Page 64 of The Stud

Layvon winks in dismissal, robbing me of the chance to say or rightfully chirp something.

Great.

He’s fantastic at blocking shots inandout of the barn.

“Frosky,” he tosses me a nod of greeting as he slides his hands into his dark denim pockets, “what’s good?”

Him about six states over.

Or seven.

Or over the goddamn ocean he crossed to play inthisleague.

I don’t bother with niceties, “How do you know Hoss?”

“Howdon’tI know Hoss?” His winking has me crunching the beanbag tighter. “You?”

His confirmation regarding their sexual past pushes me to bite, “You know she’s a dragon.”

“Still not a Slayer, aye?”

The answer tastes worse than the cornflakes and pumpernickel buttery wings I had in his city my rookie year. “No.”

“Not surprising,” he brushes off with a single glance in her direction. “Wheeling snipes in her league is out of most of yours.”

Did he really just –

“Haven’t seen you since the playoffs.” Our eyes lock again. “Helluva a goose egg to end the season on.”

Yeah.

It was not enough tolosein the playoffs.

We lost tothem.

We lost tohim.

And we lost in regulation because I couldn’t put one bloody point on the board.

“Non eri al matrimonio sulla spiaggia di Soddy.” The dark-haired forward I wanna punch in the face checks out Arden for a third time post declaring he didn’t see me at Soddy’s wedding. “Perché?”

“I was at adifferentwedding.”

It’s not every day the woman responsible for your literal birth gets married.

Not being there wasn’t exactly an option.

Not that I would’ve skipped it anyway.

I typically like weddings.

Free drafts.

Free food.

And most importantly free females often looking to ride dick to bury their sorrows over still being single – although I don’t love the hashtags that can cause.

Unlike post Cap’s wedding, I got laid at the one in Highland.

---