“That was a fucking bust. Come on, let’s go to my place,” Victor says as I stomp out the front door of Don’s, my dick harder than when I walked in.
No one there knew the redhead, but the manager let me watch the grainy security footage of her walking in, standing with the asshole, then, yeah, the rest of it, and then her high-tailing it out the door.
“I’m not sleeping in your guestroom,” I snap. “God knows what’s gone on in there. You wanna babysit me? You do it at my place.”
Victor narrows his eyes at me. “Fine, whatever. We got a shot at the cup this year. We need you on the ice, man. Do whatever you gotta do, keep your no-pussy bullshit superstition going, I don’t care, but the team needs you. The team comes first, right?”
He points at me until I nod, then returns the gesture.
“Hey!” I shout, before he hops into his truck and I unlock my navy-blue Ford F250. “If anyone can find someone, it’s you. Ask your uncle. I’ve got the footage.”
“Afterthe playoffs.Afterwe win the cup. Then, I’ll ask. Until then, you’re keeping your dick in lock down. I’m not risking you getting inside some redhead’s pussy with crazy written all over it.”
I hate that he’s right. I play better when I’m keyed up. Frustrated. My abstinence pisses the puck bunnies off, but they’ve never been my enticement to begin with.
“Gonna have to simmer down,” I tell my hard-on as I start up the truck and head out onto Woodward, with Victor followingbehind. I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that if anyone can find someone, it’s his family.
But waiting is going to kill me.
Chapter 4
Emee
When fate hands you rotten eggs, it’s prudent not to crack the shell. Or, is it? How ‘cuddling’ can release deep-seated emotions and put clients on the track to better tomorrows.
I grimace at the headline for my blog post for the Cuddlist Collective of Michigan, leaning back in my desk chair, upset at myself for not having it turned in early.
The office space is cool in the mornings, and a ripple of goosebumps rises on my bare arms. The chill is welcome, considering my apartment thermostat is broken, and it was eighty degrees in there last night.
I have to get out of that place. My lease is up in ninety days and I do not want to spend another year living below Mr. andMrs. Stern, who are hard of hearing and fight about what’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner every freakin’ day.
But, staying in that low-rent, decaying apartment building allowed me to save the money I needed to start my own practice. Always having money in the bank equals freedom and opportunity. Two things I craved growing up, trapped in the trailer park with no one telling me someday I could have something better.
I regret giving in to Milton yesterday. Financial benefit aside, my anticipatory displeasure at having another reticent and more than likely rude hockey player on my roster today isn’t helping my mood.
Finding out Frank was married was a gut punch, but not for the reasons most would think.
It was more that I let it happen.
I’m a smart girl.
I was summa cum laude and valedictorian at Brighton High. I got a full ride for both my undergrad and masters, and completed both in five years by doubling up on classes. I never missed a lecture or an assignment, and never took summers off. It was hard, but I did it. All while working two jobs and paying not only my way, but usually Benjamin’s as well. It didn’t help when our parents both passed away within six months of each other my freshman year.
Losing them was horrible, but in my heart, if I’m being honest, I was a little relieved.
I promised myself long ago that I would never put myself in a position where I had to rely on someone else for my livelihood. Especially a man. That’s what my mom did, and my childhood painted a picture of exactly how I didn’t want my life to turn out.
The clock on my desk flips to 7:45.
Fifteen minutes until I’ll buzz Milton’s ice warrior referral through and start my day.
Ifhe shows andifhe’s on time.
Sleep was elusive last night. It took me hours to fight off the looming panic attack the chaos in the bar triggered. On top of that, the two, three and four AM half-coherent texts from my brother didn’t help. Something about not looking a gift horse in the mouth and King Hertzof being the goose that laid the golden egg.
The interruptions left me confused, but also worn and droopy-eyed, which does not allow me to be at my best for my clients.
Even with everything else on my mind, it’s overshadowed by that single glimpse of the man in the hoodie that knocked douchebag Frank to the floor of Don’s last night, while taking a beer bottle to the side of his head.
