Page 11 of Craving the Player

Chapter Six

Braden

Ipeel my eyes open, my lips tipping in alazy smile with the memories of last night. Istretch my arm across the cold sheets, scowling when Idon'tmake contact with the warm body Iwas expecting. Isearch the room but come up short of anything but the searing feeling of disappointment.

And here Ithought Iwas going to start my day with breakfast.

My eyes move around the room in search of the clothes that were ripped from her body last night. She could just be in the bathroom or something. Right? The gnawing in my stomach becomes more intense when Idon'tsee her clothes. Igroan, the sound amixture of pure sexual frustration and . . . rejection? Ipush myself out of bed and pull on apair of sweatpants from the dirty laundry bin.

Iyank open my bedroom door and breathe in the rich smell of coffee before spotting Clayton draped over the couch. Dressed in only apair of black boxer briefs, he covers his bare stomach with abowl of Lucky Charms, milk splattered on his pecs.

"Sierra’snot here," he sings while watching last night'sVancouver Warrior’shockey game on our shared flatscreen. Idon’twatch alot of hockey anymore. It unsettles me now more than anything. Iguess giving up on one passion to pursue another does that to aperson. Igave up hockey for boxing and tried to never look back. Some days Istumble and find myself reminiscing, though. Those are days that Ilike to forget, sunk deep inside of awoman who won’tcare if Iremember her name in the morning. Awoman who doesn’tknow the old me. The one that I’ve become accustomed to forgetting.

"What did you do to her?" Imove towards him, feeling my skin start to beat with warmth. My harsh tone grasps his attention. He turns to look at me, eyes rolling dramatically but the hint of curiosity obvious by the twitch in his brow.

"Me? Nothing. You, on the other hand,” he sighs. "She couldn'tseem to get out of here fast enough. Are you having problems in the sack? It’sokay if you are. Iwon’tjudge you.”

The devilish grin tugging at his lips makes me think otherwise. "Fuck off.” Iglare at his back, throwing up my middle finger. "Did she say why she was leaving?"

"Nope. But she did look quite upset." Ilose his attention as soon as the Warrior’sbuzzer sounds, the signal that the opposing team scored agoal. “Stop sleeping, defence! What the fuck!”

Yeah. What the fuck? She was upset? After that mind-blowing sex? Yeah right. Imight be an egotistical asshole, but I know when Isatisfy awoman. And last night, she was more than satisfied.

"Her loss,” Imutter. I’mnot sure if I’mtrying to convince myself or Clayton at this point.

Ihead towards the bathroom, passing my room on the way. Ifight back the urge to take acan of Febreeze to the whole fucking thing when the smell of her still lingers in the air, clinging on to every possible surface. Icurse under my breath.Just the memory of her sprawled out, exposed and eager for me, on my bed is enough to make my dick harden. Idon'tknow if Ishould feel surprised or pissed that she left without saying goodbye. Maybe Ishould be relieved. Everything Iremember from our conversation outside the club doesn’tlead me to believe that she’smy type at all. High strung, smart-mouth women are more Clayton’sstyle. Alcohol was probably the only reason why Ifound her tolerable last night.

The bathroom window provides more than enough light as Ipush open the damaged door, cringing when the top hinge threatens to drop the damn thing. Imanage to close it without hurting myself and pull open one of the drawers, digging for my toothbrush. When my gaze flickers to my reflection in the mirror, Ispot aquick flash of red clinging to my back.

"Holy hell," Imutter, turning in the mirror. Isquint and peek at the five long scratches racking down the entirety of my upper back, three of them deep enough to leave scabs on my shoulder blades. Kitties got claws, that'sfor sure.

With ashake of my head, Ilook away and turn on the shower, more than ready to cleanse myself of last night'ssins.

With aclear head, Istep out of the shower and wrap afluffy white towel around my waist before leaving the steam-filled bathroom.

"Bad time, Son?"

My head snaps to my dad, his light features beaming under the cheap fluorescent lights hung above the kitchen table. He sits with perfect posture, shoulders held high and chin pointed to the sky. With shoulder length brown hair tied back in aloose bun and aclean shaven face, he looks way younger than forty-eight. Ithink it’sgone to his head. He’sfar too confident for his own good. Even more so than me.

"Ididn'tknow you were coming," Ireply, too busy moving inside my room and ripping through one of my dresser drawers to look at the annoyed scowl Iknow he must be wearing.

"Itried calling afew times, but clearly,” he clears his throat, “you were busy. Iwas in the area anyway. Figured I'djust stop by to invite you to dinner in person."

"So you figured it would be easier to invite me to dinner with your child bride in person then?" Istraighten my spine, standing stiff, shoulders straight and lifted like I’mpreparing myself for ahit from behind. “So Icouldn’tsay no without feeling guilty?”

"Itold you not to call her that. She’snot afucking child.” He lets out along sigh, one that lets me know just how pissed off I’ve made him and how hard he’strying to reign in his anger. "I've let you avoid her long enough.”

"Give me abreak, Dad," Iscoff, pulling on apair of pants. He waits until Ijoin him in the kitchen before replying.

"We're getting married. You can'tstop that just because you don'tlike her."

Irip open the fridge and pull out abottle of water with adark laugh. "You're right. Idon'tlike her. And Ithink you're making amistake."

His huff is music to my ears. Idrink the entire bottle and toss it into the trash.

"She'stoo young for you. Iprobably could have fucked her atime or two.” Iface him and shrug. The blonde swimwear model that can now label herself as his fiancé, is my age. What twenty-six-year-old woman wants to marry an old divorced guy with two kids the same age as her unless she has some hidden agenda? Some secret that she doesn’tplan on spilling until she has whatever she wants? Gets whatever she wants.

See, my mother'snew husband is exactly how Ipictured—awrinkly old investment banker who tries embarrassingly hard to have asubstantial part in my life, knowing that we will never be close, but still cares enough to try. That marriage is normal. This one, on the other hand, is so not.

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