Page 3 of Blue Lines and Lullabies

“I mean, I know I’m not skinny, but you’re solid muscle, and I think you could easily hold me against the door,” I comment. I have curves. Pockets of flab here and there. I’m not skin and bones, and I never intend to be. I like food too much.

Gabe’s head pops up from my chest. “Did you seriously just say you aren’t skinny? Jesus, Cassie. Your body is fucking perfect.”

“I just meant I’m not tiny.”

“What is your definition of tiny?” he asks.

I shrug. “Well, I guess thinner than me. Bony. Easy to pick up and throw around.”

Gabe’s eyes narrow as he studies me. “Guess you threw down the gauntlet, didn’t you?”

“What? No, I didn’t throw anything — woah!” I shout as Gabe instantly picks me up and holds me over his head.

“Want me to try it one-handed?” he asks with a devilish glint in his stare.

“Uh, no, I think I’ll just give you the benefit of the doubt,” I answer hastily. I’d prefer not to have to visit a hospital tonight.

Gabe slowly lowers me until our faces meet, kissing my lips softly. “You really want sex against the door?”

I ponder for a moment. Do I? Honestly, I’ve never been with someone so virile and strong. I like that Gabe can manhandle me, yet I feel safe and cocooned in this warmth at the same time. And since I’ll never see him again, I finally nod. When in Rome. Or maybe it’s bite the bullet. Whatever.

Gabe chuckles as he pivots and walks to the door. “You gonna be quiet, or you want to alert the entire floor to what we’re doing?”

I hesitate before responding, “I’m not entirely sure.”

The answering smile I get is full of fondness, with a cheekiness I didn’t expect. I think Gabe wants me to be loud.

“Do you want me to alert the floor to our shenanigans?” I ask incredulously.

“Shenanigans?” he laughs. “Yeah, baby. I think I’d like you to be loud. Bet I can make you really sing.”

He did.

Four times.

“Are you waiting for an engraved invitation, Daws? Fucking go!” Coach yells.

I thought with Bennett Davenport getting some ass reasonably often, he’d cool off a bit, but I swear it’s made him an even bigger jerk of a coach. Not that I’m complaining. I wasn’t sad to see Coach Woodward get fired. He was a complete ass; he hated my teammate Luca based on a stupid rumor that Luca was sleeping with Woodward’s wife; all the while, he was cheating on his wife with Luca’s neighbor. That whole situation was a complete clusterfuck, and I was glad to see him have the door hit him on his way out.

At the same time, Coach Davenport was finally admitting he had a thing for one of our physical therapists, Elsie. It was a very interesting couple of months at the start of the season.

I’m thirty-three years old and have two more years on my contract with the Denver Wolves NHL team. I was traded here a few years ago after spending my entire career in Florida. Hell of a change to go from heat and humidity to oxygen deprivation and zero moisture in the air. Took me about a year to acclimate to the Colorado climate, but I don’t hate it. I love being near the mountains, as I’m an avid snowboarder, and I’ll never say no to snowmobiling in the Rockies. Plus, there’s nothing better than Oktoberfest in Breckenridge. The spectacular mountain views make the hangover worth it.

“Come on, Daws, fucking go,” teases the center of my line, Jacob Mitchell. Along with Levi Adamson, we are the first-line forwards for the Wolves. I’ve spent my entire career at right wing. I thought about being a goalie when I first started playing, but now I know it’s not for me. Goalies are just generally weird. They have odd quirks and even more superstitions about the game.

“Shut the fuck up, Jax,” I chuckle. A big thing in hockey is getting a nickname, and they are used more often than your actual name. Most are plays on the last name. My last name is Dawson, and I’m called Daws. How the hell Mitchell got Jax as a nickname, I’ll never know. And Levi … well, he either never got a nickname, or refuses to tell us what it is. Generally, nicknames are given out early on in a career. Jax, Levi, and I are all on the tail end of ours. I doubt I’ll get any great offers. Plus, I’m just getting tired. There’s always a younger and faster shithead coming out of high school who is gunning for my spot.

“Dawson!”

I look over and see the coach motioning for me to skate over to him. “What’s up, Coach?”

“Admin is looking for you. You got some important call that came to the main office.”

I immediately think the worst. Did something happen to my parents? My sister? I quickly head to the locker room to get cleaned up, then run to the offices at our practice facility.

“Oh, Gabe, you didn’t have to run,” the secretary admonishes.

“Who called? What was it?” I demand.

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