Brody
“Dude, I thought you’d be back earlier.” Cooper, one of my roommates, grins as I walk through the front door. There’s a half-naked chick straddling his lap. “We had to get this party started without you.” He shrugs as if he’s just taken one for the team. “It couldn't be helped.”
I snort as my gaze travels around the living room of the house we rent a few blocks off campus. Even though there are only four of us on the lease, our place seems to be a crash pad for half the team. By the looks of the beer bottles strewn around, they’ve been at it for a while. I’m seriously thinking about charging some of these assholes rent.
Although, I guess if I were stuck in a shoebox of a dorm, I’d be desperate for a way out, too. I played juniors straight out of high school for two years before coming in as a freshman at twenty. I skipped dorm living and went straight to renting a place nearby. There was no way I was bunking down with a bunch of random eighteen-year-olds who’d never lived away from home. Not to mention, having an RA up my ass telling me what I could and couldn’t do.
That sounds about as much fun as ripping duct tape off my balls.
Which is, I might add, the complete opposite of fun. Hazing sucks. And for future reference, you don’t rip duct tape off your balls, you carefully cut it away with a steady hand while mother-fucking the entire team.
My other two roommates, Luke Anderson and Sawyer Stevens, are hunched at the edge of the couch, battling it out in an intense game of NHL. Their thumbs are jerking the controllers in lightning-quick movements, and their eyeballs are fastened to the seventy-inch HD screen hanging across the room.
I can only shake my head. Every time they play, it’s like a freaking National Championship is at stake.
I arch a brow as the girl on Cooper’s lap reaches around and unhooks her bra, dropping it to the floor. Apparently, she doesn’t mind if there’s an audience. Cooper’s lazy grin stretches as his fingers zero in on her nips.
I’d love to say this scene isn’t typical for a Sunday night, but I’d be lying through my teeth. Usually, it’s much worse.
Deking out Luke with some impressive video game puck handling skills, Sawyer says, “Grab a beer, bro. You can take over for Luke after I make him cry again like a little bitch.”
“Fuck you,” Luke grumbles.
I glance at the score. Luke is getting his ass handed to him on a silver platter, and he knows it.
“Sure.” Sawyer smirks. “Maybe later. But I should warn you, you’re not really my type. I like a dude who’s packing a little more meat than you.”
My lips twitch as I drop my duffle to the floor.
“Hey, you see that bullshit text from Coach?” Cooper asks from between the girl's tits.
I groan, hoping I didn't miss anything important while I was out of town for the weekend. I’m already under contract with the Milwaukee Mavericks. My dad and I flew there to meet with the coaching staff. I also got to hang with a few of the defensive players. Saturday night was freaking crazy. Next season is going to rock.
“Nah, didn't see it,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Practice times have changed,” Cooper continues, all the while playing with the girl’s body. “We’re now at six o’clock in the morning and seven in the evening.”
Fuck me. He’s starting two-a-days already?
“You think he’s just screwing around with us?” I wouldn't put it past Coach Lang. I don’t think he has anything better to do than lie awake at night, dreaming up new ways to torture us. The guy is a real hard-ass.
Then again, that’s why we’re here.
But six in the morning...that sucks. Between school and hockey practice, I already feel like I don’t get enough sleep. And it’s only September. That means I’ll need to be up and out the door by five to make it to the rink, get dressed, and be on the ice by six. By the time eleven o’clock at night rolls around, I’ll fall into bed an exhausted heap.
Sawyer shrugs, not looking particularly put out by the time change.
Cooper pops the nipple out of his mouth and fixes his glassy-eyed gaze on me. “Can’t you have your dad talk some freaking sense into the guy?”
Luke grumbles under his breath, “I can barely make it to the seven o’clock practice on time.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. I’d do just about anything for these guys, except run to my father with anything related to hockey. Coach and my dad go way back. They both played for the Detroit Redwings. I’ve known the man my entire life. He helped me lace up my first pair of Bauers. So, you’d think he’d have a soft spot for me. Maybe take it easy on me.
