Page 3 of Breakneck Hockey

I saw you and had to have you. Where you at?

Me

I can be at the Wild Rover in twenty. Buy you a drink?

Top Dog

Not drinking tonight, kitten. But I’ll buy you a drink.

We don’t leave it there. The banter continues for the entire car ride. Excitement pools in my belly. It’s hard to hit it off with anyone, especially on this app. Not that I log into an app like Benduovr expecting true love, but it’s a pleasant surprise when it’s like, well, like this and not just, “Hey, let’s fuck in this place at this time.”

Not that I don’t appreciate a simple fuck, too. Just sayin’. Sometimes witty banter is refreshing.

I’m fucking giddy at the prospect of this lay by the time my Uber’s pulling up to the Wild Rover. I’m glad the guys were too busted to come out. Maybe this guy and I will fuck into the night. Could be fun.

Exiting the car, I pull my hood over my rad hockey lettuce and enter the club with a smile on my face.

Top Dog

I’m a tad recognizable, so I’m at the back. Ball cap, hoodie, sunglasses.

Dayum. If I weren’t sort of doing the same thing, I’d be judging him. I’m not as worried now that I’m in this part of town, but sometimes fans keep track of the hotels we stay at. Don’t ask me how they know because I don’t fucking know, but I could tell stories.

I’m not as paranoid in Boston as I would be in Kelowna. He must be a local celebrity.

Or a serial killer, I guess.

The place is dark as sin. Rainbow lights flash, but there’s no useful lighting to speak of. Just a loud beat pumping and lots of sweaty bodies grinding against each other. It all serves to heighten my horniness. My heart beats in my dick to the rhythm of pounding bass.

With the way Top Dog has been talking, I’m expecting him to shove me against a wall and take me right there. Yeah, we can’t really do that in public, but I did bring packets of lube and a few condoms. We could go someplace and then he could do that. Or hell, the back alley outside this club is fine by me.

I don’t really care. I just wanna feel that Superman dick inside me. I want to feel it tomorrow too. I’m already drunk with lust, and I haven’t even seen the guy’s face. Know what? I don’t care if he looks like The Hound from Game of Thrones. If he can use his hips like a battering ram and keep talking like the filthy beast he claims to be, then I’m down.

He’s at the back like he said, sitting at a high-top table. He’s huge, holy fuck. Broad shoulders, a wide back. I can just make out the shape of his thighs under the table—they’re goddamn lobster crackers. Heart racing, I skip his way with jubilance in my step. I’m not a small guy. It’s hard to find men who can throw me around.

He can and he will.

It’s crowded. I’m forced to approach him from behind. I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s him. Those are good odds. I take the chance and lean to speak into his ear so that he can hear me over the bedlam.

“Hey, Top Dog, ready to make me purr?” I wouldn’t say that to just anyone. Not that he’s someone, per se, but he’s intoxicated me enough with his banter that I’m willing to let go enough to be his kitten for a night.

Fast as lightning, his hand whips out and grips my wrist.Whoa.My tummy swoops, like, roller coaster level swooping and, suddenly, I’m molded against his back.

“That was dangerous, brat. What if I’d pulled my knife on you?”

Does that kill the vibe? Or take it up a notch? Answer: takes it up a notch. “I was searched on my way into the place. You don’t have a knife on you.”

I’m a living, breathing wire of adrenaline right now. If I die tonight doing something stupid, I’m going down in a blaze of glory.

“I have a knife on me,” he says. “Just in case you turned out to be a serial killer. Sit.”

Wow. Bossy fucker. I like it.

Squeezing my way in, I move to the other side of the table. It’s safe to say I can remove my hood in here. As I do, my luscious curls fall out.

The man freezes. “No. No, no, fucking hell no.” He’s shouting loud enough that I can hear what he’s saying.

“Did I do somethin?—”

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