Me: I promise you I’m not.
Happy: [Dick Pic] The big guy misses you already.
Holy shit. In the eight or so hours since it was deep inside of me, I somehow forgot just how perfect Happy Slater’s dick is. Long. Thick. Veiny. A perfectly flared head. He even waxes which makes it look… kind of like my dildo. Only better. God. I’m forced to cross one leg over the other from the sudden ache thrumming between my thighs. Maybe one more time wouldn’t be such a bad idea…
“How’s work?”
Startling from my entirely inappropriate thoughts given current company, I nearly drop my phone on the table between me and my father. Somehow, I doubt Dad would appreciate Happy Slater’s hairless schlong becoming the centerpiece of our Sunday brunch. Collecting myself, I quickly lock the screen and turn the device face down next to my coffee.
“Um…” I clear my throat. “It’s… g-good.” I work in talent and acquisitions for the number one sports news streaming service in the country. I always knew I wanted to work in the sporting industry, but after a brief stint interning at the New York Thunder, thanks to good old-fashioned nepotism, I knew that as much as I love my father, I couldn’t work with him. So, I applied for an internship at SNN, and I’ve been working there for almost three years.
“It’s busy. Brookes Devereaux is in town this week to film his face-to-camera pieces for the series they have coming up, and I have to look after him apparently, so that’ll be a blast.Not.” Working with athletes, especially infamous douchebags like Brookes Devereaux, the number one golfer in the world at the moment, is the worst part of my job. World number one athletes are notorious divas.
Dousing his eggs with the bottle of hot sauce he BYOs from home, Dad offers me a dad-like look. “Make sure he keeps his hands to himself. I’ve read all about that guy, and I won’t hesitate to kick some ass. I don’t care how many millions the person it’s attached to is worth.”
I roll my eyes, shaking my head.My father, ladies and gentlemen.
“Speaking of kicking ass, how was last night?” Dad quirks a brow.
At the mention of last night, I drop my fork, the silverware clanging loudly against my plate. I swallow hard, trying my best to act casual, while Happy’s hard cock feels like it’s burning a hole right through my phone.
What about last night? The part where I got home to find hisgeneral manager drunk outside my building, or the part where I took his second pair D-man upstairs to my apartment and squirted all over his face. I’m going to Hell.
“My boys behave themselves?” he clarifies.
“Oh,” I say.Smooth. “Yeah. It was fun. Low key.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied, shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth.
“I went home pretty early…” I continue for some unknown reason. “I was really tired. I didn’t see anyone after I left.”Okay, you can stop talking now, Hannah.
Dad offers me an oblivious smile that I return with a saccharine one as we both takes sips of our coffees.
I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. Growing up, I idolized my father. In fact, I still do. And while sometimes I wondered if he’d secretly wished he had a son to carry on his legacy, he never once acted like he was disappointed to have had only me.
When I was a kid—when my parents were still together—when Dad was home and not on the road, he’d get me into a pair of roller blades and we’d play street hockey, and he’d teach me all his secrets. I remember in fifth grade, when Shane Simon, the school bully, tried to cut in front of Preston Archer in the lunch line, I did exactly what my father taught me; I threw my tray to the floor, fronted up to Shane, punched him in his gut, and pulled his shirt up over his head, blinding him while he was doubled over in pain. The entire cafeteria was yelling “Fight! Fight! Fight!” but before I could lay another blow, a teacher intervened and carted me off to the administration office, where the assistant principal called my mother to come and collect me.
I think that was one of the many catalysts that ended my parents’ marriage. Even when my dad left, when he retired from playing and moved to New York to join the Thunder’s coaching staff, my mother hated that I looked up to him the way that I did. With every phone call and every text, every scheduled visit to see my father, she resented him more and more. And she became mean.
When I would come down for breakfast, dressed for school in one of my dad’s old hockey jerseys, she’d make me go back upstairs and change. “You look frumpy. A southern girl should look and act like a lady, Hannah.”
The older I got, the more my mother tried to turn me into the perfect southern belle—cheerleading, beauty pageants, cotillions, you name it. She had me on a strict keto diet when I was fourteen. She even lied to me one time and told me I was seeing a specialist for acne treatment, even though I never had anything more than the occasional breakout like most teenagers; the specialist was, in fact, a laser technician. My mother was trying to have my freckles lasered off without my knowing. Diabolical.
But no matter how hard my mother tried, I was defiant and always a daddy’s girl. And when I received my acceptance letter from Fordham University, I left Charleston, my mother, and all the pretentious bullshit behind, and I came to New York City, where I’ve been ever since.
“Have you responded to your mother?” Dad asks, because I swear he can read my mind.
I roll my eyes looking down at my avocado on sourdough. “No…”
“Hannah, you need to let her know,” he says on a sigh. “She’s going to start harassingme.”
My lips twitch when I look up and meet the fear in his big, blue eyes. If there’s one thing my dad is scared of in this world, it’s his ex-wife, Virginia Stoneham. “I don’t want to go.”
“I know you don’t, kiddo.” He reaches over and touches my arm. “But it’s her wedding.”
My nose wrinkles. “Yeah, herthird.”
Dad chokes back a chuckle. “Think of it as a mini vacation.”
