Suddenly, she lurches to her knees. Admittedly, I get sidetracked by her beautiful, naked form in a complete vision before me. She holds her hand out, pinky extended. “Pinky promise.”
“What?”
“Pinky promise that no matter what, you’ll always be my best friend,” she demands, shoving her hand toward me.
“What the fuck is a pinky promise?” I ask.
“It’s something you do as kids,” she says with an eye roll. The next thing I know, her pinky is hooked around mine. “Promise me, Kane… you will always be my best friend, no matter what.”
I tighten my pinky on hers. “I promise. Best friends forever.”
She stares down, her gaze slowly moving to where our hands are connected. “Okay, then.”
“Okay, then what?” I ask to be sure we’re on the same page. We didn’t exchange blood, but I feel like what we did was meaningful.
“Then we’ll give this a shot,” she says, her eyes not coming to my face. Instead, they travel from our hands to my stomach. “See how this plays out.”
Her eyes travel down a bit farther, to where the edge of the sheet is draped over my crotch and legs.
She releases her hold on me, moving her hand to the edge of the sheet. As she slowly drags it down, the soft cotton whispering over my cock causes it to stir. The way her eyes go hot as she stares causes it to swell.
Mollie shifts on her knees to get closer to me, leaning over and pressing one hand on my stomach, the other on my thigh. Her neck twists so her eyes can meet mine. “But we’re exclusive. Your hot little number who walked out of your apartment the other day is nothing but a distant memory, right?”
“I don’t even know who you’re talking about,” I reply with a lopsided grin.
She smirks. “Good answer.”
Then her hand is wrapped around my dick, and she’s lowering over me. When she takes me in her mouth, my head falls back to the pillow. I sigh with utter contentment.
Although I haven’t said it, I’m pretty sure I’m falling helplessly in love with my best friend.
Or maybe I’m already there.
CHAPTER 9
Kane
The first day of training camp starts in the team meeting room at the arena. It’s stadium-style, ascending several rows to accommodate all the players and essential staff.
I arrive early, taking the time to catch up with teammates I haven’t seen over the summer. Many spend the time traveling. While we always are just a call or text away, it’s great to see faces again.
Sitting in the front row is our first line, the real stars of the team. Legend Bay is our goalie, Tacker Hall at center, Bishop Scott, who is our captain and star right-winger, Dax Monahan on the other side at left wing, and our defensemen, Erik Dahlbeck and Aaron Wylde. I move down the line, giving them each a fist bump. I got to hang out with them in the first week of July for Bishop’s wedding in beautiful St. John. It was a great time, made even more so by the fact Tacker pulled off a surprise wedding of his own there.
Not sure what sort of magic mojo is going on with this team, but during our first year in existence, each of these men managed to fall helplessly in love and shackle themselves into monogamy.
As someone who was quite reluctant to leave Mollie in my bed this morning, I can certainly appreciate it.
I move up to the second row to sit with my line. Jim, Jett, and Bain are already there, along with our new backup goalie, Noah Martin. I’d met him last week in the gym, and he seems like a great guy. He’s got some big shoes to fill, left behind by Baden, but I think he’s up to the task. I slap digits with each of the guys before moving to the next empty seat and plopping down.
“Anyone seen Riggs yet?” I ask Bain, who sits to my right.
“Nope,” he replies.
I glance around the room as other players are trickling in but don’t see him. I have to say, I’m more than curious. He comes with a reputation of being a team player on the ice but being strangely detached off. I sure hope he meshes with us because this team is about as cohesive a unit as possible, especially coming off a championship win. I know all too well that one broken cog in the wheel can throw things to shit.
The coaching staff meanders in, including our head coach, Claude Perron. He’s a bit of a hard ass, but his style gets proven results. Not surprising, I see the team’s owner, Dominik Carlson, saunter in, too, dressed in an expensive suit with perfectly styled hair. He’s the fucking bomb—just ask anyone in this room. He not only put together a championship team in our very first year in the league, but he has personally helped individual players time and time again, proving he cares about us as individuals and not just moneymakers.
The last of the people file in, and one of the assistant coaches shuts the door. I note with dismay that Riggs hasn’t come in, and I exchange worried glances with my second-line guys. We know Coach won’t put up with being late, and he’s not one for giving second chances unless they are well deserved. If Riggs isn’t careful, he’ll find himself riding pine. There are plenty of players in this league that would kill to join the second line of the Arizona Vengeance.
Coach walks up to the podium, then raps his meaty fist on it to get everyone’s attention. The chitchat dies down. His voice booms, “Well, look at you all sitting there… fucking champions.”
The room erupts into cheers with fists banging on our flip desktops and feet stomping in approval. Coach holds his hands up, chuckling. “All right, all right. Enough of that. The Cup was last year, and this is a new year. We have our work cut out for us. Every team in this league has a hard-on for us, and they’ll be coming at us with fire in their bellies and evil desires in their souls, trying to knock us down. Are we going to let that happen?”
A resounding chorus of “no’s” echoes in response.
“Okay, I have some new staff to introduce as well as some new players,” he says, then proceeds to do a roll call of the new faces. Each one stands as Coach introduces the latest members of the Vengeance, and he reads off their accomplishments and why they were offered a coveted spot on this team.
He’s just finishing his introduction of Noah as our new backup goalie when the door to the meeting room opens, and Riggs Nadeau walks in. He’s a big man, but it’s expected of a defenseman. I happen to know he’s incredibly light on his feet, which makes him especially dangerous on the ice.
His expression is one of bored indifference as he scans the area, not in the least bit concerned he’s walked in late.
Coach turns his attention to Riggs, his mouth pressed into a grim line. “Glad you could join us, Nadeau.”
Riggs merely nods, his silence disrespectful.
If this irritates Coach Perron, he keeps his expression bland, but there’s no mistaking Riggs has fucked up by how deathly quiet the room has become.
“Everyone,” Coach says with a sweeping hand at Riggs. “This is Riggs Nadeau. At this point, I’d go into his accomplishments, which led to a coveted offer on this team, but really, what I need everyone to know about the man at this moment is he has yet to prove he can be a solid member of the Vengeance. He doesn’t seem to understand I don’t tolerate tardiness, nor how disrespectful it is to all of us to come wandering in late without even an apology. Of course, I’ll have a private discussion with him about that later.”