Hot Damn (Hot as Puck #3)

12. Beckett

Beckett

I ’m dragging ass. Two hours sleep is not enough on the tail end of a tough game. Especially after the adrenaline drop of winning that tough game.

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I debate talking to Oakley or Natalie before we board the plane. If I’m lucky I can grab a quick catnap on the flight home. But if I talk to them before that I’m sure they’ll want to dive deep into what happened.

With that in mind, I push last night’s discussion with Cami aside and join the guys lining up to get on board. I’m the last in line and as I pass the coaches, I tip my chin up in silent greeting. They move in behind me and I can’t help overhearing their conversation.

“Nat not flying home with us?” Coach Watts asks.

“No. Oakley said she’s got to go to Atlanta before returning to Baton Rouge,” Coach Alcott replies.

“That fucker.” Watts’s growled curse brings a smile to my face. “He’s making her work for it in the hope she’ll give in and give him more money.”

“Not happening,” Alcott answers, his words tinged with a growl of his own. “She’s got him over a barrel. Oakley said the last report from the PI is the final nail in his coffin. ”

“Shame it’s a metaphorical coffin and not a real one.”

“He keeps it up, I might find a way to make it a real one.”

“You do, Bran and I want in on it. Although if Nat would just let Cami off the leash.” Coach Watts laughs what can only be described as a cackle. “She’s been his biggest non-fan the whole time we’ve known Nat.”

I have no idea who they’re talking about, but their conversation shows how close the women are, how much they’d go to bat for each other. And how strong and independent they are. Our GM isn’t letting anyone do her dirty work for her. Whatever that dirty work is.

“With any luck, Nat will be in Baton Rouge tonight with signed divorce papers in hand.” Coach Alcott’s words clue me in.

Natalie Redding is in the middle of a divorce, and from the little I know about the situation, and it’s just hallway chatter, her husband is trying to bleed her dry of money. Although the consensus is he’s been doing that for years already.

The flight crew greets me with a smile as I leave the jetway and enter the plane. We don’t have assigned seats, the plane a private charter, but there is a crew to serve us meals and drinks if we want either.

As I walk further down the aisle, I see most of my teammates have the same idea as me. The three-hour flight is a good chance to rest our battle-weary bodies and catch up on sleep.

I head to the last row, toss my bag up in the overhead locker, and flop down in the seat next to the window. Buckling my belt, I lean my head back and shut my eyes. With any luck I’ll be out before we take off and only wake up when we land.

My seat shakes as someone takes the one next to me and I inwardly cringe and hope they don’t want to talk. The feminine clearing of a throat tells me I’m out of luck.

“I’ll only talk for a few minutes.”

I turn my head and crack one eye. Oakley James is doing up her seatbelt as she settles in beside me. “You don’t want to sit next to your husband? ”

“I will after we chat.” Her gaze snags mine. “Cami called me this morning.”

“Ah.” Opening both eyes, I sit up straighter and twist a little toward her. “What did she call you about?”

“Whitney. Or more specifically her car.”

“Right, well, you probably know as much as I do.”

“After we hung up, I called the PI we have on retainer and asked him to do some investigating. I also asked him to see if he can get any security footage from the school.”

“I should have thought of that.”

“At midnight? I think you’re forgiven for not. And this isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with this kind of thing. Amos, our PI, is good. Really good. I expect to have an answer as to how Whitney’s tires got flat in the next day or so.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, about Whitney. What are your plans for her when you’re playing out of town?”

“She’s supposed to spend the night with our neighbor. Mrs. Gerber.”

“I’m told Mrs. Gerber could blow over in a stiff breeze.”

I chuckle, the description of our elderly neighbor spot on. Although Mrs. Gerber is tiny, she’s tough as nails. The first time I met her she tried to beam me over the head with a broom. If I didn’t have quick reflexes she would have got me, and with the power behind her swing she’d have cracked my skull open too.

“She’s small but don’t underestimate her. And Whit doesn’t really need a babysitter, it’s more about her not being alone.”

“I have a proposition for you.”

I grin. “Does your husband know you’re propositioning players?”

“Oh, funny. And yes, he knows what I’m going to offer. At the moment Chase Hawkins’ sisters stay with Nat when he’s out of town. If she’s with the team, like this trip, they stay at my house with Mikey and Pa. I’m offering Whitney the same. She can either stay with Nat and Pa, or just Pa. You might also see if Cami is up for staying with Whitney or alternately, she can stay with Cami.”

“I…” I blink a couple of times, my brain trying to roll through the options she just laid out. “Thank you. But I don’t want to put?—”

She holds up a hand. “You— she —would not be putting anyone out. It gives all the kids someone to hang with when their parents, or in Chase’s case, guardian, aren’t there. We’re a built-in family and I’d like you to take advantage of that because if the situation is reversed and someone needs help, I’d expect you to offer it.”

“That goes without saying.”

“Then it’s settled. She’s got lots of choices for the next time we have an away game. I’ll make sure she meets everyone tonight at the barbecue. She might already know the twins—they go to the same school as she does. I think they’re a grade or two below her though.”

“She hasn’t mentioned anyone at school being involved with the team.” I’d have remembered if it had come up, she hasn’t talked about many kids since she started at the beginning of the school year. I make a mental note to ask her about it.

“The rest of the kids are in middle school or below. Summer and Autumn are the only ones besides Whitney in high school. Which brings me to another offer. Is she up for earning a little money? I’d like to offer her a job at home games helping wrangle the younger kids.”

