Page 85 of Friendzone Hockey
“You know we’re going to stop eventually,” Stacey says, reminding me of his presence. “I’m bigger than you.”
I know he means his body, but that has me thinking of his cock again.
“My phone’s password locked.”
“I know your phone password, genius—I know all your passwords.”
Dammit. That’s inconvenient.
Casey
Question. Why’s Stacey going with you? Shouldn’t it be your fiancé?
Me
Best man duties.
My heart races. Technically, all of them should probably be going with us if that’s the case. They’re all my best men.
Stacey’s just … Stacey. No one questioned when I chose him as “official” best man. Not even Dirk, who’s a bestie of another breed.
I wait with a jack rabbit thumping against my ribcage while I see the little dots appear to tell me Casey’s typing. But so what if he asks questions? I have nothing to worry about and even less to hide.
Casey
So glad Sutter and I are eloping in Vegas. I’m not doing all that crap. But you fuckers had better be there.
Jack
Merc and I already have sitters. Just tell us the dates and we’ll be there.
The Hummer slows. Shit. We’re pulling into the Newlands Golf Course parking lot.
Me
Shit. GTG. TTYL.
But they continue talking, judging by the constant buzzing in my pocket.
“Hand it over,” Stacey says, killing the engine.
“Nah. You’ll have to pry it from my cold dead hands.”
“Okay, you asked for it.”
Two hundred pounds of hockey player launches across the console. I’m hit with Stacey’s musky scent and his face stops inches from mine. He’s tackled me countless times, so much that I’m used to this position, but for the first time, ever, it feels wrong. Forbidden.
My breath hitches and there’s a tingling buzz hovering over my skin.
“Who’ve you been talking to? I know it wasn’t Syd. Dash?—”
Wait, does he think I’ve got a secret boyfriend? It would be fun to say Hunter just to see him go feral again.
“I started a chat with Jack, Dirk, Casey, and Logan.” I’m not breathing right, but I don’t care. I love his weight on top of me, lips close enough to?—
“Aha!” He gets my phone. “A brat chat, huh? I don’t remember authorizing this.”
“I don’t remember asking.”
