Page 14 of Snap Shot

“Eh,” I reply, hoping he hears my hesitation. “I usually have the client come to the office and speak with me in private.”

“Oh, for sure, for sure. I'll get it on the schedule for next week. This is super informal, though. The guys are about to cool down and get clean. Come through the secure lot. I'll meet you there.”

Before I can conjure up an excuse, he hangs up. I get why he and Theresa get along. Neither like the word no.

Time to put on your big girl panties, Indi. This is your career on the line. You can keep it together in front of brainless hockey bros for a few minutes.

The Porsches, Lambos, and Maseratis lining the staff lot make my Audi RS7 look like a junkyard salvage. This is where the zeros in those eight-figure salaries go. I don't care what Gabe said. They're overcompensating for something.

Cooke greets me at the security entrance, giving me a quick tour of the rink while the Zamboni cleans up. “Andthisis the locker room.” He points ahead as we near.

It triggers memories I rather keep hidden. The taunts. The smell of sweaty gear. Ick.

“Ms. Davé?”

“Yeah.” I shake it off.

“You wanna go in and see?”

“Is that allowed?” I've seen the renovated space on TV. They did a piece on the 9 o'clock news.

Cooke shakes hands and high-fives a couple of exiting players. “Sure. They've closed it off for the press these days, but you're fine. Though it can get a little hairy,if you know what I mean. Let's wait for Radek out here.”

I don't mean to, but I scoff. Men's locker rooms don't scare me. This sexist nitwit doesn't know shit. I'm a grown-ass woman.My posture tightens. I unbutton and smooth down my blazer. “I can handle it.”

His phone buzzes. Cooke shrugs and raises a skeptical eyebrow. “I gotta take this.” He motions to the phone. “Go at your own risk.”

Whatever. I'll introduce myself to Radek.

Two huge men come toward me when I enter. I recognize them from the roster: Fletcher Donovan by his ginger features and freckles and Theron Olsen by his pale blond tresses and burly stature. The latter groans and runs a hand down the front of his button-down, rubbing his belly, unfazed and unaware of my presence. “Dude, you should have seen the size of the massive dookie I dropped—”

Ah, yes. The pride and joy of Ottawa. Fucking fools. Their lazy saunter comes to a halt when they nearly bump into me.

“Gentlemen.”

“Jeez—” Donovan at least has the decency to blush a bright red.

Olsen, on the other hand, sports a toothless grin. “Sorry.”

Can't wait to tell Bea we told her so.I chuckle to myself. He doesn't look sorry. He looks like his last brain cell is as toothless as he is. I push past them.

An open entryway reveals jerseys hanging in separate cubicles. The smell—oh, God, the smell!—punches my nostrils. I blocked musty gear stench from memory. It's eighty-percent bacteria and twenty-percent pure evil. I suck in a sharp breath through my mouth, bracing myself before stepping through.

Heavy footsteps scamper about between grunts. “Take that, you jag!”

I roll my eyes, knowing almost for certain it's another set of fully-grown professional athletes behaving like children. Probably wrestling or something.

How wrong I am.

Landon Radek and Wade Boehner jostle about, completely buck naked. I freeze. They don’t.

My brain short-circuits at the sight of those tight muscles: pecs and arms and abs and thighs and asses, flexing and straining as they chase each other, sword-fighting with their...oh, my God.

They're fully-grown, alright. Fully-grown penises. They fist the enormous things in their equally enormous hands.

The shock hits me like a bus. Or truck. A truck of fat dick. I'm shocked, and a little in awe. Those arereallybig penises. Maybe it's because it's beenwaytoo long since I've seen a live one, but the sheer size of them drives my pulse into a tailspin. Saliva pools in my mouth. And there aretwo. Gabewasright. Holy...wow. I'm a pervert. A disgusting pervert. I backpedal one step. My traitorous mouth chokes out a gasp.

Nowthey stop. My knees lock as Radek and Boehner stiffen and turn to face me. Heat creeps up my neck, searing the tops of my ears and cheeks. My eyes wander to Landon's chiseled jaw and broad, square chest. Twenty-pack abs sit between hips forming a delicious v, like an arrow directing my gaze right to the thick, perfect specimen in his palm.

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