*Rohan has left the chat*
Theo-who-won’t-shut up:
I feel so loved.
Normally, I would’ve laughed. Rohan’s frustration with our resident unhinged golden-retriever-in-human-form is usually the kind of entertainment that leaves the entire team in splits. But my disposition lately has been, for lack of a better word, stormy. I’m not someone who has too many of these days so, when my mood plummets and remains in the valleys of doom and despair, I usually have a pretty clear understanding of why.
I simply don’t want to think about that reason. Or her pretty eyes. Or her mouth, or the fact that, if she weren’t related to Moore, my dick would’ve been intimately acquainted with every hole in her body by now.
I shake my head, trying to knock away those images. I turn to the person nearby, finding another set of brown eyes on me. Unlike the ones haunting me, these seem. . . forgettable.
She’s not the one.The thought plays in my head like a goddamn alarm I can’t switch off.
I’m a virile male in my prime. A professional athlete who just helped his team decimate the competition in a game we won 5-0. I’m lauded for my cool head and stamina on ice. And off the ice? Well, no woman’s ever left my bed early or dissatisfied.
Then why is the thought of having to flirt with this redhead so goddamn exhausting? She’s interested. I could spout the alphabetwrong and she’d still offer me a blowie. But I’m weighed down with a discomfort I don’t understand.
“So,” I falter, already unsure of what to say. “D-do you like potatoes?”
This woman who’s been flirting with me for the last ten minutes stares like I’ve just communicated with her in morse code. I’m desperate. I need to find a connection somewhere.Anywhere. I’ll even settle for her knowing how to spell the fucking word at this point.
She thinks—a little too hard, in my opinion. Her eyelids flutter like her entire system is buffering because of a simple question.
“Hey,” I try again, because, apparently, I don’t know when to quit. “How did the Irish potato become bilingual?”
What the fuck is up with me? Why can’t I stop talking about potatoes? Someone stop me!
A divot forms between her brows. She looks so awkward, I’d laugh if I wasn’t so embarrassed.
“He became a French Fry.” I force out a guffaw, hoping, fuckingpraying, for something to click.
Brittany—or is it Bethany?—sits there and gawks, her mouth opening once before she shakes her head.
“Are you hungry? Did you want to order French fries?” she asks, trying to brighten her confused smile into something more alluring. Her lips brush my ears when she leans in and I suppress an alarming urge to shove her away. The heavy scent of her perfume is cloying. Tension coils beneath my skin as she whispers, “Maybe after you’re done with the fries, we can find something else to do together. Alone.”
She leans back, her lower lip tucked beneath her teeth in a practiced move clearly intended for seduction. That look promises every distraction I hoped to find tonight but. . .
Nothing. I feel nothing. Not a single stirring of attraction, not a shred of desire for anything other than the quiet of my hotel room where I can wrap my hands around my cock and thinkof—
I groan, dropping my head back with a thump against the wall behind me.Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.With each bump, I wait for sensibility to return. I’d happily induce a concussion if that would help. But, as it stands, I have a sinking feeling that nothing is going to rid me of my problem except the woman I can’t have.
“A-are you okay?”
I bark out a single, frustrated laugh before cracking an eye open. She looks like she’s not sure if I’m all there anymore and, honestly? I don’t blame her.
She seems nice. Six months ago, I would’ve had no hesitation locking this down. We’d have been heading to a hotel right about now, all over each other.
Past her shoulder, I see Moore notice me, his eyes dipping to the leggy redhead. She chooses that moment to place her hand on my forearm and lean in, pressing her boob against my side. The minute arch of Moore’s brow, like he’s not surprised to see a woman getting handsy with me, feels like I’ve been socked in the head by a wayward puck.
I don’t know why, but the conclusion he’s clearly drawn bothers me. I draw away from her touch but when I look again, Moore is gone, probably keeping Novak out of trouble.
“I’m sorry. Not feeling well,” I explain. Brit-Beth looks irritated for a moment before her shoulders lower.
“Sorry.” I reach for the back of her hand to pat her but think better of it. No reason to give her any wrong signals. “It’s not you. I’m—”
“Having an off day?”
I nod. “Maybe another time?”