Page 68 of Pucking One Night Stand
“And what?” His voice is low and sharp now, jaw grinding. “This asshole wants nothing to do with it? Wait till I get my hands on him. Whoever the fuck it is—”
“Dad! Dad, wait. No. That’s not the problem. He does want to be part of it. That’s not what this is about.”
His expression shifts. Confused. Still raging, but now… off balance.
I rush it out before I lose my nerve. “I was with him this morning, and when we walked into the arena and headed down the corridor toward the media boardroom, one of his—”
He freezes. “We walked into the arena?”
Shit. He’s catching up.
“Yeah. We walked in. Together.”
His stare sharpens. Boils. “And?”
I close my eyes. “His friend, his fucking friend, gave him money. Right in front of me. Said, ‘This is for winning the bet.’”
He blinks. “Bet?” His voice is pure disbelief. “What are you talking about?”
“I was a bet, Dad,” I spit. The words burn. “Turns out they made some stupid deal that night at Sin City. About whether he could ‘get me’ or not. I was just a damn bet.”
That’s it. I lose it all over again. I’m bawling, full-body sobs, gasping between the cracks in my voice, barely able to breathe.
He pulls me into him again, but he’s shaking now. Rage bleeding out of every inch of him.
He presses his hand to the back of my head, but his chest is rising like a fucking volcano. Then he pulls me back. His eyes are blistering. “Which one?” he demands. “Which one of my team?”
I can’t stop it. It falls out of my mouth, traitorous and shaking. “Blake Mitchell.”
He lets go of me like I just electrocuted him.
And then, like some nuclear explosion detonating in slow motion, he stands. The can in his hand flies across the room, smashing against the wall, spraying sticky Coke all over his whiteboard and filing cabinet. “I’LL FUCKING KILL HIM!” He storms toward the door.
“Dad! Dad, NO! NO!”
Too late. The door slams so hard the walls shake, the photos rattle, and the air leaves my lungs.
I sit. Still. Quivering. Sobbing.
Oh, fuck. What have I done?
Chapter eleven
Blake
The gym is thick with sweat and testosterone and the sound of war. Iron plates slam. Chains rattle. Metal bites metal. The air tastes like heat and effort.
I’m on the Roman chair, gripping the handles, leaning back slowly, then pulling forward with every inch of rage I’ve got lodged in my gut. My abs scream with each rep, but I keep going. Measured breath. Tight control. No breaks. No mercy.
Losing Cassy?
I feel that shit like a blade between my ribs. That girl is in my bloodstream now. And now I’ve fucked it—no, torched it.
Everything could've been so perfect. Instead, I’m here, trying to outrun regret by tearing my muscles apart.
To my right, Brody’s deadlifting like a damn machine, his forearms knotted with veins as he yanks the bar up again and again. He’s laser-focused, his expression locked down.
He stops for a moment. “So. It’s official. That Jett Lawson, Center from the NY Tigers, has been signed. Mariana said he’s arriving for his medical in two days.”
