Breakaway Daddies (Minneapolis Marauders #3)

Prologue

THOMAS

The orange glow from the streetlights sneaks through the gaps in the heavy navy curtains of our dark hotel room.

I can still make out the curves of the woman beside me, her silhouette highlighted against the pale sheets. Her skin feels warm and inviting under my fingertips, and I can taste the tartness of the vodka cranberry she was sipping earlier lingering on her lips as I lean in to kiss her.

She giggles lightly, a playful sound, while her nails trace a tantalizing path down my chest, her breath hot and slightly ragged against my neck.

“God, you’re sexy ,” she murmurs in a sultry slur, brimming with confidence.

I can’t help but smile. With a playful motion, I flip her onto her back, my lips trailing a gentle path along her jawline. She hums in approval, her fingers weaving into my hair, pulling me closer and urging me on.

There’s an electric rush between us, a fiery heat that pulses with each heartbeat; a familiar thrill, the kind I always seek, a temporary high that ignites the senses.

She gently licks down my abs, taking my cock into her wet mouth and sucking me as my hand falls to her hair, gathering it up languidly.

I enjoy her, I can’t deny that, but everything in this moment just feels so… boring.

I can tell by the look in her amber eyes she’s excited, I’m probably the first big-name, pro-athlete she’s managed to bag, and I can feel how giddy she is as she twists her hand against my shaft with each pass of her mouth.

“You ready, handsome?” she whispers, her voice dripping with raw intent.

“You know it,” I reply, trying to hide how little I actually care about this.

Still, the feeling of her wet, throbbing pussy enveloping me makes me gasp for a moment, and I feel myself buck against her rhythmically as her body takes me fully.

She moans against my chest, her kisses and nibbles against my skin calling me to go harder. I pound into her, feeling her legs wrap around my waist and press me tight within.

I break away, kneeling over her and spilling myself against her luscious, pink nipples before flopping down next to her, my chest heaving with each inhale.

She lets out a long sigh, her breath warm against my skin as she shifts closer, her arm lazily draped over my stomach. I let it linger there while I catch my breath and stare at the ceiling.

Eventually, I clear my throat to break the silence.

“I called you a cab,” I say gently, my voice still rough from our recent exertion.

She stiffens slightly, her muscles tensing against me. “Already?” she asks, a hint of disappointment in her tone.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand, its glowing numbers confirming the time. “Yeah, it should be here in like five minutes.”

She props herself up on her elbow, her darkened eyes narrowing with a mixture of annoyance and resignation. “You athletes and jocks are all the same,” she mutters, reaching for her clothes in a huff.

The air fills with the mingling scents of her floral perfume and the faint trace of lingering alcohol as she pulls her dress back over her head, tugging it over her hips with a frustrated yank.

I sit up, running a hand through my hair, trying to find the right words. “Hey, it’s nothing personal. You’re amazing. I just?—”

“Don’t bother,” she interrupts, rolling her eyes with a dismissive flick. She slips on her heels with sharp, practiced movements, the click of the stilettos against the hardwood floor echoing in the quiet room. “I knew what this was.”

She grabs her purse from the chair, the leather strap slipping over her shoulder as she storms out, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that leaves the room feeling cavernous and empty.

I exhale deeply, rubbing my hands over my face, which is scratchy with stubble.

The silence stretches on, pressing in from all sides. And instead of the satisfaction I expected, all I feel is… meh .

Bored. Mundane. Basic.

I reach over to the nightstand, fingers brushing against the cool surface as I fumble for my phone. Squinting against the bright light of my phone screen, I scroll through my contacts until Jack’s name appears.

My thumbs move quickly over the keyboard.

Bro, I think I’ve lost my… mojo? Is there a point where puck bunnies just don’t cut it anymore?

The seconds feel like hours as I watch the tiny dots indicating Jack is typing. Finally, his reply pops up.

??? What happened, did your back give out? Ha. Maybe you really are getting old.

A frustrated groan escapes my lips as I let my head fall back against the stack of pillows, the supple cotton cradling my frustration.

