He nods slowly. “Long and hard, huh?”
I nod and can literally feel the heat in his gaze like it’s the sun hitting my face on a cloudless day. I stand up and his eyes trail down my body, over my shorts and my tank that is clinging to me thanks to sweat. My dick twitches but my eyes move to the gorgeous girl as she punches the flashing blue pad, hard. Then she slams her gloved fist into the yellow one. She’s tiny almost to the point of looking frail but all her muscles tense as she punches and the power behind it is shocking. And also hot. My dick twitches again.
I pull my phone out of my pocket to check the time. I'm supposed to meet a bunch of the guys in the casino for some blackjack before we head to some fancy sushi place for dinner and then a club. "Are you pulling that out to get my number?"
“Do you want me to get your number?”
"Yeah," he replies, slowing his cycling to a stop. His dirty blond hair is damp and he's breathing a little bit heavily, finally. I can imagine all the other ways I can make him do that—pant and sweat. "I'm here until Tuesday. You?"
“A day or two. Playing it by ear. We’re only a drive away. From California.” I act like I don’t know, but I know. We’re here until tomorrow afternoon. And we didn’t drive. We flew. But I don’t really want to get into that with him. In case he is fishing for a story or worse.
“Okay well…” He’s walking toward me now. Towel draped around his sweaty neck, hand extended toward me and my phone. I don’t hand it to him though. Instead, I extend my hand and shake his. That has him grinning in that “oh, so we’re gonna play coy, are we? I’m game” sort of way. “Jason.”
"Hi, Jason." I don't offer my name. It's too distinct. But now he's staring at me like I'm an asshole so I smile and lie. "West."
Yeah because that’s less unique you fucking idiot, my brain scolds. But it’s my standard fake name because I’m not creative and West is the only acceptable pseudonym for Crew Avery Westwood. Obviously using Wood as a name on Grindr or in gay bars would be too on-point.
"Hey, West." Jason smiles. "Fourteen forty-four."
“What?”
"My room number," he explains with a shrug. "Obviously we're both staying here so if you wanna hang out, grab a drink, or more, call the front desk and ask for room fourteen forty-four. I'm staying alone."
“I’m with my friends,” I say. “Two per room.”
Not a lie. Nash and I are staying together but in a two-bedroom suite. I could sneak this guy into my room, fuck him until he screams my fake name, and get him out the door without Nash ever knowing. And I might. But probably not… my eyes move to the woman beating the shit out of the boxing machine.
I clear my throat and turn back to Jason. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hope to see you soon.”
I leave the gym and head up to my suite. The entire time I’m in the elevator I think about the woman pummeling the boxing machine like it had personally wronged her. But I still punch Jason’s room number into my notes app, just in case.
As I'm walking down the hall to my room my phone rings. "Hey, Dad."
“How’s Vegas?” he asks.
“Wild. Insane. Have you seenThe Hangover? It's like that," I say, rolling my eyes. "Only with fewer babies and more tigers. Do you know a good lawyer? I probably need one. The internet's not forever, right? I mean I can get Mark Zuckerberg to delete the video that topless girl posted. The one wearing my underwear. You know Zuck, right? Will he do you a favor?"
“Even your mother doesn’t have this level of sarcasm,” Dad replies, his tone flat with annoyance. “But I’m sure it’s from her side of the family.”
“Probably get it from Uncle Seb,” I say, and he chuckles. “Anyway, we’ve only been here a couple of hours and I’ve spent most of it in the gym. Happy?”
“Delighted,” he replies. “But I do want you guys to have fun. Careful, well thought out fun.”
“Yeah. Sounds like a blast.” I’m giving him a hard time because I can. In reality, as much as it sometimes eats away my last nerve, I know he’s right. We have to be cautious. Nash and I were already endorsement darlings thanks to our dad being Avery Westwood, Canada’s King of Hockey and the NHL’s beloved former Golden Boy. But now we’re also Stanley Cup winners and about-to-be official co-captains of the best team in the league. Our deals got bigger, which means our images, if tarnished, don’t just affect the family legacy. It affects the team and the trophy.
“How’s Nash’s injury?”
He’s asking me probably because he asked Nash and he got growly. “He’s struggling but won’t admit it. I’m worried he won’t be ready for the season.”
“I am too.” Dad groans into the phone. “I’m gonna get Doc Forsberg to fly out when you guys are back in L.A. Don’t tell him that though.”
“Okay.” Nash will be as angry as a bear that sat on a porcupine if he finds out Dad’s personal orthopedic surgeon is making a trip out to California from New York, but I agree with my dad. Better safe than sorry. “Your secret is safe with me. You and Mom still set on coming to the banner ceremony?”
They raise the Stanley Cup winning banner in our arena the first home game of the season, and they'll award Nash and me the C. Coach Braddock told us he wanted us to share the Captain's position—a rare move to give it to two people—last week. I think Dad was happier than we were.
“Of course. Your mom has everything booked already.”