Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“I can’t believe you brought me here,” Blakely says, beaming. Her face is flushed from the mini bottle of tequila we downed from the gift shop when we stopped to get my hat.
“Well, I can’t believe out of all the things you wanted for your birthday, you wanted this.”
She makes no secret out of glancing down at my cock. “Yeah, well, sometimes you can’t have what you really want.”
Fuck. Me.
We take our drinks, Blakely’s splashing on my pants as she tries to turn, cheer, and laugh at the same time.
I sit back in my seat and watch her get into the performance.
I’m going to have a lot of questions to answer with Astrid in the morning.
The seats my assistant was able to score were ridiculously priced but on a private balcony. “At least you can drink for free while you watch men gyrate on stage,” she said. “Please try not to get photographed—for all of our sakes.”
Blakely dances to the music, her round ass shaking back and forth just inches from my knee. Sweat dots her skin. Her hair clings to the back of her neck as she moves.
I spread my legs apart and grip my cock. It’s so hard it hurts. It aches. It fucking throbs.
I don’t know what I was thinking bringing her here, other than I wanted her to have a memory of the two of us tonight. Of me, tonight. One fun, unforgettable experience that when she looks back on her thirtieth birthday weekend, she can’t help but think of me.
The dancers open their trench coats to piercing screams as I feel a buzzing in my pocket. I’ve never been more thankful to have a text in my life.
Dad: I had dinner tonight with Bobby Downing. Remember him? He helped us close the deal when we bought the hockey team, so I brought him on board with this Arrows mess. Hoping he can force the purchase through.
Me: Great.
Dad: He’s interested in getting in on the rugby expansion. Thinking about trying to get the pieces together for a team in Cincinnati. Wondered if you were interested in talking about it with him.
Me: I can’t own a team and play. Against league ethics. You know that.
Dad: You won’t play forever.
I study the words on the screen … and the ones he meant without typing them.
You won’t play forever. You’ll probably blow your contract like the fuckup you are, and then what will you do with your life?
Dad’s lack of faith in me is never surprising. He’s there for every photo opportunity, willing to give statements when pressed by the media. He was too happy to sign the consent form to be videoed for a documentary about my life for an Australian news agency. But behind the scenes, the veneer wears thin fast. Ever the businessman, rarely a dad. For me, anyway.
It’s always been this way.
He questioned my love for rugby as a child. He second-guessed my ability to play at the collegiate level, despite being scouted by every top school in the country. He insisted that I have a backup plan and was livid when I chose to go pro.
When I signed with my first international contract? It sent a fracture through our family. Dad and Gannon on one side. Mom, Ripley, and me on the other. Tate and Bianca stayed out of it. Our brother Jason tried to mediate, thinking his ability to land airplanes for a living would translate into landing a resolution to our family conflict.
It did not.
Just like Dad’s attempt at subtlety doesn’t translate tonight.
Rain pours onto the stage, dousing the first few rows with water. The performers stomp and splash, fucking chairs and grinding against poles.
Me: I’m not retiring for years.
Dad: You need to be pragmatic.
Blakely leans against the rail again, her dress sliding up the backs of her thighs. I reach up and hook a finger under the fabric, and tug.
My fingers rub along the smooth skin just beneath her ass. Her head whips to mine. A slow, seductive smile slides across her lips as I trail my fingers down her legs.
The contact is dangerous. I’m toeing a line we’ve worked hard to maintain over the years. I know it. And she knows it.
She lifts her drink to her mouth and downs the rest of it. Her lips around the rim of the glass. Her neck bare, exposed. Her eyes looking at me, begging me to touch her again.
There’s nowhere to go. No one to interrupt. No one to remind us that this isn’t supposed to happen.
I glance down.
Dad: Can we jump on a call right now?
No, we cannot. I turn off my phone.
Blakely grips the rail behind her with both hands. A voice booms through the venue, asking women about their fantasies. The rain shuts off, and a song plays that repeats the question.