Page 35 of Craving the Player

Chapter Sixteen

BRADEN

“You didn’twant to change first? Ilook like afucking slob beside you.” Idon’tbother looking at my brother when Ispeak. I’mtoo busy watching the perfectly squared ice cubes melt in my glass of whiskey.

The Vancouver Warriors just won their home opener—barely, but who cares—and Tyler, being the winning goal-scorer of the game, called to invite me out with the small group of players that wanted to celebrate the win in the public eye. Iinstinctively wanted to say no, not because Idon’tlove drinking fancy fucking booze in the company of my brother, but because being around so many professional hockey players makes my insides burn.

Imiss the damn sport, and knowing that Icould have been playing alongside my own brother, not necessarily on the same team, but in general, yet chose acompletely different career path, fills me with blistering regret.

Ikeep reminding myself that Idid it for Dad, and that there was no guarantee that Iwould have been drafted into the pro’sanyway, but not knowing at all, that shit sucks. It eats at me on aconstant basis, and nothing that Ido or say to convince myself that Imade the right choice works worth ashit.

I’mso damn proud of Tyler for not allowing his own inner demons to stop him from accomplishing what he’salways wanted, and for becoming astaple name in hockey, but I’mjealous regardless. So fucking jealous. Every time Iturn on agame and see my brother and his brother-in-law, Oakley Hutton, and one of my college hockey teammates and good friend, lighting up the rink together with their near intimidating amount of skill, power, and confidence, Ican’thelp but imagine myself right there beside them. Just like the good old days.

“We both know that if Iwent home after the game, Gracie wouldn’thave let me back out,” Tyler says with asnort. His smile spreads around his clear glass as he takes asip of his drink. The humour in his dark eyes makes my chest rumble with alaugh.

“Right.” Itap the side of my glass with my finger and hum. “How has she been lately? The nausea still kicking her ass?”

My brother’swife is three months pregnant now, Ithink, and has been dealing with some gnarly morning sickness the entire time. If Iremember correctly, Ithink she had to get prescription pills from her doctor when it got so bad that she couldn’teven get out of bed most days. Iknow it was hard for her, not to be able to dance or even teach alesson for that matter, but every time she even attempted it, it wasn’tlong before she was calling Tyler from the bathroom, begging him to come take her home.

Along, frustrated grunt fills the space between us as Tyler’sempty glass is shoved towards the bartender. His jaw sets, cheek twitching. “Yeah. It’sgetting better but it’skilling me, man. She looks so fucking miserable all the time and there’snothing that Ican do to help.”

Iwant to give him areassuring hug, but settle on squeezing his shoulder knowing full well he’snot the biggest fan of receiving comfort from anyone other than his wife. “How much longer until it eases it? Or will it not go away?” For the sake of him not getting astomach ulcer from worrying too much, Ihope it’ll be gone quickly.

“Doctor says it should go away in afew weeks. Hopefully it’ll just be afirst trimester thing.”

Inod. “Well for all of our sakes, Ihope so too. Idon’tknow how much more of your bitching Ican take before my ears begin to bleed, Ty.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbles, even though the corner of his mouth twitches, begging to lift into agrin. He doesn’tsmile, of course, but he does make asmall noise in the back of his throat that sounds like ahalf-snort, half-chuckle. “What’sup with you? Ihaven’tseen you since you bailed at dinner.”

“Not much.” It’sonly ahalf-lie. Ihaven’tdone much of anything since Ileft Sierra’shouse last week. Ihaven’ttexted her and she hasn’ttexted me. Things have gone back to normal. That is if my new normal has become not being able to get even the slightest hard-on unless I’mflicking through memories of what Sierra’spussy tastes like.

Ihaven’tbeen able to get it up for anyone, at fucking all, the past few days. Ieven spent my Saturday night in adark hallway at Sinners with my pants down at my ankles and ahot mouth wrapped around my soft cock, unable to get hard. The big breasted brunette was offended, not like Icould blame her, and left me bracing myself against the wall alone with my dick hanging between my legs like alimp noodle. Ididn’teven give myself time to be embarrassed that my cock had become so utterly useless before Ileft, got in my car, and began slamming my hands on my steering wheel until the anger passed.

“What’sthe scowl for them? Someone key your car or something?”

“Nobody fucking keyed my car. Nothing’sup.”

Tyler turns his bar stool until he faces me, right arm planted on the bar top, knees spread wide in his expensive, custom black dress pants and the top two buttons of his white dress shirt unbuttoned. His black hair—buzzed on the sides, longer in the middle—is messy as hell, like he hasn’ttouched it since he took his hockey helmet off after the game. Knowing him, he probably hasn’t. He has abrow kicked up as he watches me, eyes doubtful, making it clear that he doesn’tbelieve adamn word I’ve said.

“Isaw Clayton the other day when Istopped by the gym,” he says while signalling the bartender to refill his glass. My stomach drops.

That little shit head.

Tyler’sdrink is refilled quickly and he takes asip before facing me again. “He mentioned agirl. Sierra, Ithink her name was? Said you were seeing her or something like that. Itold him he had to be lying because there’sno way my brother had asteady girl and didn’ttell me.”

Ilift my shoulder in alazy shrug, trying to play it off like the topic of Sierra doesn’taffect me, even though it clearly does. Tyler would never let me live it down if Itold him just how much it did actually affect me. “We were fucking around for awhile. It’sdone now.” There’sthe smallest hint of asmile on his face that has me tonguing my cheek. “I’mserious. Ihaven’tseen her in aweek.”

“And how has that been?”

The grip on my drink tightens and Iswallow hard. “Fine. What are you? Ashrink now?”

“Fine?” he echoes, head tilted while he belts out arough laugh. “You sure about that? You don’tsound real sure.”

Pushing away from the bar, not wanting to deal with getting the third degree any longer than Ihave to, Iget up, drink still in my hand. Tipping my glass, Igulp down the last few sips before slapping it down on the bar and shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans. “Going to the bathroom,” Imutter and stalk off until his bursting laughter fades into nothing.

I’mrounding an excessively gigantic fish tank when Istop, my chest beginning to constrict. The hands in my pockets come out and fall to my sides, clenched tight. My nostrils flare and my back molars grind together as Itake in the scene playing out afew feet in front of me.

Sierra.

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