer, but they all knew the chances of me joining them for a night of carousing were slim to none. I had no interest in getting shit-faced with a bunch of twentysomethings.
The only thing I wanted after a high-intensity game was to be covered in ice packs followed by warm compresses and a handful of ibuprofen. Christ, my body ached in places I didn’t know I could hurt. Dulling the pain with alcohol didn’t work the way it used to, and waking up sore and hungover was borderline masochistic.
But a beer with Bryson didn’t sound so bad.
No, no, no. Quit flirting, dumbass.
Stay focused. Ice packs and Advil, ice packs and Advil.
“Really?” Bryson tilted his chin. “That’s great. I’d love to buy you a drink.”
I stepped aside and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe I’ll see you there. If not…have a good night.”
Now that, my friends, was one weak-ass exit, but whatever. I made myself walk away. Hey, I’d done a good deed and won some much-needed karma points. It was time to return to my regularly scheduled life and tend to my beat-up body.
I used the side entrance at the hotel to avoid any potential awkward run-ins with Bryson or my party-animal teammates and hustled up three flights of stairs, opening the door to 321.
One of the sweet perks of being the old guy was that I hadn’t shared a room in two seasons. After years of cohabitating with snoring jocks on the road, the silence was remarkably soothing. It had taken me a while to get here, but I liked my own company now. Talk about a minor miracle.
I ordered a cheeseburger and a fuckton of ice from room service, ran a cold bath, and downed a few Advil. An hour later, I felt…vaguely human.
Sure, I was still sore, but it was my usual tolerable level of ouch, which was miles better than the postgame supersized helping. I snapped the elastic on a fresh pair of boxer briefs, slipped a clean tee over my head and traded texts with a few inebriated teammates for kicks, then settled against my pillow with the remote control. Heaven.
Well…not quite.
Suddenly, I was restless as fuck. My knee was bugging me, and tonight’s NHL highlights were kind of boring. I tried watching Jeopardy, but the contestants were bozos, so I turned off the TV and thought about picking up a book or doing a deep dive on TikTok. Lord knew I could lose hours chuckling at animal hijinks.
That didn’t appeal to me, though. I just…
Oh, screw it.
I wiggled into my jeans, shoved my shoes and socks on, and took a quick peek at my reflection in the full-length mirror near the door. I looked normal-ish. I needed a haircut and my lip was fucked from the kid’s lucky punch, but it was one drink.
Or not. It was getting late, and Hot Dad probably wouldn’t be there anyway.
But he was.
And wow, Bryson Milligan was even hotter under the bar light.
I studied Bryson’s profile for a beat, admiring his chiseled features and proud posture. His gaze was fixed on an ESPN highlight reel as he traced his thumb on the stem of a martini glass and picked at a couple of lonely fries on a plate streaked with ketchup.
He’d been here for a while.
I hopped on the barstool next to his and ordered a beer, nodding in his direction. “You look familiar.”
Bryson jolted as though he’d been deep in thought, but a moment later, a sweet smile spread like wildfire across his handsome face. Fuck…me. My dick swelled, my palms went clammy, and there was a decent chance my cheeks were pink.
Yikes. That was an extreme reaction.
“Smitty the fabulous flat-fixer! Imagine meeting you here. That beer is on me,” he told the bartender, tapping his glass to order another martini before twisting toward me. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. But I did see your teammates. They piled into a huge van an hour ago like a band of conquering heroes in search of their rightful spoils.”
Uh-oh.
“How many martinis do you have under your belt?” I teased, gesturing to the fresh cocktail the bartender slid in front of him.
“This is number three…or four. I think.” He squinted, raking his teeth over his bottom lip.
I sipped the froth from my beer and willed my cock to behave. There would be no poppin’ wood in public. No way, no how.