Well, that’s my cross to bear, I guess.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I tug it out, glancing down to see a text from Parker—Had to head out early to meet Makena. Hope management didn’t bring down the hammer too hard. Text me later, okay? And don’t forget about the party tomorrow night. We’re going to have so much fucking food, dude. We need everyone to show up hungry and eat their share. You’ll be there, right? For sure?
I slide my cell back into my pocket with a sigh.
As if I could forget about his engagement party, even if I wanted to. No, his party has been top-of-mind since the day the invitation popped into my inbox.
Because his party is being thrown by none other than Charlotte Delaney.
Charlotte…
As I round the corner toward the locker room, the memories begin to flicker on my mental screen, the way they always do. It’s been three months since that night in June, and simply thinking her name is still enough to make my chest ache and my dick thicker.
The surprise of finding a gorgeous, strawberry blonde naked in Parker’s hot tub, her pale nipples just visible beneath the frothing water. The way she screamed, the wayIscreamed, the way we’d both laughed…even though I was standing there buck-naked, as well, nothing covering me but my own cupped hands.
I’d stripped down in Parker’s laundry room, expecting an empty house and some peace after a day of pulling waterlogged furniture out of strangers’ homes. The early summer flood left New Orleans looking like a war zone. I’d been craving a long soak to ease the ache in my muscles and the heavier ache in my chest from watching people lose everything.
Instead, I got an invitation to join a gorgeous woman in a hot tub.
I got conversation and laughter and two glasses of Charlotte’s extra-large bottle of chardonnay. Then, I got Charlotte in my lap, her tongue dancing desperately with mine as we did our best to forget how shitty the world can be sometimes.
I’ve replayed the feel of her nipple in my mouth, the way she moaned and rocked against my cock as the chlorinated water churned around us at least a hundred times. I’ve replayed those moments in the garden—dirt and moonlight and the smell oftomato plants crushed under us as I made her come for me—a hundred more.
It was one of the best nights of my life.
The kind of instant connection that makes a man think maybe there’s someone special out there for him, after all. I’d resigned myself to keeping things casual a long time ago. Seriously dating anyone—especially women close to my own age—never seemed to work out. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t figure out why.
The big brain that made it easy to graduate university with honors doesn’t work half as well when it comes to human relationships.
But that night with Charlotte…
It wasn’t just physical. It was a mental, emotional, evenspiritualconnection. I mean, it’s not every day a woman educates you on pagan fertility rights while letting you do wicked things to her with a zucchini. I was certain we were meant for something more, and that she felt it, too.
Then, she refused to give me her number. Shut me down cold. Made it clear through her silence that what happened was a mistake she had no interest in repeating.
The rejection still stings, honestly. Far worse than getting dressed down by management. Corporate types have never understood where I’m coming from, but Charlotte…
Well, I thought she did.
But I thought wrong, and that’s a mistake I’ll have to face head-on at her party tomorrow night.
This week just keeps getting better…
I push through the locker room doors, and the noise hits me—music thumping from a speaker, Torrance’s high-pitched laugh, the metallic clang of players tossing equipment into their stall. My teammates haven’t cleared out as quickly as I thought, but I guess that makes sense. The celebratory, end-of-campenergy is thick today, the entire team riding high on the fact that the season starts in less than a week.
Torrance blasts that pop-country fusion garbage that Jean-Louis pretends to hate even as he somehow knows every word by heart. In back, the showers run, steam drifting out, making the room smell like soap and the deodorant Capo buys in bulk because he’s obsessed with keeping his pits in sniff-worthy condition. The clang of lockers closing and the rustle of gear bags compete with shouted conversations and someone playing a highlight reel at full blast.
It’s loud. Festive. The kind of atmosphere that usually makes me feel like part of something.
Today, it just makes my jaw tighter than it was before.
“Nix!” Capo calls from across the room, his curly hair still wet from the shower. “You coming to Bourbon tonight? Jean-Louis made reservations for that French place he says is the real deal. We’ve still got two seats open. We’re eating at nine, then heading straight to the club.”
“Pass, but thanks for the invite,” I say, heading for my stall.
“Come on, man,” Torrance adds, popping up from where he’s been digging through his duffel bag. The kid’s barely twenty and still has that rookie eagerness. “It’s the last free weekend before the season. Live a little.”
The last thing I need is to be anywhere near alcohol or crowds right now. Not when my leash is this short, and one photo of me doing anything remotely questionable could end up as Exhibit A in my next disciplinary hearing.
