My first reaction is to march over there and run the women off. After all, Dominic is annoyingly protective of me, so turnabout is fair play. He’s due for some cockblocking.
But I don’t do that. The women aren’t doing anything wrong. They just only see the pretty exteriors of the pro athletes, and either don’t know or don’t care that they’re assholes beneath the hard muscles, chiseled jawlines covered in scruff, and cocky arrogance.
Or hell, maybe they do know and they’re into that? Some girls are. Fuck knows I’ve seen that with my brother over the years. I swear the more he acts like a jerk, the more girls flock to him. I’m sure that’s true for Griffin too. I’ve even had teammates and friends ask me to hook them up with my brother, his bestie, or both—though if they’re into that, I don’t know or want to know about it.
Luckily, I’m not one of those types of girls. I like guys who care and are soft inside, not filled with acidic barbs and thorny nettles. Which is too bad, because though I hate Griffin, I can admit he’s hotter than hot, but only on the outside. Inside, where it matters, he’s made of solid permafrost ice.
So I don’t intrude. If Dom wants to date Blondie, that’s on him. And if Griffin is into redheads, that’s fine too. It’s not my business or concern.
Instead, I wave to the workers behind the line, pointing back at my brother and Griffin with a knowing smirk that they return, and slip out the door.
Free from the overbearing guys and their barked orders about what I should and shouldn’t do, I walk the few blocks back to my apartment. I’ve already kicked off my boots and turned on the television when my phone dings.
You ditched us?
Dominic’s text doesn’t have a single emoji, but I can read the hurt anyway.
You looked busy. Didn’t want to interrupt,I reply.
Never too busy for you, PND. You home?
I can’t help but smile at the initials of my family nickname. As maddening as he is, Dom’s a good brother.
Yeah, settled in to binge watch Drag Race. See you tomorrow at the game?
You know it. G’night, sis.
GN, bro.
I don’t ask about Blondie. I especially don’t ask about the redhead, though I am curious how that ended up. Is Dominic texting me while Blondie waits for him? Is Red already riding Griffin’s dick since he didn’t have to do the brotherly check-in thing?
Probably so. He’s got a reputation for being a good-time guy. And I do meangoodtime. Girls talk, and though Griffin doesn’t fuck around with cheerleaders, he can’t help but be swarmed by puck bunnies who are all too excited to share on social media about their time with the oversize, tattooed, alphahole hockey player.
Not that I care. Or read the posts and watch the story-time videos. Nope, I’ve never spent a night scrolling the comments on one of those posts. Not a single night.
A knot twists in my gut, but not wanting to examine that too closely, I decide it must’ve been the spicy salsa in my protein bowl and turn up the television a bit more. Mrs. Rosenthal bangs on the wall almost immediately.
“It’s not even loud,” I yell back at her, trusting she’ll hear me through the wall. She probably can’t even hear the television but is simply banging because she heard me come home. I used to think she was lonely and wanted some sort of connection with her neighbors. One offer of a freshly baked batch of cookies cured me of that idea when she sneeringly informed me that she doesn’t eat from “strange and likely filthy kitchens.” Instead, I think she wishes she could live alone in the middle of nowhere, with nothing and no one to disturb her peace, but unfortunately, she lives smack in the middle of the city, with neighbors on every side.
I wait for her to bang again, but she stays quiet.
And as RuPaul tells the queens they’d betterwork, I almost forget about the women at Pro-Bowl ... and the guys they might’ve gone home with. Well,the guy, because I don’t care what my brother does, as long as I don’t have to hear the TMI details of it. But Griffin? Yeah, I’d like to know. For science, and nosiness. The science of nosiness!
Chapter 4
Griffin
There’s a storm cloud over my head shooting out lightning bolts at anyone who gets too close and rumbling with thunder every few seconds. Or fuck, maybe that’s me growling and snarling?
As if they can feel the charge in the air around me, everyone in the locker room leaves me alone, assuming I’m psyching myself up for tonight’s game. Truth is, I’m tired.
I didn’t sleep a wink last night.
Not that I’d admit it.
When Penny didn’t return from the restroom, worry crawled up my throat like the cheap tequila I drank too much of in high school. While Dom chatted up some overly eager puck bunny, I’d volunteered to ask one of the workers to check the stalls. She’d grinned as she informed me that Penny had walked out several minutes ago after seeing the “guests” at our table. I’d been pissed off ... at the bunnies for ruining the few precious minutes I get with Penny, at Penny for leaving without a word, and at Dominic because I can’t swing by her place to check on her without him finding out about it. He’d laughed at his sister’s wingman behavior, promising to text her to make sure she was good. I’m sure he did, but he had no reason to inform me if Penny was snuggled cozily into her bed at home or dead in a ditch somewhere.
So I tossed and turned, and considered texting her myself about a dozen times. But I couldn’t. She wouldn’t have answered me anyway. Hell, she would’ve enjoyednottexting me back and gone to sleep dreaming of ways to irritate the fuck out of me. Not that it takes much where she’s concerned. Her beautiful, chaotic existence is enough to do that.
