Page 17 of My Brother's Teammates

Shit. I thought I put the damn thing on silent this morning. I’d make a terrible spy.

My best friend Meghan’s name flashes across the screen with a picture of her licking my cheek. We were both drunk on vacation in Mexico when the pic was taken, and neither of us remember much about that night, but it’s one of my favorite pictures of the two of us together. There’s something about smeared eyeliner around glassy eyes, half empty fishbowls in hand, and sunburn lines that scream we’re having the best time.“Shhhhhh!” I hiss at her as I answer the phone.

“You know I haven’t said anything yet, right?”

I turn myself around on the bed and walk my legs up the wall so I’m in an L-shape, my back flat on the mattress and my ass on the pillow. “I know. I didn’t think my ringtone volume was on. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Is Harry there?” She lowers her voice like he might hear her. She’s always called Harrison Harry. We’ve been best friends for a long time, and while I thought something could grow between them at some point, I have, thus far, been disappointed. There’s no sign of a brother’s best friend trope for my girl and my big brother. It’s such a shame, they’d be so perfect together. And she deserves someone to worship her like the queen she is.

“He’s not. He did stop by to grab the guys for practice.”

She shoves something in her mouth, crunches, and swallows. “You sound stressed out, Char.”

I’ve barely said anything to her, but I guess that’s the joy of ride-or-die best friends. They always just fucking know.

With a sigh, I reach for my earbuds so I don’t have to hold the phone to my ear. “I’ve been on edge the entire day.”

“From the fact Harry lives in the same building? Or because Jace is ignoring you? Or is it that you want to be in a Roman and Mateo sandwich?”

I knew I shouldn’t have told her about the last one when we talked earlier.

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought.” Another mouthful, another crunch. “Why do I have to be in Europe when you’re shacking up with delicious hockey players? It’s not fair.”

“Why, indeed. If you were here, or at least had kept your apartment, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

She whistles through her teeth. “Nope. I’ll take the blame for a great many things, like that abysmal mushroom-style haircut you got in college, the three-day relationship with that guy who repeated every damn word you said back to you, and that awful tattoo of a dolphin on your lower back. I’ll even take the blame for ruining your mom’s brand-new, perfectly white Chucks. But I’m not taking the blame for you living with three fuckable hockey players.”

I lie quietly for a long moment. If she thinks I’ve fallen asleep, she might drop it and hang up, or at least move on to something less sordid than the situation I’m neck-deep in.

“You should tell Harry, Charlotte.” Her voice is quiet, cautioning, and so full of worry that I know what she’s thinking. He’s big on loyalty, honesty, and if he catches us in this huge omission of the truth… it won’t work out well for the team—or for us.

“If only winning the lotto was a viable choice, then I could get rich and move out of here before he ever finds out that I’m shacking up with three of his teammates.”

“Still unhappy at school?”

Another sigh, this one heavier, like it’s pulling my whole body into the mattress. “I’d say I’m praying for summer vacation, but the thought of spending more time avoiding both Jace and Harrison…”

“Woman, you’re gonna give yourself an ulcer. Wanna meet me in Prague?”

I fucking wish. I’ve never been outside the United States before. It’s something I’ve always dreamed of doing, but the longer I’m stuck teaching in elementary school, the more I’m starting to think I’m stuck here forever.

“I can send you the money for a flight.”

We both know it’s not just the cost of a flight that’s holding me back. “I have responsibilities.”

“Screw ’em. No one in that school appreciates you, Char. They’re not even nice to you. Every time we talk, you sound stiffer, like that stick up your ass has lodged just a little deeper.” She laughs. “I don’t even mean that in a hot way.” After a long, tense moment stretches out over the quiet line, she clicks her tongue. “Still having those panty-melting dreams?”

It’s a tactic she uses when she knows she’s hit a wall in our conversation. If I’m stuck between two uncomfortable topics, she thinks I’ll have to face talking about one of them. One of these days I’ll have to throw her for a loop and either add a new subject to the mix or hang up on her completely.

My body heats as the memories from last night’s dreams ripple back into my mind. Panty-melting is an understatement. If nothing else, imagining getting railed by all three of my brother’s teammates is more than enough inspiration for my sexy lingerie.

Or should be. I grabbed a new sketch pad and planned to outline a few prototypes based on some of the vivid images accosting my brain throughout the night. I barely slept, but it was worth it.

The more I research, the more apparent it is that there’s a gap in the market for really good-quality, all-purpose lingerie for fat girls that isn’t boring. Why should we have to wear a different pair of underwear to the store or the gym than we do to seduce our other halves? Why should fat chicks feel dull because we can’t find underwear that makes us feel amazing?

Everything I’ve found so far is so… beige… and boring. My dreams with Mateo, Roman, and Jace pounding me seven ways to Sunday are anything but boring.

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