Page 5 of Levi

One that, based on the smirk she kept shooting back at me, proved that she was doing it just for me. See the thing about Quinn, she loves the chase. She likes to play with her food a little before she eats it—something I still find incredibly hot. And based on the way she kept looking back at me, I had a feeling that I was on the menu that night.

Don’t get your hopes up…I knew it was a terrible idea.

So instead of walking over to her right away, I decided to talk to the ladies at the table next to where I was standing, and they immediately chatted me up—which only pissed Quinn off, surprising the fuck outta me. The second I leaned into it a bit, she started flirting with everyone else around me at the bar. I wanted to stand on the table between us and piss on her, claim her like a fucking feral animal for the entire bar to witness.

Instead, I refrained from acting like a complete savage, and the second I had an opening, I just carried her out of the bar and fucked her against the side of the building.

Like any gentleman would do.

After that night, the rest was history. Once we had lit the match, we realized just how in tune we were in the bedroom and decided to take advantage of it. Now, anytime we’re in the same city, we link up, and I spend the night hate-fucking her in an attempt to get her out of my system. At least, until I see her next because I’ll inevitably miss her again.

It’s an endless cycle I’m not sure I’m ever going to be fully free from—which is evident by me standing here despite my better judgement. I've just always had this innate desire to make her mine, even if it’s only temporary.

But that arrangement is not what those text messages were. Hell, usually our texts only consist of an address and a time; the rest of the night is all nonverbal communication with our bodies.

I get the feeling that’s not how this night is going to end, and my dick is already disappointed. This seemed like it was going to be an actual conversation, and now I’m not sure what the fuck to think. Especially after she mentioned my career—that’s the one thing in this world I don’t fuck around with. I don’t piss my coaches off, and I don’t risk an injury, because my career is my livelihood.

It's the same reason why I refuse any offers from outside of Nashville, even if they come with a substantially higher salary. I was born and raised here, drafted here, and if I have anything to say about it, I want to finish my career here. Of course, part of the reason is my loyalty to the team and the city, which obviously plays a significant role in my decision. But overall, it’s because of my nana, my only family.

She's in a retirement community because she’s slowly been showing signs of Alzheimer’s, and thankfully, she was willing to make the move to a safer living arrangement. I wish I could’ve moved her in with me—hell, I even offered. In the end, she kept telling me that there was no way an eighty-year-old woman should be living with her hotshot grandson. Said I had a life to live and she wouldn’t intrude.

I told her she was wrong and that all my friends would love to get to spend more time with her when they came to hang out, but she refused.

So, I put her in the highest rated retirement community I could find to make sure she was taken care of, and I go see her every week. If that was taken from me, I’d give up hockey. The only problem is that I play to pay for her care—if I quit, then eventually the money would run out. But if I had to move, then I wouldn’t get to see her because I know she won’t move from Nashville.

So now, damn near two weeks later, I’m still thinking about the conversation with Quinn, waiting on fucking pins and needles for her to text me to meet up. I’ve almost called her nearly a hundred fucking times, but I refused. I need to play it cool. If it was something dire, I’m sure she would have told me by now. It’s probably something stupid.

After forty-three roundsCall of Duty Zombies, Cooper and I finally call it quits and finish the game. It doesn’t matter that I just eliminated two thousand zombies before they could infect people, practically saving lives, I’m still thinking about my phone.

Only this time when I look down, I have a text. Motherfucker, I must’ve turned it on silent and forgotten. Grabbing my phone, I quickly open it, shocked to hell when I see it’s actually her. My heart starts racing as my thumb hovers over the text to read it, almost afraid to do it and get bad news. Finally giving in, I open it.

Quinn: Mayfield Hotel. Now.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. This is such a normal conversation between us, no actual sentences, just pure facts, because it’s what works for us. But this feels off, and I don’t like it. I’m confused because I’m not sure what to expect.

Standing up, I plug in my headset and controller before turning the TV off. Heading into my kitchen, I grab my keys and wallet and throw on a navy-blue Firebirds hoodie. It may not be fancy, but a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt are my go-to.

* * *

Walkinginto the bar at the Mayfield Hotel, I immediately second-guess my outfit. I knew this place was fancy, but I think I forgot just how fancy it was. The waitresses are all walking around looking elegant while every guest is dressed to the nines like they’re going to a damn gala. I feel extremely underdressed. Thankfully, I notice Quinn at the bar right away, and she’s in a pair of jeans as well.

Thank fuck.

Standing there for a moment, I take a second to admire her. She looks fucking sexy right now—her jeans molded to her body, hugging her curves like a glove—and all I can think about is getting my hands on her. She’s small but not breakable, and I fucking love it. She’s strong, her body powerful because she works hard at it, and I’m just appreciating her dedication. Hell, I remember her working out with me in college, and that girl could always keep up—if not do better.

All that hard work gave her the most incredible ass that I want to get on my knees and worship. It’s the kind of ass you want to squeeze, bite, or fuck. Personally, I want to do all three.

Once she grabs a drink, she makes her way to a table and takes a seat. I force myself to walk over to her before my inner thoughts spill out and I make a fool out of myself. Taking the seat next to her, I’m surprised to find a drink already waiting at the spot I’m in.

“Is someone sitting here?” I ask, worried she brought someone with her to this meeting.

“Nope. It’s for you. Eagle Rare, neat. Or did you finally change your drink order after all these years?”

Damn, she’s got a good memory.

“Nope, you’re spot on. I just wasn’t expecting it. Thanks.”

“No problem,” she says, and I can tell she’s nervous.

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