Page 1 of What if I Told You

CHAPTER ONE

AUGUST

“You going to shove that whole wiener in your mouth at one time?”

Griffin eyes the hotdog in his hand and then winks at me. “Nah. Just the tip this time.” I watch in amusement as he licks the end of his hotdog bun and then bites off the end, chewing as his eyes roll back in his head. “Fuck, so meaty.” He turns the end of his hot dog around so I can see where he took a bite. “And just look at that girth.”

Harrison leans forward in his stadium seat and pulls his sunglasses down his nose. “Dude, do you need a minute alone with that thing? In a private room perhaps?”

“Hell no.” Griffin smirks. “I like eating wieners out in the open. Right here in front of all of you. I know how much you like to watch.” His brows shoot up. “In fact, I think you all need a good wiener experience. Where’s that wiener man? WEINER MAN? I NEED YOUR BIG WEINERS!” he shouts as the crowd around us chuckles. I’ve never been more grateful to be wearing sunglasses but then this is Griffin’s everyday behavior, so am I surprised?

Not in the slightest.

“Someone shut him up,” Barrett mumbles from a few seats down before he tips back his beer and swallows what’s left in his glass. “The last thing we need is the media writing headlines about the team’s wiener obsession.”

“You think I could deep throat this one, Bear?” Griffin asks, dangling the rest of his hotdog in front of his face with his mouth wide open. “Ten bucks says I could do two at one time.”

“No bet,’” Barrett responds. I have to laugh as Oliver Magallan and I glance at each other. Even in the off-season Barrett “The Bear” Cunningham is in a grumpy mood.

“Dude, Bear, you alright down there big man?” I ask him. “You need someone to deep throat your wiener?”

“You offering, Blackstone?”

I rub my scruffy chin playfully and pretend I’m giving the idea some thought. “I tell you what, if the zombie apocalypse ever comes, I’ll make sure you’re well serviced right before we turn, alright? Instead of death coming for you, you will come hard for death.”

“Fuck the zombie apocalypse. It’s never going to happen.” He shakes his head and wipes a few sweat beads from his forehead. Nothing like a ninety-five-degree July day to take in a baseball game with the guys. We’re used to the cold temperatures around the ice so while this is a pleasant change, it’s also hotter than Satan’s taint out here.

“You know what youshouldworry about though?” Ledger Dayne adds to our conversation from behind us.

I turn my head slightly so he knows I’m paying attention. “What’s that?”

“You should worry about the twat apocalypse, because that shit’s already upon us, bro.”

Playing along, I gasp, grab my phone, and swipe open my weather app. “A twat storm you say? Are we about to have an overwhelming number of twats at our disposal? You call that an apocalypse, but I call that a normal Saturday night.”

“Riiiight.” Griffin laughs beside me. “Like you’ve seen an influx of anything of the sort lately.”

“What?” I shrug. “How do you know whether I have or haven’t?”

“Uh, how about because you tell me about every piece of tail you capture. I’m like your virtual bed-post marker. The keeper of your fucks, if you will, and so I’ll just come out and say, dear friend, it’s been a hot minute for you.”

My smile fades because damn, he’s right. It has been a minute.

“Aww, it’s okay August. We all go through dry spells once in a while.”

“Hey look who’s up to bat.” Oliver motions to home plate. “That’s Carter Matthews, he’s the brother of one of Charlee’s friends. And I think now brother-in-law to Zeke Miller.”

Oliver’s sister, Charlene AKA Charlee, lives in Chicago. She’s married to Milo Landric who plays for the Chicago Red Tails, so now because of Oliver we’ve hung out a little with their whole team. Great bunch of guys. I wish we got to spend more time with players from other teams. Once or twice a year on the ice is never enough and we don’t get to be us when we’re on the ice anyway.

Carter swings at the first pitch.

“Strike one,” Griffin says before he leans over to me and asks, “So why the dry spell?”

Carter swings again at the second pitch and misses for an 0-2 count.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I think I’m bored.”

“Bored?” He laughs again. “How the hell are you bored? It’s summertime. How are you not out tapping every woman you come in contact with? How are you not traveling to all the remote islands of the world?”

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