“Well, it didn’t seem like your first night,” I finally respond.
Her lips curve into another soft smile, but she doesn’t reply, her body still moving to the music.
I have no idea what to say now. She’s avoiding eye contact, her gaze flitting over my shoulder like she’s looking for someone and I’m not even here, all while her hips continue to roll and grind against my solid dick.
Aren’t strippers supposed to make small talk? Tell me I’m handsome or something? Try to get me to drop a paycheck on a private room? Make me think they enjoy this?
But Rose’s giving me nothing. Her moves are polished and professional, but there’s this quiet tension about her, like she’s keeping herself apart from it all. Disconnected from the night.
It feels wrong, watching her. Like I’m part of something she doesn’t really want to be doing. And damn if that doesn’t make me feel disgusting for sitting here, letting her dance on me, while my friends hoot and holler at the act that's currently on the stage, forgetting all about us.
The song ends, and she gracefully untangles herself, legs sliding off either side of my hips as she straightens the straps of herbarely there lavender bra. The soft color makes her skin glow, creamy and soft, and I hate how I notice. Like she’s something to admire when she’s clearly just trying to do her job without creeps hitting on her.
“Um… can I… tip you?” I ask, fumbling as I reach for my wallet. I pull out a wad of twenties, not even sure how much is in there. It feels like she deserves all of it. Hell, not just for the way she danced but because… I don’t know.
Because she’s beautiful. Because it kind of seemed like she was being forced into doing that. Because she's the first woman that I've allowed to touch me in a long time and I’ll never admit this to my teammates, but I’ve missed a woman’s touch.
She shakes her head, her expression unreadable as she gently pushes the money back toward me. “Give it to Lily. Please. She was my partner tonight.”
And with that she turns, her tight little ass swaying as she walks away, leaving me sitting there watching her like a sad and lonely dog.
What kind of stripper turns down cash? I don’t know, but it lingers in my mind even as I force myself to pay attention to the next act.
At least tonight didn’t end in a total disaster. No one snapped a photo of me doing something stupid. I didn’t break any rules and accidentally touch one of the dancers. My friends didn’t start a fight for once, dragging me into another mess that would wind up in the tabloids.
Overall, despite being dragged here against my will, I’d call it a good night.
Not one that I’ll remember, of course.
In fact, I’ve already forgotten all about Rose…
Chapter 4: Boone
“You never fall in love with strippers, bro,” Penn says obnoxiously before clapping me on the back with his usual cocky grin. “It’s rule number one of strip clubs. Hell, rule number one oflife.”
“They prefer to be called dancers,” I reply, shrugging his hand off and bending down to unlace my skates. “Not all of them strip, you know. And for the record, I didn’t say I was in love with her. I said she intrigued me. There’s a difference.”
“Sure, man. Anything seems intriguing when it’s grinding up against your hard dick,” he fires back with a smirk.
“I wasn’t hard.”
“Yeah, okay.” His grin widens like he’s caught me in some kind of lie. “If you weren’t, then you were the only guy in that club who wasn’t. Pretty sure I saw Iceman rubbing one out under the table.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” I snap, my annoyance only growing. It’s been almost a whole week since that night out and ridiculously, I can’t seem to get her out of my head. "Plus, noneof you were looking at her. You were all too focused on the woman with the nipple tassels on stage."
Penn rolls his eyes and tosses his towel over his shoulder. “You’re right. I couldn’t pick her out in a crowd if I tried. But I’m glad you had fun. You needed it. You’re getting too soft. I need you to lighten up a little more.”
Maybe I am getting soft. I’ve never denied being softer than the rest of the team, but that doesn’t mean I’ll sit back and let him talk about Rose, or any woman like that.
Especially not five days later when the whole thing should’ve been left in the past right where I left it that night.
“You coming?” Penn asks as he heads toward the showers at the stadium where we just finished another grueling practice with our professional hockey team, the Manhattan Mayhem.
I’m about to answer when a voice cuts through the locker room like a knife. It’s sharp, clipped, and carrying that authority no one enjoys hearing.
Our club managerand the guy who owns this whole place and signs our paychecks. Caleb King.
“Boone Tremblay! Need to speak with you in your coach’s office. Now, please.”
