Page 3 of Love You Already

Bridgett's hand envelops mine, her touch soft and warm. Familiar. I might not have had a mother growing up, but I had Bridgett. She's been the comforting female figure in my life all these years. Even when her whimsical side took over and sent her on adventures all around the country, she'd find her way back to me when I needed her most.

“I support you no matter what, nugget.”

I groan at the childhood nickname. “Why must you torment me with that name? I'm a grown woman now.”

“You might be grown up, but you'll always be our little nugget. Speaking of which, can we detour on the way back?”

“Umm, are you craving chicken nuggets or something? We can swing through a drive through.”

She squeezes my hand before pulling out a piece of paper. I obviously can't read it as I drive. She dives into explaining it to me.

“This here is a confirmation email for a single night's stay in Las Vegas. I booked us a room a few days ago when I realized it wasn't too far out of our way before we headed home.”

“Is there a reason you want to go to Sin City, Bridgett? Something you need to tell me?” I tease.

Instead of answering right away, she folds the sheet up and slides it back into the canvas messenger bag she always totes around.

“I just thought it might be a good place to celebrate your last ride. No one else knows you've quit, and it's been damn hard not telling them these past few weeks. Vegas is my reward for keeping quiet, as well as a farewell.”

Drumming my hands on the steering wheel, I give her suggestion some thought. It only takes me about thirty seconds to realize she's right. We deserve to let loose for the night. There's nothing too pertinent waiting at home that can't last another day or two.

“Let's do it,” I tell her as I hand over my phone for her to update the GPS.

Bridgett squeals as she snatches the device. “This is going to be the best! I can't wait to see what we get into.”

CHAPTER 2

KNOCK ME THE FUCK OUT RIGHT NOW.

Lachlan

“We've got this! One period down. Two to go.” Webster, my best friend and fellow defender, shouts at me as he skates past. I give a curt nod to acknowledge him. My focus is centered on the ice. On the little black puck that makes or breaks this game.

We're tied at zero for tonight's game thus far. Nothing sucks as much as neither team scoring.

Ok, that's a lie. The other team scoring sucks too. But I would fucking love to see some type of movement right about now. This feels too close to some type of ping-pong game than it does hockey with the way no one can seem to score.

As a right-wing defender of the Vegas Vultures, my goal is to keep the other team from scoring. Occasionally, it's also to score a goal or two, though that's only when there's an opening wide enough for me to take.

Unlike some of the men on the ice today, I'm not big on showboating. Maybe in my early years when it was clear I needed to prove myself. Back then, I would do everything I could to ensure I stayed on the team and at the front of the fans' minds. I needed them to believe in me as much as I believed in myself.

Nearly a decade later, I'm not as greedy for their attention. I don't need the validation that comes from their chanting or from the coaches telling me how great I played. It's still good to hear, mind you. It's just not something I chase as hard.

Webster and I block attempt after attempt to make it to our goal. The Sharks are living up to their name tonight, circling us constantly as they wait for a chance to attack.

“Murdock! Get your ass over here,” Coach yells. His tense jaw and shifting eyes tell me whatever he's about to say isn't good. The man is a shit liar, which is why we clean him out at poker every chance we get.

I switch out with another defender with only a minute left on the clock. “Yeah, Coach?”

He points his thumb over his shoulder. “Back office needs you.”

My throat gets tight. Fuck. I knew this was possible. I had a feeling. Yet I didn't think it would happen in the middle of our fucking game.

“Yes sir,” I grind out as I march down the hall to the office.

Inside the coaching office area, I find Dan Reynolds, the owner of the team, along with three other men, two of whom I don't recognize. The third is my agent, Thad.

“Come on in, Lachlan. We need to talk.” Thad waves me over to stand beside him.