CHAPTER 1
TALLY
“Ijust want to have sex.”
The table goes silent for a moment, and all eyes shift to me.
I’m out for brunch with my Babe Brigade. These women are my friends, though they’re all a little older than me, and also almost all affiliated with the Terror, Toronto’s pro hockey team, of which my dad is the head coach.
Hemi’s eyes flare. “Uh-oh, what happened last night?” She’s the head of Terror PR and married to Dallas Bright, a forward on the team.
“The same old same old.” I’m the last virgin standing in my university friend group, and I don’t see that changing any time soon. “It’s so stupid. All these idiot boys just want to fuck the coach’s virgin daughter.”
A table of dad-aged guys close by looks our way. Hemi stares them down, and their breakfasts are suddenly super interesting.
“It must be frustrating.” Essie’s expression is all empathy.
Somehow a rumor proclaiming my unsullied status—to counteract the previous one where my ex called me a bad lay—has made its way through the douchebagpopulation of my university. It’s become a fun game to play: Who can deflower the precious Terror virgin? Or at least that’s how it seems.
“Why can’t I find a nice boyfriend who wants to know me?”
Maybe my expectations are too high. Maybe I need to read less LoTR fanfic and omegaverse romance where the heroes are head-over-ass in love with their partner and exceptionally focused on providing unparalleled pleasure. Is that too much to ask?
Dred tents her fingers under her chin in contemplation. “Maybe hockey parties aren’t the ideal location to source such a man?” She’s married to Connor Grace, the Terror enforcer, who lives to make her happy.
I sigh. “You’re right. I know this. But my friends are all connected to the hockey world. There’s no escape. Last night some guy waited in line with me for the bathroom, and we got to chatting. He seemed so nice and legitimately interested, but when it was my turn, he asked if I was down to fuck. It’s horrifying how predictably horny university boys are.”
Rix and Essie make matching icked-out faces. “That’s awful.”
“Right?” I point my fork at my friends. “There are guys out there capable of a meaningful connection and know where to locate a fucking clitoris.”
“Women know where the clitoris is,” notes Rainbow, ourserver, as she tops up my coffee.
“I wish I was attracted to vaginas and not peens.” I sigh.
“Peens are fun.” Rix bounces a little in her seat.
I keep my cucumber comment to myself.
“So fun.” Essie looks all dreamy.
They each have a Stiles brother who is wholly dedicated to their happiness and their vagina. I hang out with the youngest Stiles brother, but we are one-hundred-percent platonic, and he’s woefully obsessed with my friend Enid.
Rainbow finishes filling the coffees, humming to herself, and then flounces to the next table.
My rant continues. “I spent all of first year holding out because I wanted it to be with the right person, but it’s three-point-five years later and I’m still searching for someone to give my V-Card to! But it’s about more than sex,” I admit. “Sure, I want my first time to be great, and not some lackluster wah-wah experience with a guy who’s afraid of intimacy and needs a map and written directions to find my hot button. But I want my person. Someone I can hang out and cuddle with.” I envy the women I’m with because they all have their person. Even some of my university friends have serious boyfriends. I want someone to love, who loves me back.
“You’ll find the right guy,” Dred assures me.
That gives me pause. It’s possible I’ve already found the right guy. I’m just not on his radar. I probably never will be.
The conversation moves away from my single/virginal status as we finish brunch and head up to Rix and Tristan’s penthouse to hang out. Conveniently, they live in the building above the breakfast place. My stomach fills with butterflies as we enter the living room, because the star of all my late-night fantasies, Terror forward Phillip “Flip” Madden (also Rix’s older brother), is sitting on the couch, looking far too delicious for his own good. And mine.
He’s well over six feet of chiseled, broad hockey player. His thick brown hair curls around his ears, a few weeks past needing a trim. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, pushed up to reveal defined forearms. I just want to rub myself all over him and scent him like a cat.
Essie, Rix, Dred, and Hemi are greeted by their significant others, who have also gathered in the living room. I long for that kind of casual affection; to have someone who knows all my secrets.
Hammer and I drop onto the empty love seat.
