Page 182 of Breaking the Pucking Rules
I need more.
I’m like a fucking junkie who needs his next fix.
But I fear that another taste of her won’t be enough.
I’m not sure any amount of her will ever be enough.
And that’s a fucking problem.
“Are you nearly ready?” I groan.
I get it. He wants to go out tonight and pull a bunny. But he’s Lincoln Storm, starting winger for the LA Vipers. No puck bunny on the planet is going to turn him down because he has a hair out of place.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror and narrow in warning.
“Just because you don’t care about looking your best, doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t.”
“Everyone else is already in the bar,” I point out, waving my cell at him with the group chat open.
He turns back to the mirror, poking his hair again before stepping away. “Fine. This will have to do.”
“Oh yeah, it looks awful. No one is going to want to fuck you with hair like that,” I deadpan.
“You’re funny,” he seethes.
“I’m really not. I’m impatient.”
“Yeah, to get back here to go to bed like a miserable fuck.”
“Nothing wrong with sleeping. We’ve got a long two weeks ahead of us.”
“We will if you don’t lighten up. Unless there’s another reason you want an early night…” He taunts.
“We have seven back-to-back road games. I’m not ending this stretch on my knees.”
“Nah, man. I’m not getting on my knees for anyone.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter. “The women you hook up with are so lucky.”
“Damn right, they are. Why do you think they’re always begging for another ride?”
I side-eye him as we make our way toward the elevator. “Because of the size of your bank account?”
“Oh, it’s to do with size alright. But nothing to do with money.”
I scoff. “You keep telling yourself that, man,” I say, patting him patronizingly on the shoulder.
“Fuck off,” he scoffs, twisting away. “How’re things with your puck bunny, anyway.”
My irritation levels rise, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to slam him back against the wall for disrespecting Casey. Instead, I grit my teeth and seethe, “She’s not a bunny.”
“Ooooh, so it’s serious then?” he asks, hearing the possessiveness in my tone.
“No, it’s not. I don’t have time for serious. It was just a bit of fun.” The words are like ash on my tongue.
It’s the truth. It has been fun. But it feels entirely too serious right now.
My cell burns a hole in my pocket. I should have messaged her. Asked her if she’d had a good day. If she was watching thegame. I mean, I assumed she would be. She seems like a pretty hardcore fan. I played as if she was watching…whatever the fuck that means.
