Page 3 of Break the Ice
“You just got done fucking his wife—that wife being me, and you’ve got the audacity to ask about how much he paid?!” she cries out, springing up in bed. Her hair’s a tangled nest of blonde highlights. A reminder of how explosive things were.
Sexy as hell. Sexy enough for one more quick round.
I’m distracted for a second, forgetting all about her outrage. I reach up to trail my fingers along her bare shoulder, but she smacks my hand away.
“You’re a pig, you know that?”
“You knew that when you invited me over… again.”
Tiffany scoots off the bed and slides back into the discarded piece of lingerie she’d eagerly taken off only an hour ago. An aura of self-loathing rolls off her, like it’s sunk in how badly she’s fucked up.
“What kind of guy fucks his teammate’s wife?” she asks, her nose scrunched. “That was the last time. Get out, Rafe.”
“Don’t know, Tiff. What kind of wife fucks her husband’s teammate?” I grin wide when she shoots me cold daggers, already prepared for the inevitable shoe she tosses. I hop out of the king-sized bed just in time for the sneaker to smack into the headboard.
And the other sneaker she chucks after that.
I’m cracking up by the time I’m shucking into my jeans, and she’s ranting and raving, losing her shit about what we’ve done.
“If Phil finds out, it’s your fucking head!” she shrieks. Her face glows red like a ripe tomato. “I don’t care what I’ve got to do, Rafe Golding—I’m Italian, try me and I’ll have you whacked real fast!”
“That won’t change the fact that you let me fuck you in the ass, Tiff. Poor Phil, having to sleep on a mattress soaked with another dude’s cum.”
Her shrill scream rocks the city for miles. It’s still echoing by the time I’m heading down the front path of Phil’s large, gated mansion, my t-shirt folded over my shoulder and a cigarette in my mouth. I pause long enough to flip off the security camera that tracks my every step on my walk to my Corvette.
It’s only a matter of time before either Phil sees it or Tiffany does. In either case it’d be equally as hilarious.
Coach Oates will be pissed once he inevitably finds out. Not that I give a fuck.
A text comes through as I hop over the doors of my Corvette convertible and land in the driver’s seat.
The message is another invitation from a woman who swore never again—Felicia Harding asking if I’ll be at Axis tonight. The Ice Girl said she hated my guts when I kicked her out of my hotel room a few weeks back.
text me if u’ll be there tonight xoxo
I shake my head, chuckling, about to swing out of the parking space on the street. Yet again, my phone goes off before I can. Assuming it’s Felicia desperate enough to call me up about her proposition, I answer without even checking the Caller ID.
“You want some dick that bad?”
Coach Oates makes a retching sound. “You always answer the phone offering free dick, Golding?”
“Sometimes, Coach. Only to attractive women. Sorry, you don’t qualify.”
He scoffs in offense. “You wish I did. If I batted for the other team, I’d like to think I could do better than you—at least McGuire from the Trojans.”
“Coach, as lovely as it is to hear from you on a Thursday morning, I’ve got shit to do. And slutty Ice Girls to fuck.”
“Practice starts in an hour, and something tells me you’re nowhere near the training facility.”
“That would be correct.” I’ve swung out of the parking space, nearly tapping the bumper of the Maserati parked behind me, and sped off down the residential area lined with mansions worth millions.
“Get your ass over here,” he growls. “I called you for a reason—I knew you’d be my problem child. I can’t remember the last time you made it to practice on time. Hawk wants a word with you before practice starts. Then we’re having a team sync today. There’s somebody for you to meet.”
Coach Oates doesn’t wait for me to agree; he hangs up after he’s through snapping at me. I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, half considering blowing him off. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve decided to just… not turn up to practice.
What are the Wolves going to do about it?
I’m the best they’ve got.
