Our parted lips lightly feather together, encouraging our eyes to close, us to prepare for our tongues to finally brush, only to be interrupted by the one person who has more power over my career than her brother. The team owner. “You have got to be fucking kidding me…”
Chapter 10
Thayne
I know it’s wrong.
I know it’s wrong, and my brainstilldoes it.
Every time I lay eyes on her, I internally sing that silly little snack jingle, but instead ofpocket, I singrocketbecause that’s what we call her.
Hot Rocket.
Not to her face.
Neverto her face.
Most of us – self included – are looking to last awhile in the league versus being forced into earlier retirement via LITR brought on by getting knocked so hard in the sack we can’t ever skate again.
Under normal circumstances calling Harlow Hennington, Owner and GM of the Dalvegan Dragons ice hockey franchise, Hot Rocket would be redundant – since that’s what a rocket is by definition – except inher casehot is in reference to her temper, not her smoking hot body.
Which she still has even after popping out twins during her first year as the bench boss’s boss.
I bet Gilly will look even more beautiful pregnant.
Holding our first born.
Second.
Third?
Is three too many?
Not enough?
I could do four.
Hell, even five.
Hennington drags her hands slowly down her brown skinned face prior to grousing, “Do you fucking pheasants just get together for a post season conference call or an off-season round of golf and discuss new and fucking unfathomable ways to get me to go fucking gray before I’m fucking fifty?!”
“I bet it’s a group text,” playfully interjects her younger husband, Brendan “Bricks” Brickley, one of our equipment managers, between sips of his ice-cold beer.
She slowly angles her head in his direction while the hula group continues practicing a few feet away. “Do I lookremotelyamused, Baby Bottle Pop?”
Despite the shrill whistle on the play, he open mouth chuckles.
Continues grinning.
Enjoys another sip of his drink.
Guess bud really enjoys living that Bon Jovi prayer life.
“Tell me,” Hennington commands on a swift snap of her face back our direction, “that Blanc knows about this.”
“I bet you a dinner at Hell’s Kitchen during our anniversary trip that he doesn’t,” Bricks cheekily mutters.
“I don’twannaeat thousand-dollar cat food wrapped in mushroom bread-”
