He glares back at her and says,“And, I may have skipped the part about getting your approval and signature.”
“Obviously,” I retort, though I’m not even mad. “So, you forged my signature?”
“No,” he scoffs as he looks around. “I would never.”
Again, Issa reaches out, but this time she gives him a pinch causing him to yelp, “Ouch. You stop that.”
“Stop lyin’, then,” she responds sternly.
Declan sighs loudly. Then mutters, “Fine. Yes. But in my defense, the name really has a nice ring to it.”
I shake my head, surprised by how not upset I am at having my actual legal name changed without my permission. Or half changed anyway. I likely would be furious if he had just changed it to Rafferty, but the fact he also changed his speaks volumes on his feelings about our relationship.
The horn sounds, initiating game play. Turning my attention to the ice, I do my best to cheer and jeer appropriately. Luckily, Declan is a vocal seat mate, which takes the heat off me having to do anything other than worry Ren’s going to get hurt. Because that’s exactly what I do most of the time.
It doesn’t help that I now have two huge stakes in this game. As a team owner, making demands on the team to have a winning season. And as a player’s spouse, making demands on her husband remaining uninjured. I’m entirely used to the first part; it’s the latter that’s tough to acclimate myself to.
By the timethe game ends I’m a nervous wreck. Issa is holding my hand, occasionally patting me on the arm, and I have to accept that pregnancy hormones must be making me more paranoid than usual. Because this level of concern is a bit excessive.
Declan and Issa say their goodbyes, and I head toward the locker room to wait for Ren. Deciding to wait by the player exit, I lean against the wall, quietly watching people come and go.
One by one players exit. Some meet loved ones, others friends. A few wander off on their own. I’m so caught up in my people watching I’m startled when a voice right next to me says, “Ren’s waiting for you in the trainer room.”
Frowning, I straighten. “Is he hurt?”
“Nah,” Dave responds. “Just old.”
Laughing at his own joke, he strolls off with a wave, and I make my way through the double doors headed for the trainer room. By this point in the season it’s usually a hot spot for all the players, but for some reason the place is mostly dead now.
I walk in, stopping just inside the doorway, looking around for Ren but not immediately seeing him. I sigh, walk further into the room, then yelp as someone grabs my wrist, yanking me forward. The door closes and then a hard body is backing me against it, hands on my waist, hot breath and seeking lips against my neck.
“Well hello to you, too,” I murmur, my fingers delving into the hair at the nape of his neck, slightly damp from his shower.
He nibbles a path up my neck then nuzzles my ear, his hands sliding around to squeeze my ass. He stoops down, wraps his arms around my waist and then lifts me off my feet as he stands back up.
I squeak as he spins, then he hustles me across the room sets me on my feet in front of a padded treatment table. His hands on my hips turn me so I’m facing away from him. His palm betweenmy shoulders urges me to lean forward, so I do, bracing my hands on the table. He smooths the shirt, obviously removing any wrinkle that might be marring the name emblazoned on my back.
“You like it, huh?” I ask with a husky laugh.
“Oh yeah,” he murmurs against my back, his hands stroking over my stomach to my breasts. He pushes my bra up out of the way, then teases my nipples. “I wanna fuck you in it.”
“We can’t do that here.”
“Yes, we can,” he replies, already attempting to lift my skirt. “I promise I’ll make it good for you.”
“But the cameras,” I protest, even as I bend further over the table. “I don’t want to be on the cameras.”
“They’re not on.” One of his hands pushes on my back, the other slides up my leg, lifting until I have my knee on the table, spreading me open for him. “I had them shut off.”
Rotating my hips, I shiver at the cool air on the heated skin of my ass. “What? Who?”
He chuckles then mutters, “You don’t wanna know.”
He’s right. I definitely don’t want to know who he asked to turn off the cameras because that person knows there’s only one reason that request gets made.
“Where do you want it?”
He steps away, and I crane my head around to look at him, watching him unfasten and unzip his pants, freeing his hard cock from his boxers. Licking my lips, I adjust my stance, curving my spine just so. “You know where.”
