Even better, he realized he liked it.
He’d never been the kind of guy who had to have a woman in his life, but for the last few years, he hadn’t gone without for very long, which made him sound like an addict who claims he can stop smoking or whatever at any time. He had no shortage of offers—pro athletes were lucky in that respect—and when his time with a woman came to its natural end, they usually remained on good terms. Within a couple of weeks, he was ready to start up with someone new.
Serial monogamy, someone with more brain cells than him had once termed it.
He did not cheat. He treated his dates well. He never overpromised (and as a result, consistently underdelivered except in the bedroom. No one was shortchanged there). Since his near-miss on the matrimonial front with Bethany, he had dated pretty consistently and taken advantage of the fine selection of women looking to score with a hockey star.
How long would it take before he got itchy again? Before another woman caught his eye and started seeing flying bouquets in her future? After what happened last night he was beginning to think it might be good to take a break from dating.
Nothing did a better job of scratching an itch than redirecting his efforts elsewhere. This was a key year for him. Out of the game for a good eight months, he had something to prove at the grand old age of thirty-two. That hockey hadn’t moved on without him. That no young buck would be taking his place. Yet.
He needed to knuckle down on his game and simplify his personal life. From here on out, whenever he got antsy and in need of female company, he would resist. Maybe take up a hobby to fill in his downtime. Finish that biography of Hamilton instead of falling into bed with the next woman who smiled at him in a bar.
Well, that was easy. Decided on his immediate future, he figured he’d better become reacquainted with an old friend. He patted his dick.
“Looks like we’re going to be partners for a while.” His buddy perked up in acknowledgment.
He stroked, already half-hard, thinking about what—or who—would get him there. Usually, the current woman in his life figured in his fantasies, and while he was riding solo now, nothing in the rules said he couldn’t think of an ex to get the blood flowing. Maybe not Tara. Before her, he had dated Lea the yoga instructor in Montreal. Very limber. Stunning flexibility.
Raven-dark hair, blue eyes the color of a night storm, full, dusky pink lips in an angry pout. Not Lea. That was …
Whoa! Eyes snapping open, he stilled his hand. How the hell did Mia Wallace sneak into the rotation?
He didn’t know her well—if he was being honest, he hadn’t made a supreme effort. She’d entered Vadim’s life after he left Montreal to join the Rebels a few years ago, so while Cal was a good friend of her brother’s their lives didn’t intersect much. She was living in Chicago now, and she was at that wedding yesterday, so he supposed he’d see more of her.
But as spank bank material? Definitely not. The girl was off-limits—too young, too close, too pissed at him.
Yeah, she’d been mighty hacked off at his behavior. He didn’t usually enjoy that dynamic—too much drama as a kid listening to his parents screaming at each other. Avoiding conflict in his dating life was important to him, but a little imaginary friction with a sexy, smart mouth like Mia couldn’t hurt. Not her per se, but someone like her. An anonymous dark-haired beauty with flashing eyes and …
He groaned. The smile tugging at his lips seemed to act as a lever for his dick. Up, up, up, and damn, he couldn’t help himself. He gripped hard and gave a good, hard stroke, the kind he imagined Mia Wallace might deliver because she was mad at him for dragging her into his Tara drama.
Christ, that felt good. Better than it had in a while. What had she called him?
Masshole. Not exactly original, but he could work with that. When she pushed that bouquet into his chest, the two of them separated by a cluster of petals and thorns, he’d inhaled her scent. No way did his imagination lie to him about her reaction when he touched her hand: a widening of those deep blues, a parting of her gorgeous lips, and an almost imperceptible snatch of her breath.
He was too disgusted with himself at the time to piece it all together, but hell if he didn’t feel a spark of recognition now as the pleasure built in his heavier-by-the-second balls. According to Vadim, she was young, sheltered, and a touch fragile, and something about that supposed innocence combined with her righteous fury was speaking to him right now.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Later. He’d get it—later.
Now where was he? Oh, yeah. Headed to hell because he was lusting after his friend’s little sister, but no one ever said sexual fantasies had to be aboveboard. Half the time, the taboo was the thing.
Another vibration from his phone, like some higher (or lower) power was trying to tell him he was dancing with danger and needed to get his jerk-off fantasies in order. Only he was so … damn … close.
Zzzz. He cast a glance at the phone’s screen. A text message from Theo Kershaw.
YTD. Definitely.
What did that mean? Kershaw was known for his off-tangential thinking, so it could be anything.
Cal ignored it and went back to business. Those pouting lips came into focus along with hazed-over eyes, stoked with desire and fury. But in their depths was an acknowledgment that they could overcome their differences with pleasure.
“Mia,” he murmured, and just saying her name boosted the fantasy from zero to sixty. It was so damn wrong and so damn good and so—
Damn phone! “Kershaw,” he muttered, not liking a teammate’s name on his lips when he had a delivery of handsy happiness in mind.
Zzzz. “Fuck!” He checked again, but this time it was from Jorgenson, their Swedish goalie. Completely, Foreman. Hands down, yes.
What the hell—another message came in almost immediately, this time from Vadim.
Yes, you’re the dick.
Now wait a hot second. It was as if they knew what was happening in his head right now. If anything was likely to douse the flames of forbidden fucking fantasy, it would be a text message from the brother of your forbidden fucking fantasy.
Taking a deep breath to extinguish the image of a gorgeously-aroused Mia Wallace, Cal hit Vad’s number. The man answered on the first ring.
“You need to hear this in a Russian accent?” he barked.
“What the hell is going on?”
Vadim chuckled. “I am answering the question you posed to the world.”
Cal rubbed his eyes, though he wished he could rub his ears. Or his brain cells. Or his dick, back in the before times. “Come again?” Because it looked like Cal wouldn’t be any time soon.
“On the “Am I the Dick” forum. Online. You asked and your peers are answering. I am merely delivering my judgment in person.”
He didn’t sound pissed, or like he had any idea that Cal had recently been imagining the sweet, ruby lips of the man’s sister wrapped around his cock.
“Petrov, I’ve put up with some of your twisted word play over the years but it’s much too early for this.”
“Are you not SkaterBro?”
“SkaterBro? Who the hell calls himself SkaterBro?”
“The person with a story very similar to yours. It’s on that website.”
He tried to parse the words. “Someone’s pretending to be me online?”