Either one of them seemed more than capable of taking the other in a fight. In fact, they stared at each other with a vengeful familiarity, as if they’d crossed the line between playful jawing and bloody bruises one too many times.
Felix spoke as if he loathed gracing Leo with a single word.
“I will give you a million dollars for your number,” he said.
The men silenced. I leaned into Adrian.
“His phone number?” I whispered. “That’s an expensive date.”
Adrian grunted. “No. His jersey number. Who the fuck let these two get close enough to swing a punch?”
Beau and Oz pointed toward a passed out Vasha.
“He was on Leo duty,” Oz said.
“Damn it.”
“Why does he want his number?” I asked.
Adrian looked like he could’ve used a trip in the Slip ‘N Slice. “They were both number seven before they were drafted. Had it been any other pair of guys, they might’ve worked it out. But Leo and Felix…they’ve got bad blood.”
And most of it was still flowing outside of Leo. Gave him that tall, dark, and stupidly stubborn look.
“A million dollars? Thought you hated even numbers?” Leo asked Felix.
Felix had a golden head of hair, blue eyes, and an angelic face that probably blessed more than enough women with invitations to his bed. But his voice was oddly strained. Too serious. Too defensive. As if every moment of his life was some sort of inconvenient pain.
“You’re right,” Felix said. “I’ll give you $999,999.99 for number seven. I’m sure someone can spot you the extra penny.”
“You’re even more of a fucking freak than I thought.”
“Do you want the money or not?”
“Fuck you. I’m keeping my number.”
Felix regained his patience. “Name your price.”
“I’ve got seniority over you.” Leo checked his side. Still bleeding, it didn’t seem to surprise him. “I have one more year in the league than you. I don’t gotta give you shit, no matter how much you bribe me.”
“You know what that number means to me.”
Leo laughed. “What? Is it the number of times you’ve gotta wash your hands before the game, or how many times you’ve gotta flick the lights on and off before you leave the room?”
Oh.
Now I remembered Felix Ferraro.
Adrian had warned me that he was a man whose superstitions verged on obsessions. Hockey players had their rituals, but some took it to the extremes. Even Adrian got a little ornery on game days.
But he’d never offered to buy a number for a million dollars.
“I’m trying to be civil here.” Felix said.
Which Leo apparently found hilarious. “Civil? You’ve never been civil once in your career. And I’ve got the fucking scars to prove it.”
“This isn’t about the past.”
“Like hell.” Leo pointed to a discolored and jagged scar from his chin to his cheek. “Remember this hit? You knocked me out cold on the ice. Missed the fucking playoffs because of you.”
Felix didn’t apologize. Didn’t even seem remorseful. “I spent two goddamned years getting cheap shotted by you. The one time I defend myself, you go down like a baby. Ain’t my problem.”
“And yet a pretty boy forward gets away with murder. But a guy like me? I gotta play by the rules. Make sure I don’t leave a bruise on your delicate skin or my ass gets thrown out of the league.”
“You couldn’t take me out during a game. Think you’re gonna manage here?”
“Thinking I won’t be the one walking out of here bruised and bloody.”
“Too late.” Felix pointed at the wound on his side. “Or you gonna say the bottle cheap shotted you too?”
That was the cue.
I shrieked and covered my eyes as both fists raised, colliding with each other’s chins in a sudden crack of bone on bone.
Both men grunted, staggered, then launched at each other again. Leo got in three quick jabs before Felix clocked him on the side of the head.
And the team cheered.
The greatest morale booster and goddamned trust-building exercise was two of their players beating the stuffing out of each other.
And Nova live streamed the fight while Beau cranked up the music.
The strippers, not to be outdone, poured as much water onto the grass as they could, churned up some mud, and lost their thongs in an impromptu wrestling pit.
And Leo complained about his scars? The strippers seared everyone’s retinas as they twerked with a dance their leader called Lil’ Chubby’s Brown Eye.
Adrian didn’t lose his temper, but he probably lost what little faith he had in his team. He sighed, ducked a punch, and shoved both brawlers into the pool.
And then he got mad.
“Turn the fucking cameras off!” He never yelled off the ice, but his voice simmered with a tempestuous rage. He didn’t let Felix hop out of the pool. With a firm foot to the sputtering man’s shoulder, he splashed him back under the surface. “For fuck’s sake. We’re supposed to be a team.”
Leo took the long way out of the pool, avoiding Adrian’s reach. “A team? A real team should’ve known better than to put me on the ice next to a goddamned psychopath.”
Felix swore. “Or me with the dirtiest fucking player in the league.”
Adrian wouldn’t hear it. “Don’t you think it’s time to move the fuck on? We’re supposed to be working together.”
“Bullshit!” Leo yelled. “There isn’t an organization in this league stupid enough to draft us both. I don’t owe this godforsaken franchise a fucking thing.”
Adrian had a mild temper…until it snapped.
He tensed, breathing quick and furious between clenched teeth, but he didn’t get to answer.
A drunken, staggering Vasha Morozov stumbled in front of the party and dropped his pants to his ankles.
I turned, avoiding gazing directly at one of the largest cocks which had ever graced this world.
“Hey!” Vasha spoke in broken English, his Russian accent as thick as borscht. “Who shaved manly hair into heart?”
Wish I hadn’t but I’d peeked.
Vasha’s pubes had been manscaped into a lovely little heart—with his cock serving as a literal love arrow. It was well-done. Professional, even.
The strippers howled in the mud pit and motioned with their hands like they wielded scissors. Vasha swore in Russian before holding two fingers into the air.
“Second asking question…why do I like?”
Adrian rushed to save the kid before he plummeted beneath the water and drowned while tangled in his own pants.
I sighed, wishing I might’ve sipped a little alcohol to tame my spiking headache. But I was being good—staying sober for my next night with Adrian.
If we survived this one.
Cash appeared at my side, surprisingly agile for a mountain of a man who’d drunk his weight in tequila.
“Glad to see you here with Adrian,” he said.
“He said I wouldn’t want to miss this…”
“And now no one online will miss it either.”
I didn’t need to check my phone to know we’d gone viral.