Page 40 of Slap Shot Daddies

Braden swept into the room with the grace of a charming poet, offering his assistance with my charts, and then he touched me, kissed me, made me come, and departed as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

My fingers tremble as they rake through my hair, the pounding of my pulse is loud.

The scent of Braden still clings to the air: a crisp, clean aroma of soap mixed with a subtle hint of musk, something distinctively his.

I glance at the framed poem on my wall, its words now imbued with a weight they never carried before. They want me. All of them.

I sink into my desk chair, biting my lip in an effort to ground myself. This is madness. No, it transcends madness. It's reckless, unprofessional, downright irresponsible.

And yet, I've never felt morealive.

The memory of Braden’s hands, the assured way he knew just where to touch me, the confidence in his movements, as though he was fully aware I would melt under his touch.

And oh, how I did.

I press my thighs together, trying to dispel the lingering sensation, the tingling across my skin where his hands had been, the spectral imprint of his lips against mine. I exhale sharply, shaking my head in an attempt to clear it.

This is overwhelming. But when my gaze returns to the poem, to its soft, romantic words, I realize I can no longer feign ignorance.

They want me.

And perhaps…I want them, too.

I just don’t know if I’m ready to admit that.

From my office, I have an unobstructed view of the rink through the expansive glass window, and my eyes are irresistibly drawn back to it, as if pulled by an unseen force.

I tell myself that I’m merely observing practice, ensuring the team is in tip-top shape, that everything appears as it should. But the truth? I’m captivated by them.

Ambrose, with a stability and power that seems to radiate from him, commands the ice with every precise movement, a force of nature on skates.

Reggie, with his sharp, confident demeanor, is always grinning, his eyes constantly scanning, ever-watchful and full of life.

And Braden…

Braden catches me staring.

He doesn’t smirk or wink, not immediately anyway.

No, he lets his gaze linger on me, like he knows exactly what thoughts are swirling in my mind, like he can still sense my presence just as I can feel his.

I press a hand to my flushed cheek, swallowing hard to keep my composure.

Shit, I’m so in over my head.

The drills continue, the pucks smacking against the boards with a satisfying crack, the sounds of skates carving into the icefilling the air like a symphony of athleticism. I lose myself in the rhythm of it all, the structured chaos, the raw power in their movements, until, all at once, they do it.

All three of them skate past me.

And in perfect, ridiculous unison they blow me kisses.

I slap a hand over my mouth, mortified, yet unable to suppress the laughter bubbling up from within me. I shake my head, turning away from the rink before I completely combust with embarrassment and amusement.

I like the attention. I really, really like the attention.

Which means I’m in far deeper trouble than I ever imagined.

I try to suppress the fluttering in my chest caused by all the attention, but it’s impossible. They’re so captivated by me.

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