Yeah...fat chance of that happening.
If anything, he comes down on me like a ton of bricks because of our personal relationship. I think Lang doesn’t want any of the guys to feel like he’s playing favorites.
Mission accomplished, dude.
No one would ever accuse him of that.
“Then prepare to haul ass at the butt crack of dawn, my friend.” With that, Cooper turns his attention elsewhere, attacking the girl's mouth.
Luke eyes them for a moment before yelling, “Hey, you gonna take that shit to the bedroom or are we all being treated to a free show?”
Not bothering to come up for air, Cooper ignores the question.
Luke shakes his head and focuses his attention on making a comeback. Or at least knocking Sawyer’s avatar on its ass. “Guess that means we should make some popcorn.”
I pick up my duffel and hoist it over my shoulder, deciding to head upstairs for a while. I love hanging with these guys, but I’m not feeling it at the moment.
“Hi, Brody.” A lush blonde slips her arms around me and presses her ample cleavage against my chest. “I was hoping you’d show up.”
Given the fact that this is my house, the chances of that happening were extremely high.
I stare down into her big green eyes.
“Hey.” She looks familiar. I do a quick mental search, trying to produce a name, but only come up with blanks.
Which probably means I haven’t slept with her recently.
When it comes to the ladies, I've come up with an algorithm that I’ve perfected over the last three years. It’s simple, yet foolproof. I never screw the same girl more than three times in a six-month period. If you do, you run the risk of entering into the murky territory of a quasi-relationship or a friends-with-benefits situation. I’m not looking for any attachments at this point.
Even casual ones.
I’m at Whitmore to earn a degree and prepare for the pros. I’m focused on getting bigger, faster, and stronger. The NHL is no place for pussies. If you can’t hack it, the league will chew you up and spit you out before you can blink your eyes. I have no intention of allowing that to happen. I’ve worked too hard to crash and burn at this point.
Or get distracted.
In a surprisingly bold move, Blondie slides her hand from my chest to my package and gives it a firm squeeze to let me know she means business.
I have no doubts that if I asked her to drop to her knees and suck me off in front of all these people, she would do it in a heartbeat. Other than a thong, the girl grinding away on Cooper’s lap is naked.
My first year playing juniors, when a girl offered to have no-strings-attached-sex, I’d thought I’d hit the flipping jackpot. Less than five minutes later, I’d blown my load and was ready for round two. Fast forward five years, and I don’t even blink at a chick who’s willing to drop her panties within minutes of me walking through the door. It happens far too often for it to be considered a novelty.
Which is just plain sad.
When I was in high school, I jumped at the chance to dip my wick.
Now?
Not so much.
It’s like being fed a steady diet of steak and lobster. Sure, it’s delicious the first couple of days. Maybe even a full week. You can’t help but greedily devour every single bite and then lick your fingertips afterward. But, believe it or not, even steak and lobster become mundane.
Most guys, no matter what their age, would give their left nut to be in my skates.
To have their pick of any girl. Or, more often than not, girls.
And here I am...limp dick in hand.
Actually, limp dick in her hand.
Sex has become something I do to take the edge off when I’m feeling stressed. It’s my version of a relaxation technique. For fuck’s sake, I’m twenty-three years old. I’m in the sexual prime of my life. I should be ecstatic when any girl wants to spread her legs for me. What I shouldn’t be is bored. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be mentally running through the drills we’ll be doing when I lead a captain’s practice.
I pry her fingers from my junk and shake my head. “Sorry, I’ve got some shit to take care of.”
And that shit would be school. I have forty pages of reading that needs to be finished up by tomorrow morning.
Blondie pouts and bats her mascara-laden lashes.
“Maybe later?” she coos in a baby voice.
Fuck. That is such a turnoff.
Why do chicks do that?
No, seriously. It’s a legitimate question. Why do they do that? It’s like nails on a chalkboard. I’m tempted to answer back in a ridiculous, lispy-sounding voice.
But I don’t.
I'm not that big of an asshole.