Not what I meant, dumbass. Just… I don’t know, it’s not fun anymore.

The phone vibrates again, and Jack’s reply is a series of emojis: a bald guy, a cane, and, inexplicably, a banana. I roll my eyes, tapping out my confusion.

What the hell does the banana mean?

That you’re a dick. Dude, maybe you just need a break from puck bunnies. Try dating a librarian or something.

A laugh snorts out of me, the idea of dating a librarian so far from my usual type it’s comical. But before I can type a response, another message from Jack lights up the screen.

Or just go skate it off. Always works for you.

I let out a long breath, eyes fixed on the glowing screen.

He’s got a point. The ice always clears my head.

I slide off the bed, feet hitting the carpeted floor with a dull thump, and gather my gear. The familiar weight of the bag brings a sense of purpose, and I stride out of the hotel room hoping the crisp air of the rink can chase away this unsettling feeling.

The air in the rink bites with a sharp chill, the kind that seeps into my lungs, each breath feeling like a fresh start. The arena is cloaked in darkness. Only a few emergency lights cast weak halos over the empty seats, their shadows stretching and dancing along the boards like ghostly spectators.

As I step onto the ice, the familiar rasp of my skates slicing into the frozen surface brings me back to the present moment, anchoring my thoughts. I glide in wide, lazy circles that allow my muscles to loosen and the stress of the day to melt away with every turn.

Gradually, I increase my pace, pushing off harder with each stride, my breath forming small, rhythmic clouds in the frosty air. Wind rushes past my cheeks, invigorating me and dispelling the lingering unease that had clung to me like a shadow.

Then something catches my attention—a subtle glow from one of the offices overlooking the rink.

It’s Jessica, or Jinx, as she likes to be called. The team’s physical therapist.

She’s perched at her desk, fingers dancing over her keyboard. Her hair is gathered into a messy bun, defying gravity at the top of her head, with a vibrant streak of blue standing out in the otherwise boring surroundings.

I slow down and come to a gentle stop near the boards, my eyes fixed on her through the glass.

Jinx is always burning the midnight oil. Always humming the same old song: “The Light in Your Eyes.”

That tune always reminds me of her now.

Rowan, our mutual friend, persistently tries to coax her into joining him for a night out, but she always dismisses his advances with a laugh, claiming she’s not interested in dating athletes.

I chuckle to myself.

Smart girl.

I push off the boards, my skates slicing through the ice with a satisfying crunch, but my thoughts have drifted far from the rink. My mind is tangled up with images of her, her deep, royal purple hair reflecting from her office.

Last week, it was blue; the week before that, a deep shade of teal.

I should probably just head back to the house, but the idea of talking to her hangs in the air like a tempting melody. How would I even begin?

“Hey Jinx,” I imagine saying, “I was skating alone in this quiet, lonely rink and just happened to notice you in your office. Totally not creepy at all, right?”

I wince, the thought making me cringe. Yeah, that’s definitely not going to work.

Maybe I could play it cool. I picture myself casually strolling in, leaning against the doorframe with a practiced nonchalance, and saying, “Hey, workaholic, ever heard of a night off?”

I shake my head, dismissing the idea. That’s something Rowan would say, not me.

I let out a long breath, tracing lazy circles near the boards as I continue to wrestle with my thoughts. Maybe something straightforward would be best?

“Hey, Jinx. You hungry?”

Everyone likes food, right? It might just be my ticket to a conversation.

Just as I’m bolstering my confidence, her office light flicks off. I look up, catching sight of her slipping into a well-worn hoodie, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and making her way to the exit.

Well. That answers that.

I sigh, watching her silhouette vanish through the glass doors.

Maybe it’s for the best. Jinx isn’t into players, and I’m not one for complicated situations.

Right?

I skate off the ice, my thoughts a jumbled mess I’d rather not untangle. The cool air of the rink clings to me as I drop onto the wooden bench in the locker room.

With each sharp tug on the laces of my skates, the tension in my mind eases, bit by bit, as reality seeps back in.

