Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
It sure as fuck has no bearing on the situation that she’s on her knees before me, working my pants open to pull out my traitorous dick that is surprisingly hard, despite how trashed I am.
The only thing that should matter, and yet I know I’m going to overlook it, is that Darcy belongs to my teammate, Kyle Ralston.
Or rather, she used to belong to him.
They’re broken up, but that doesn’t matter when it comes to friends and teammates. You don’t go where another guy has been before.
Ever.
No matter how drunk you are.
It’s bro code, and there’s never a deeper code than between me and my teammates.
Darcy’s slender hand wraps around my cock, and not a single fucking sensation is dulled by all the vodka I drank tonight. I stare down at her through blurry eyes and I think she smiles at me. An attack of conscience almost has me pulling away, but then her mouth is on me, and it’s hot, and wet, and she’s sucking hard.
I tell myself that she and Kyle are broken up, so it doesn’t matter. Hell, they’d only been dating a few weeks, anyway, so how serious could it have really been?
I tell myself that over and over again, even as my hips thrust against her face. It feels good. Definitely too good to stop, but the longer it goes on and the more I worry about the morals of this shit show, the duller the sensations become.
And when she finally wrings an orgasm out of me, it’s lackluster. I pull away from her, stuffing my spent dick back into my jeans, and take two steps where I fall face-first onto my bed.
The last thing I remember before passing out is praying that I don’t remember this at all the next day.
My ringing phone brings me out of my dream as if a bucket of ice water has been tossed in my face. I suppose I’m so quickly pulled out of slumber because it really wasn’t a dream but a recurring nightmare that haunts me all too often.
I groan as I rub a hand over my face and roll to my nightstand. I grimace when I see it’s my father calling, and for a moment, I consider not answering. Our conversations never go well, and it’s easier to ignore him.
But coming out of that nightmare, more a hazy but very accurate memory, I’m angry—at myself—and wanting to pick a fight.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I connect the call. “Yeah.”
“Coen… it’s your father.”
Not sure why, but the scene from The Empire Strikes Back when Darth Vader says to Luke, “I am your father,” flashes through my mind.
Not for the similarity in words, but because my dad is kind of like the evil megalomaniac.
“Yup. Got that from the caller ID.”
“Stop being disrespectful,” he snarls, and I can almost see him sitting at his desk in his custom Italian suit with a thousand-dollar tie and gold cuff links. “I raised you better.”
“You didn’t raise me at all,” I point out, and that is done without one ounce of rancor. I simply don’t care anymore about how fucked up my childhood was.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” My dad bangs his fist on something—probably his desk. “Why must you be so combative all the time? Why can’t you appreciate the opportunities we gave you? You have no gratitude at all.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, because the anger burning hot inside wants to lay into him that I’m a product of my upbringing, but if my parents had paid one bit of attention to me growing up, they’d know.
They wouldn’t have to guess at it.
I take in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “What do you want?” I ask.
It’s silent for a moment, and I’m sure my dad is off-balance that I didn’t come after him with acid-laced words aimed to hurt.
He coughs slightly, and I envision him tugging on his tie. “I’ve found an attorney who can help you get out of the charges in New York. An old law school buddy of mine who’s well acquainted with the judge there.”
“Don’t need your help,” I say.
“I don’t give a fuck if you need it or not. You will take this offer because you will not have a conviction against you. It would be irreparably embarrassing to me and your mother, so I am going to fix this shit.”
Historically, when I battle with my dad—my mom can’t be bothered to engage with me—I’m able to laugh off most of his ridiculous accusations. It’s because despite them being incapable of having a loving relationship with their only son, I found love, acceptance, friendship, and camaraderie within hockey. From the time I was six, I was on skates and gained a different sort of family.
I was raised by nannies who gave no more of a shit about me than my parents did, but at least they got me to all my practices on time. When I was fourteen, I went off to a hockey prep school and absolutely hated the summers when I had to go home.