Page 20 of Chips & Checks
“Shit, I’m sorry!” Bowen grabs his napkin and lunges across the small space between us—napkin first, panic second.
It’s meant to be helpful.
It. Is. Not.
Because instead of dabbing gently like a normal person, his hand is now wedged between my legs. Frantic patting. Sweeping motions. Firm pressure.
Flashbacks. Intense ones.
The kind that involve heavy breathing and phrases like “your dick is huge” and “don’t stop.”
I cough. Loudly. He looks up at me, stricken. Like he just realized he’s publicly fingering his boss’s daughter in the middle of a team dinner.
“I’ve got it,” I say, voice ten octaves too high as I pry the napkin from between his fingers. “Thanks.”
He sits back, napkin-less, color rising in his cheeks like he might actually die.
Same, buddy.
Freaking same.
Across the table, Viktor snickers like the smug little menace he is. Like he knows exactly what just happened.
He can’t. He can’t know.Itliterally just happened. There’s no possible way—
Oh, God, did Bowen tell him? Has this man had one full day on the team and already started a sex newsletter?
Through some warped divine intervention, my father remains blissfully unaware of the sexually charged dumpster fire unfolding six inches from his flank. He just chuckles and says, “I hope you’re better with your hands on the ice.”
Viktor’s grin widens like the devil just fed him a line. “Well, if you want to know how he is with his hands off the ice—”
WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK.
My heart stops. My stomach drops. My life flashes before my eyes, and it’s just a montage of me making very poor choices in hotel lighting.
I shoot a panicked glance at Knova likehelp me I’m poor and emotionally naked.
To her credit, my girl picks up something, even if she doesn’t know the full story. Her eyebrows lift, eyes flick to Viktor, and her hand lands on his like a velvet guillotine.
“If you complete that thought,” she murmurs sweetly, “you’re going to become BFFs with your hand for the next thirty days.”
Viktor goes silent so fast I hear the air die in his lungs.
To my left, Camden mumbles, “Our Vi,” like he’s just connected the cosmic dots and doesn’t know whether to be horrified or impressed.
I turn my death glare on him. “Did you say something, Cam?”
He shakes his head so hard his longer off-season curls flop into his eyes like a golden retriever caught chewing a shoe. “Nope. Not a word.”
And then—bless his soul—he reaches for my hand under the table. Camden isn’t usually touchy. He’s sweet, but skittish. But he knows I am. Knows I need grounding. Knows how to read the room, even when the room is a slow-motion emotional landslide.
“You okay?” he whispers.
“Long story,” I whisper back. “As soon as we’re done with dinner, can you run interference? I just… need space. Okay?”
He nods once and squeezes my hand.
And for the first time since my one-night stand spilled ice water on my vag in front of my father, I don’t feel like I’m going to die.