Once my feet are free, I slip on my worn sneakers, the rubber soles squeaking slightly against the tiled floor. I toss my skates into the duffel bag, its faded fabric stretched from years of use, and sling it over my shoulder.

The rink echoes with silence as I walk through the still lobby, the mechanical hum of the vending machines the only sound cutting through the stillness. I push open the heavy glass doors and let the crisp night air rush in, cool and refreshing against my flushed cheeks.

When I reach my car, I lean against it and gaze out at the nearly deserted parking lot. My breath forms misty clouds that disappear into the night.

I really should just go home.

But I stay standing, chewing over the strange, restless feeling crawling under my skin. Normally, I’m decisive when it comes to women. I spot what I want, make my move, and then I’m on to the next thing. That’s the way it’s always been.

So why the hell did I find myself watching Jinx work tonight, like some lovesick fool?

I drag a hand down my face, trying to shake off the confusion.

Get it together, man.

Maybe it’s just because she’s hot.

Because she is undeniably hot.

I close my eyes, conjuring up an image of her in my mind. Those piercing aquamarine eyes that seem to slice through any pretense; the ever-changing kaleidoscope of her hair, shifting from crimson to raven to platinum without warning; and the fluid grace of her movements, as if she glides through life without a care about who’s watching or what they might think.

I can’t help but wonder if she’d be wild in bed, if she’d be the best lay of my life, and actually have a thing or two to teach me in the process.

The thought stirs a slow, lazy heat that spreads through my chest.

Would she let loose and fill the room with her cries, or would she bite down on her lip, trying to stifle every sound?

Would she want me to be delicate and gentle, or rough and dominant?

A broad grin crosses my lips as I imagine her voice rising, the way she’d clutch at my shoulders, her nails leaving crescent moons in my skin, her body climbing up to reach me and drive me deeper and deeper…

I force myself to halt that train of thought before I embarrass myself right here in the desolate parking lot under the flickering yellow streetlight.

Jesus, Thomas.

This is what happens when there’s no solid distraction in my life. And it’s clear that the string of meaningless hookups isn’t cutting it anymore.

Not exactly the kind of epiphany you want when it’s almost midnight and you’re standing alone in an empty parking lot.

I let out a long sigh, pushing away from the cool metal of the car and clicking the unlock button on the key fob.

Time to head home before my thoughts dig me into a deeper hole.

As I turn the ignition key, the engine of my old sedan sputters to life, and I reach for my phone resting on the cracked leather of the passenger seat. I thumb through my contacts and call Rowan.

He picks up after the third ring, his voice teasing through the receiver. “You’d better not be asking me to help bury a body.”

A curt laugh escapes me as I steer one-handed out of the parking lot. “Nah, you’re my second call for that.”

“Nice to know where I stand,” he quips.

“You busy?” I ask, merging onto the main road.

“I’m watching Tombstone ,” he confesses, and I can hear the faint sounds of a movie playing in the background.

I let out an exaggerated groan, my eyes rolling in my head. “Again? Man, what is with you and that movie?”

“It’s a classic,” he insists, his voice rising with mock indignation. “C’mon, cowboys taming the west, the good guys winning. What’s not to love?”

I roll my eyes, imagining him sprawled on his couch, eyes glued to the screen. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Look, you want to watch something that isn’t a '90s western? I’ll grab a pizza on my way home.”

Rowan’s considering hum vibrates through the line. “Fine. But only if we get extra cheese.”

“Done,” I promise, switching lanes smoothly.

“And breadsticks,” he adds with a childlike insistence.

I sigh, shaking my head at his predictable demands. “Are you five?”

“Breadsticks, Thomas. Non-negotiable. You know how I get when I have low blood sugar,” he states firmly.

“Fine, whatever,” I concede, watching the cityscape blur past. “I’ll see you in twenty.”

He hangs up, and I toss my phone onto the seat, a teasing grin playing on my lips. At least I won’t spend the whole night thinking about Jinx.

Hopefully.