Plus, she might be into it.
Then I’d be screwed. I envision us cooing at each other in baby voices for the rest of the night and almost shudder.
“Maybe,” I say noncommittally. Although I’m not going to lie, that toddler voice has killed any chance for a later hookup. But I’m smart enough not to tell her that. Chances are high that she’ll end up finding another hockey player to latch on to and forget all about me. Because let’s face it, that’s what she’s here for.
A little dick from a guy who skates with a stick.
Just to be sure, I run my eyes over the length of her again.
Toddler voice aside, she’s got it going on.
And yet, that banging body is doing absolutely nothing for me.
Which is troublesome. I almost want to take her upstairs just to prove to myself that everything is in proper working order. But I won’t.
As I hit the first step, Cooper breaks away from his girl. “WTF, McKinnon? Where you going?” He waves a hand around the room. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of entertaining?”
“I’ll leave you to take care of our guests,” I say, trudging up the staircase.
“Well, if you insist,” he slurs happily.
My bedroom is at the end of the hall, away from the noise of the first floor. As a general rule, no one is allowed on the second floor except for the guys who live here. I pull out my key and unlock the door before stepping inside.
My duffel gets tossed in the corner before I open my Managerial Finance book. I thought I’d have a chance to plow through some of the reading over the weekend, but my dad and I were on the go the entire time. Meeting people from the Milwaukee organization, hitting a team party, checking out a few condos near the lakefront. Just getting the general lay of the land. On the plane ride home, I had every intention of being productive, but ended up sacking out once we hit cruising altitude.
Three hours later, there’s a knock on the door. Normally an interruption would piss me off, but after slogging through thirty pages, my eyes have glazed over, and I’m fighting to stay awake. This material is mind-numbingly boring, and that’s not helping matters.
“It's open,” I call out, expecting Cooper to try cajoling me back downstairs.
When that guy’s shitfaced, he wants everyone else to be just as hammered as he is. I’ve never seen anyone put away alcohol the way he does. It’s almost as impressive as it is scary. And yet, he’s somehow able to wake up for morning practice bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like he wasn’t just wasted six hours ago. Someone from the biology department really needs to do a case study on him, ’cause that shit just ain’t normal.
When I suck down alcohol like that, the next morning I’m like a newborn colt on the ice who can’t keep his legs under him.
It’s not a pretty sight. Which is why I don’t do it. Been there, done that. Moving on.
The door swings open to reveal Blondie-With-The-Toddler-Voice. And she’s not alone. She’s brought a friend.
I raise my brows in interest as they step inside the room.
In the three hours since I’ve seen her, Blondie has managed to lose most of her clothing. The brunette she’s with appears to be in the same predicament. They stand in lacy bras and barely-there thongs with their hands entwined.
My gaze roves over them appreciatively.
How could it not?
Their tummies are flat and toned. Hips are nicely rounded. Tits jiggle enticingly as they saunter toward the bed where I’m currently sprawled.
I should be a man of steel over here. I haven’t gotten laid in three weeks. Which is almost unheard of. I haven’t gone that long without sex since I first started having it.
But there’s nothing.
Not even a twitch.
Which begs the question—What the hell is wrong with me?
It must be the stress of school and the skating regimen I’m on. Even though I’m already under contract with Milwaukee and don’t have to worry about the NHL draft later this year, I’m still under a lot of pressure to perform this season.
National Championships don’t bring themselves home.
I’d be concerned that I have some serious erectile dysfunction issues happening except there’s one chick who gets me hard every time I lay eyes on her. Rather ironically, she wants nothing to do with me. I think she’d claw my eyes out if I laid one solitary finger on her.
Actually, all I have to do is stare in her direction, and she bares her teeth at me.
Maybe these girls are exactly what I need to relieve some of my pent-up stress. It certainly can’t hurt.
Decision made, I slam my finance book closed and toss it to the floor where it lands with a loud thud. I fold my arms behind my head and smile at the girls in silent invitation.
And the rest, shall we say, is history.