Page 8 of Tempting the King

“What the fuck is an empath any-fucking way?” I throw up my hands, wanting this whole shit show to be over so I can get back to that bar and put some screws to whoever is necessary to get the information I need. “And emotional IQ? Who the fuck made that up? I need to be cuddled about as much as I need a fucking babysitter.”

Victor pokes the side of my head over my newly sewn together scalp as I cock back and take a swing, but he darts out of range.

Coach looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. “That’s fucking it! I’m done with this conversation. You get to that therapist in the morning. You do whatever the fuck it is a professional cuddler tells you to do, and you get your ass back in play. Or, you’re not going to like our next conversation.”

I don’t like this one.

He turns on his heel and stomps out the back doors of the training room, kicking a stainless-steel table over as he goes, but all I can think of is her.

I hate what happened. Down into the marrow of my bones. She deserves to be someone’s queen, not some shit stain’s side piece.

The only upside about it is I don’t have to go deliver the bad news to a boyfriend that she’s no longer available, explaining in whatever way necessary that I’m replacing him. Starting right fucking now.

“Come on, dipshit.” Victor straight arms though the door to the back hall that leads toward the team parking lot, jerking his head for me to follow. “I’m ready for a sleepover with pillow fights and scrolling insta.” He says in a high-pitched voice, tossing his imaginary hair back with a flick of his hand.

“Fuck off,” I answer, punching at my phone screen then raising it to my ear as I follow him down the hall and through the back door. The early spring evening air does nothing to cool my fury.

“Don’s On Main,” a cheerful female voice answers.

“Yeah, I was there earlier. This is King Hertzof.” I don’t like to name-drop for favors, but in this case, I’d offer up my left nut to get the information I need.

There’s a soft gasp, then, “Yes, Mr. Hertzof. We are so sorry about what happened here earlier. What can I do for you? The manager said he already offered you—”

“Yeah, I need information on the woman that was involved.”

“The police report has the other parties involved on record. The man and his wife—”

I interrupt her again. “No, I don’t care about them. It was the girl, the one that left. Wearing a red dress and black boots.”

My dick throbs as I describe her. I never get a hard-on during the season. I’ve trained myself not to. I also never touch pussy from the first practice of the season until we play our last game. I play better frustrated, and right now I could win the fucking championship single-handed.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “I wasn’t here, I just heard what happened, but I can ask if anyone knows her.”

“Yeah, do that. I’ll be there in a half hour. I want to know everything,” I snap as we walk through the parking lot in the chilled mid-April night.

“No, he won’t!” Victor yells into the dark sky, squeezing the key fob to his Ford F250 Raptor.

“Yes, I will,” I confirm with the hostess, flipping him off, then finish, “Tell the manager I’m on my way. I want to see the security footage, too.”

I click off, walking toward Victor’s truck as my temples and my cock throb in unison.

“Don’t even start.” I glare at Victor. “We are picking up my truck at the bar.”

My tone leaves no room for discussion. He frowns with a disappointed scowl, then swings open his driver’s side door as I climb into the passenger seat. As I settle in, my mouth is dry and there’s a hollow, knocking feeling in my chest. I know I should go straight home but seems it’s my other head that’s running the show right now.

And that never ends well.

“That was a fucking bust. Come on, let’s go to my place,” Victor says as I stomp out the front door of Don’s, my dick harder than when I walked in.

No one there knew the redhead, but the manager let me watch the grainy security footage of her walking in, standing with the asshole, then, yeah, the rest of it, and then her high-tailing it out the door.

“I’m not sleeping in your guestroom,” I snap. “God knows what’s gone on in there. You wanna babysit me? You do it at my place.”

Victor narrows his eyes at me. “Fine, whatever. We got a shot at the cup this year. We need you on the ice, man. Do whatever you gotta do, keep your no-pussy bullshit superstition going, I don’t care, but the team needs you. The team comes first, right?”

He points at me until I nod, then returns the gesture.

“Hey!” I shout, before he hops into his truck and I unlock my navy-blue Ford F250. “If anyone can find someone, it’s you. Ask your uncle. I’ve got the footage.”

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