Page 135 of Breakneck Hockey

“Hey, baby,” he says.

Fuck. It’s like my body’s on fire. I blame his voice and that word.Baby.It sets my insides aflame. “Hey.”

He looks … drowsy. Until his eyes narrow, darkening, blazing with full-on contempt. “What the fuck bullshit are you wearing, Alderchuck?”

Oh, right. The hat. I tug at my t-shirt. “This ol’ thing? I’ve had this for years.”

“Not the shirt, brat. The hat.”

I shrug. “What’s wrong with my hat?”

“The fact that it’s not your hat. Take it the fuck off.Now.”

That he’s paid attention enough to know it’s not mine is impressive. I remove Dirk’s hat and toss it toward my dresser. “There. You happy?”

“Not yet. Where’s the shit I sent you?”

“You sent me shit?” The boxes! That’s enough to get my tired ass up. A couple of the boxes are my Amazon orders, but two of them are from Sutter. “What did you send me, babe?”

His eyes smile under the messy bits of hair falling across his forehead. “Open and find out.”

It takes time to tear through the tape because Sutter secured the boxes like Fort Knox. He has to put up with several minutes of me bitching about it until I finally bust it open. The phone’s on the dresser by this point—I needed both hands to get through Sutter’s FBI-clearance-level tape job—so I’m able to reach into the box, hands-free while he watches.

I pull out … “Is this your sweatshirt, Sutter?”

“One of ‘em. I know why you like to play musical hats, kitten.”

“Why?” I say, immediately slipping into the oversized Sutter hoodie. My body takes a sigh. He’s bigger than I am, so it’s super cozy. It’s one of his plain gray ones with a kangaroo pocket in the front. “It smells like you,” I add before he can answer my question.

“That’s because I wore it around for a couple days before sending it.”

“Dude, you sent me your dirty laundry?” I complain, but I actually fucking love it. He did that so I could smell him and probably so I’d carry his scent, warding off other men trying to put their hands on me—something crazy like that because he’s an animal sometimes. There are more shirts and a few Sutter bandanas in the box. At the bottom is a Copperheads jersey with his surname and number on the back. “No fucking way am I wearing your jersey again, asshole.”

“We’ll see, but to answer your question, I know you do the hat thing because it fills you with certainty and safety. I’m gonna do that for you now,” he declares.

“Possessive bastard,” I murmur.

“You need something when I can’t put my marks on you, when I can’t touch you.”

That man loves marking me, and it’s been so many weeks apart that I don’t have a hickey to show for it. And his hands. Yeah, I miss his fucking rough mountain-man hands invading every inch of my skin.

“What’s in the other box?” I say, making myself comfortable on my bed again. I’m wearing more clothes than I began with—the opposite of how this usually goes.

“Open it.”

“No,” I whine. “I’m too damn tired to fight through your sixty-five layers of tape, Sutter.”

“If you knew what was inside, you might think it’s worth it,” he says. I groan. “Alright, Alderchuck, but only because I’m too tired to make you. I found a truckload of watermelon Jolly Ranchers at a store in Boston. I bought you all of them.”

They happen again. Those funny tingles. “Thanks, babe. Now, let’s get to the part where you virtually play with my dick. It needs you.”

He laughs. “Your eyes are closed, Alderchuck.”

Huh? Oh shit. I pry them open to Sutter’s sleepy smirk watching me. Is that fondness on his face? The sleepy fog I’m in makes it look that way. Dammit. My brain still really wants the sexy times, but my limbs feel waterlogged. This is so unfair. Yep, the universe definitely has it out for us.

“It’s okay. Coach has been riding our asses, too, and my body’s noticed the games gettin’ more?—”

“Violent and brutal?” I supply.

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