“She’d do that for free. Or food. You don’t have to pay her.”

“We can talk about it tonight.” She pats my hand. “You’re no longer an island, Beckett. I know you had friends you could rely on before you came to the Rogues, but now you have a whole bunch of us to help when you need.”

“We’re normally self-sufficient. Especially now that Whit is older. But I’ll keep it in mind. And please, if I can help someone in any way let me know. ”

“You’re already helping by guiding the younger team members.”

“I’m not really doing much there.”

“Nonsense. I’ve seen you with the team, on and off the ice. I like your style because it’s not obvious that you’re doing anything. I don’t want being in the NHL to have a detrimental effect on the boys we’ve brought in. And yes, some of them are boys. Hell, one of them is barely out of high school.”

I know exactly who she’s talking about. “Kallan.”

“Yeah. And he’s still learning English. Whoever was teaching him before did a shitty job.”

“I can work with him on that, get Whit to help me. I’ll make sure all the guys know to make sure he’s understanding what they’re saying and him in return.”

“We might have a talk about that tomorrow at training…”

The seatbelt light goes off with a ding and Oakley unbuckles hers. I hadn’t even noticed we’d taken off.

“I’ll leave you to catch up on sleep. I’ll talk to you later about what we’ve discussed.”

“Sure. Okay.”

My brain is foggy from lack of sleep and we covered a few things I’m still trying to process but as the cabin lights dim I decide to worry about everything after a nap.

Closing my eyes again, I tip my seat back and lean my head against the side of the plane.

I’m out seconds later.

T he first thing I do when I get home is toss a load in the washer. I managed to sleep the whole flight once Oakley left me. Those couple of hours have set me up for the day and as we don’t have practice or a skate today, I’ll be fine to make it through until tonight.

When I hit the utility room I find a pile of clean, folded laundry on top of the dryer. Scratching my head, I try to recall when I did the washing. I’m positive the last load I did didn’t have Whit’s neon green yoga pants in it. Which means my daughter finally took it upon herself to help with the laundry.

I grin. How she can prefer scrubbing the bathroom over washing clothes is beyond me but over the last few years we’ve gotten into a routine and split those chores. With only the clothes in my bag to wash I contemplate leaving them but then I remember the last time I left a bag of away clothes and the stink that took two washes to get out.

Putting in a small load, I pick up the pile of folded clothes and head upstairs. Whit’s stuff is on top of the pile and it’s easy to put them in her room and continue to my own.

The second I step through the doorway I’m assaulted with a fragrance that is unfamiliar. It’s a subtle sweetness that sticks and pulls up several memories.

Cami.

My bedroom smells like Cami Nelson.

Which is to be expected seeing how I told her to sleep up here instead of on the couch.

My gaze moves to the bed.

The quilt is perfectly smooth and the pillows piled against the headboard. I don’t think my bed has ever been that well made. I usually toss the quilt up off the floor where I’ve inevitably kicked it during the night.

An image of Cami, snuggled under my covers, bursts to life in my head and I jolt with the vividness of it. I don’t miss the movement in my groin either. The visceral reaction to my imagination is interesting. I’m not a fantasy kind of guy. If I feel the urge, I wait until I’m able to take care of it in the shower.

The last thing I want is my daughter walking in on that!

Thinking of the shower sparks my imagination further and I’m walking toward my bathroom before I know I’m moving.

Pushing open the door, I take a deep breath and find the scent from the bedroom is stronger in here. Two steps has me in front of the shower door, hand on the rail that passes for a handle. With a tug, the glass panel swings out and an even stronger wave of Cami hits me.

And the movement in my groin becomes a rush.

I put my clean clothes on the counter and strip out of my dirty ones. I’m in the shower, water running, hand on my dick seconds later.

Closing my eyes I breathe deep and conjure Cami’s pretty face. I might not have acknowledged her looks before now but my subconscious isn’t stupid. In my mind she’s as clear as she’d be if she was right in front of me.

My hand tightens and a grumble of pleasure rolls through my chest. Firm strokes, a gentle twist to skim the top, and my dick is pulsing, pre-come oozing.

I lean into the hand I have on the wall, rest my forehead on my arm, and concentrate on the image of Cami in my head.

She’s on her knees, her hand replacing mine, her tongue sweeping out to drag across the swollen tip of my dick and it’s game over.

I’m shooting my load on the tile with sharp jerks of my hips.

Spent, I stay, dick in hand, for long moments as the water beats down. I should be ashamed of what I just did, using someone I’m not sure I even like as fodder for my own pleasure, but I’m not.

I’m still aroused.

More than I’ve been in so long I don’t remember the last time a hand job was more than a quick release of pressure and nothing more.

Fuck.

I don’t remember the last time masturbating made me feel so good.

Or so unsatisfied.

Shoving off the wall, I move under the spray and try to wash away the feeling of dissatisfaction. It doesn’t work.

And the more I think about what I just did—think about the woman I imagined while doing it—the more I realize I’m in deep shit.

I was sure I didn’t like Cami Nelson. Her career is what I’ve avoided since I was a teenager. Getting close to her would be dangerous. Not for me—I’ve come to grips with the way I became a father and I wouldn’t change how Whit became mine for anything.

Whit is the innocent in all of this and while I’ve always thought I’d have to tell her about how she came to be eventually, I thought I’d wait until she was older.

Except she is older.

And if that scumbag reporter—or any other reporter—keeps digging, it won’t be hard to find out the name in the mother section of Whit’s birth certificate is fake.

Or that the name in the father section isn’t the one I was born with.