Page 33 of The Stud

Hums of approval are attached to him hunching over to present me with an incredibly beautiful profile shot.

One that allows me to see the light hair littered along his jaw.

The faint scar on his neck.

The very top edge of hisglacies bellatortattoo that’s inked right below his right collarbone.

“Alright then,” he begins after following through with his shot, “what is your favoritenon-hockeyactivity?”

I lazily lean with the stick. “Wing hunting.”

Rather than immediately move to hit the ten ball, Tanner tosses me a pleasantly surprised expression. “No shit.”

“Love a good hot wing.”

“You watchHot Ones?”

“I like toeathot ones. Watching other people do it just makes me hangry.”

“Same!” Snickers leave us both, yet it’s him who continues the conversation. “Just how far have you travelled for a good wing?”

There’s no stopping my face from cringing. “Dos Santos.”

“Which is where?”

“A very small border town where my dad’s cousin serves the most delicious Mexi-Texi chili-lime wings – out of a fucking food truck by the way – that you will ever find in your life.”

“And what exactly is on a Mexi-Texi wing?”

“Chili-lime wing sauce – made hotter by mixing in a little green pepper hot sauce – with a bit of cilantro and cotija cheese sprinkled on top.”

“Fuuuuccck,” Tanner moans while finally resuming an upright stance, “that sounds delectable.”

I use every fiber of my being to ignore the effect that sound has on my lady parts and confess, “I literally ate them until I puked. Hydrated. And resumed eating them.”

An impressed expression appears on his face rather than horror during his relocation. “Such a fucking beauty.”

The hockey style compliment prompts me to playfully curtesy, an action that gets him laughing again as he sets up his next shot.

“What about you?”

Tanner keeps his attention plastered on the ball he needs to hit.

“How far are you willing to go for a good wing?”

“However far is necessary,” is accompanied by the tip of his cue connecting to its target. Once the ball has sunk into the appropriate pocket, he meets my gaze again. “I will saythatis one of theonlybenefits to constantly being on the road.”

“You get to be a wing slut?”

Moving to his next ball occurs in tandem with his chuckling. “I suppose I left myself open for that shot.”

“And you know what Gretzky said about taking shots.”

“What puckhead doesn’t,” mutters Tanner prior to positioning himself over the table.

“Probably those in pee wee.”

More laughter freely fills the air mindlessly melting me further against my stick.

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