How the fuck did he even get in? Fake ID?
Doesn't seem the type, but there’s no other explanation.
Fuck, now I have to go through his shit, see what else he’s hiding.
When I pulled up the video feed earlier, he’d been dressed in nice jeans and spraying on cologne. Most nights, the camera feed shows him at his desk.
Except for yesterday.
He’d been watching something on his phone, hand down his joggers, stroking himself. I shut my laptop so fast I almost cracked the screen.
My teeth clench as I force out a breath.
Told him not to date, but was someone else on the other end? Was it a video chat? Is that why he went out tonight?
Thank fuck he’d left his phone unlocked on the bench in the locker room earlier today. He’d been on it after practice when Coach Harper called him into the office. So, I grabbed it, then installed a location app.
Wanted to go through his contacts and his text history. But whatever Coach wanted didn’t last long because Henneman was walking back over a few minutes later, and I didn’t need him catching me.
Zach puts his hands in his pockets, casually stepping around a couple. “Heard from your parents?”
“Not in a few days.” The muscles in my neck cord. “They're up to something.”
Viktor smirks. “Like plotting your unfortunate death?”
Wouldn’t surprise me if my mother’s pitching the idea to my father, even explaining how it could benefit their empire.
He bumps my shoulder. “Things with Henneman any better? Haven't heard you bitch about him lately.”
“We coexist. Nothing more.”
With different schedules, we barely cross paths outside of hockey. And I do my work elsewhere while he stays holed up in our room. If he’s awake when I get back, Ithrow on my noise-cancelling headphones. The only time we’re stuck together is at practice or while sleeping.
His restless shifting has finally stopped—no more hourly wakeups. I’m actually getting some sleep. Except for last night because I kept thinking about catching him jerking off.
Why couldn’t the asshole get off in the shower like I do?
Zach tilts his head. “He's been looking better at practice, less like he's about to pass out on the ice.”
I've noticed the same.
Henneman’s positioning has improved, and his reaction time is faster. He's not second-guessing every play. Still won't leverage his size though. “About time. We need every player pulling their weight if we want to win another championship.”
Viktor places a hand over his heart. “You're such a supportive husband. It brings a tear to my eye.”
“Fuck off.”
We reach Murphy's and push through the heavy door. The place is packed, bodies everywhere, music thumping. The bouncer barely glances at our IDs before waving us through.
“Holy shit.” Viktor stops dead in his tracks. “Your husband knows the royal court?”
I follow his gaze to the far corner. Henneman's there, surrounded by Knox Delacroix, Thatcher Wolfe, Julius Saint, and Kai Lysaith.
The Kings of Crestwood.
So that’s how he got in. But why the fuck is he with them?
My father was part of their little society when he attended Crestwood. Makes me legacy. But I've never bothered with their bullshit society. Hockey trumps their circle jerk every time.
