Page 5 of Cherry Picking
Mashburn knocks his hip on the table and shrugs. “It’s open until 2am and close to the practice facility. Besides, it still servesalcohol.” He picks his peer up off the edge of the table and tilts it to his lips.
“Or,” comes a deep voice from behind me that sends tendrils of arousal through my nervous system. “Rory has Mashburn wrapped around his finger, and the rest of us follow suit.”
Riley flashes us a grin as he joins the table, a whiskey glass of what looks like milk cradled in his massive hands.
“What in the hell is that?” I ask.
He goes to answer, but Rory pipes in before he can.
“It’s a cum shot!”
My eyes blow wide, but neither of the others seem phased. Riley rolls his eyes, and Mashburn just fixes Rory with a hard stare.
“Spiced rum with milk,” Riley says, shaking his head.
Rory flaps his hand dismissively. “It’s a thick, white liquid. Plus, rum and cum rhyme.”
I glance over as Riley brings the drink to his mouth, and I’m not even a little bit ashamed to admit I watch the dribble that tracks down his chin. Even less subtle is the way my eyes lock onto how he swipes his thumb over it.
A smart man would call the night early because I desperately need to get laid, but you know what they say about first impressions. I’ll just swallow down the need brimming in my groin at each gulped swallow this man makes.
Someone clears their throat, and I break my gaze away as Rory and Mashburn start up a new match. It’s interesting to watch Rory nearly jump on the table to reach his paddle towards the center, while Mashburn barely has to lean forward to almost cross into the opposite territory.
At practice, they actually make quite the power duo, and I wonder which developed first: their mesh on the ice or their friendship?
“How does it feel being one of the most talked about players in the league?”
Riley’s voice sinks in stronger than any alcohol, and I bring my eyes to his with a lopsided smile.
“Would feel better if it wasn’t ninety-five percent premature ejaculation jokes. And yes. That exact term. ‘Did you hear Foster was prematurely ejaculated from the Comets?’”
I roll my eyes, and Riley’s laugh gives me goosebumps.
“I’ve heard rumors of the opposite actually.”
My brows shoot up, and Riley must immediately catch what he said, because he flounders a bit before pressing his lips into a firm line and directing his stare at the ground.
I’ve hooked up with a handful of queer players throughout the years—some in the PHL, a few in the NAPH—but I can’t imagine any of them bragging or chirping about it in the locker rooms.
“You aren’t the only one who’s been around the block. I went through short stints on three teams before settling here. People talk. Especially when they’re drunk.”
There’s that hint of shyness I saw earlier, and it makes my chest swell a bit to think that I might make Riley nervous.
Not because I want him to be, but because it begs the question of if there’s more to his interest than just getting to know the new guy.
He finishes off his drink with one gulp that absolutely doesn’t garner the attention of my rising libido and hooks his thumb toward the bar. I’m not sure if it was a statement or an invitation, but I turn to follow, and he doesn’t complain.
“Why did you settle here anyway?” I ask once he grabs a regular whiskey and hands me a Coke. “What happened to the NAPH?”
The whiskey doesn’t last long, and his face scrunches as he slams the glass back on the counter.
“I’m wearing a boot. What do you think happened?”
“Right, because you’ve been wearing it for, what… three years?”
The sarcasm gets me a scoff but also another smile.
“Permanent injury. When it didn’t heal like the doc wanted, they sent me down. I can still play, but I’m a liability.”
