I fucking hate Penn.
Actually, I fucking hate my whole team for embarrassing me like this.
Not only do I feel like I’m objectifying this beautiful woman who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, but Penn has to throw me under the bus about the pastvery rough six monthsin front of her.
Okay, fine. He’s not wrong. It’s been more like two rough years where every time I think I’m making progress I get knocked back down.
Ever since Anna—my ex-fiancée—and I called it quits, everything seems to be spiraling out of control. And I know it’s not entirely because I called off the engagement, but it’d be a lot easier to blame it all on that.
When we were together, I was the golden boy, the front center for theManhattan Mayhem, New York’s National Hockey League team.
The media loved me, lovedus. We were the couple everyone wanted to root for. Then I ended things, and suddenly, I became public enemy number one.
Since then, it’s been one PR nightmare after another. Branded a player who sleeps around even though I haven’t dated anyone in well over a year. Staying celibate to fix my reputation hasn’t helped much with that either.
And the bar fights that I’ve been caught up in recently? God, don’t get me started. I wasn’t even the one starting them, but every headline paints me as some hotheaded idiot, reeling from the ending of my engagement with no sense of direction but the way my fists swing.
At least the chaos hasn’t touched my performance on the ice. Yet. I’m still the top scorer for the team and in the whole East Coast league. Even at thirty-six—ancient by forward center standards where the average age is more like twenty-six—I’m holding my own.
I’ve got a year left on my current contract and a decent shot at re-signing with the team if I can stay healthy and injury free. But the pressing question that I’ve been kicking around for months now is whether I even want to.
“What’s your name?” Penn barks out, snapping me out of my thoughts and yelling at the woman who is now seated on my lap wearing nothing but purple-colored panties and a matching bra that leaves absolutely nothing to my imagination.
I wish I’d changed into something a little more presentable after our win tonight and not into a simple pair of grey sweatpants and sweatshirt. I look like some creepy bum or one of the Italian godfathers who live in New Jersey and talk shit on the corner while gossiping all day. But I didn’t plan on having a beautifulwoman grind on me. That was a surprise, just like being dragged to a strip club at my teammates demand.
“Rose,” she says, her voice soft, the sound of it landing like a brushstroke against my skin.
Penn laughs obnoxiously. “No, your real name.”
She glares at him and doesn’t respond.
I force myself to study her side profile to avoid focusing on the way she’s moving against me. The last thing I want is to get hard right now. God knows she’s probably used to it, I’m sure it happens all the time with a body and face like hers. But I don’t want to bethat guy.
The creep who can’t keep himself under control from a simple lap dance.
Except she's good. Way too good. The way her hips circle, the focused rhythm of her movements, the teasing brush of her small curves against my cock. It’s all professional, like she’s done this a hundred times before. But if I think about that too much, I’m going to end up in trouble.
Because my hands are starting to itch to move. And if I so much as twitch the wrong way, I’ll be tossed out of here faster than I can blink—and I’ll be waking up tomorrow to my face plastered across every gossip site in the country.
Again.
Thankfully, my teammates’ attention has shifted away from Rose when the next act takes the stage. It’s a completely topless woman with nothing but two red tassels covering her nipples.
She’s shaking them so aggressively and at such an impressive speed that it’s almost all a blur. A guy who’s not with our group from the front row is losing his mind, yelling loud enough toecho over the music while he cups his noticeable bulge in his jeans.
The dancer bends down and motorboats the bastard while he stuffs what looks like hundred-dollar bills into the strap of her thong.
“So,” I clear my throat, feeling the awkwardness of this situation crawl up my spine. My neck is too hot. Why the hell am I so nervous right now? “You danced nice tonight.”
She’s still facing away from me, giving me her back and ass, but I catch the faint tug of a smile at the corner of her lips. Her hands glide upward to the beat of the song, skimming along the sides of the swell of her breasts and then back down past her ribs like she doesn’t even have to think about what she’s doing.
Meanwhile, I’m breathing in and out, sweating through my clothes, trying so very hard to remain soft.
“Thanks. Is this your first time here?” she asks.
“First time in a strip club period.”
She lets out a laugh like she doesn’t believe me and then spins to face me, her movements so smooth it feels like she’s still dancing. Her legs slide over mine, straddling my hips with a practiced ease, and when she sinks back down on my lap there’s no way that I can hide how I’m turned on now.
