Brayden #2
But hockey? I’d been a closet fan for years.
I’d watched every game I could, even if it meant streaming it on my parents’ iPad—and later mine—after they’d gone to bed.
The way the players moved, the way they fearlessly charged after the puck, and threw down gloves had me hooked.
From my first day in middle school, I used study groups as an excuse to have Mom drop me at the library in town.
As soon as she was out of sight, I jogged the block to H-E-B Center and spent endless hours skating and puck handling.
At first, I’d just watched, but the amateur team that trained on the Texas Stars’ rink thought I was either cute or frustrating because of the way I heckled them.
They loaned me some spare kids’ gear. Their coach played with the Texas Stars, and he mentored me in five-minute sessions, teaching me more than I could ever have dreamed during the few minutes he’d let me skate.
He saw something in me, and because of that, every one of my dreams had come true.
He was happy to show me the ropes without all the permission slips and liability waivers signed, but I couldn’t join a team until I’d spoken to my parents.
It took me a full year to gather up the courage to do it.
It hadn’t gone down well. Football in Austin, Texas was like gospel, and Dad was its greatest worshipper.
Friday night lights and tailgating were ways of life—he couldn’t understand how I didn’t love every minute of it.
But the expectation and pressure he put on me was overwhelming.
Every time I ran out on the field, I felt like I was drowning, not soaring like my teammates.
Dad never forgave me for quitting. Walking away from football cratered our relationship.
Thankfully, Mom had been supportive. She’d insisted on paying for my gear when Dad hadn’t wanted to, then driven me to every game I played in.
Mom and I were tight, but I had daddy issues.
They were my own fault—our relationship had never recovered from my rebellion.
I’d never made the effort to try to repair it, but neither had he.
Dad simply focused his energy on my brother, Noah, pretending I no longer existed.
Unlike me, Noah dreamed of making it to the NFL.
A spinal injury in college ended his chance to turn pro, but he was a high school teacher now and loved it.
“He didn't cheat,” Spencer said from behind me, doing up the final button on his shirt as he stepped out of the shadows.
He crossed his arms over his chest, planted his feet shoulder-width apart, and squared off with the two of the most intense men I’d ever worked with.
I bit back another chuckle. No matter how hardened these two were, neither stood a chance against my husband.
Where I was a smartass—loud, brash, and overly cocky—Spencer was an alley cat.
He hissed at and scratched anyone who looked the wrong way at either of us, and he always landed on his feet.
“Fucking wonderful.” Coach looked between us, ran his hand through his white hair, then groaned.
“Get in that Goddamn office,” Klein growled and stalked toward the closed door of Coach’s office.
Coach muttered, “You're in an impossible situation here, Miller. Two weeks out from the pre-season opener and you’ve just ended your career here. Congratulations, smartass.”
“Eh, at least we got off,” I quipped. I raised my chin and smirked like I didn’t have a care in the world. The sinking feeling in my gut, though, told another story. Fuck.
“Have some respect,” Coach snarled and marched us the short way up the corridor.
With the benefit of hindsight, I realized we should have picked virtually any other storage closet in the building. This one was only a few yards away from Coach’s office. No wonder he’d heard Mila’s loud moans. It was just bad luck that her father was here at the same time.
I walked in and immediately came chest-to-chest with Klein. He wasn’t overly big—I was double his width and a few good inches taller than him—but he had anger on his side. The man was like a bull ready to charge. Spencer planted himself next to me, staring down Klein too.
“Jesus Christ,” Coach hissed and slammed the door closed. “Back off, you two. Mr. Klein, I’m sure we can resolve this cordially.” I rolled my eyes, but Spencer’s sharp look my way had me snapping my mouth closed.
Klein stepped forward again, leaving only a small gap between us now. He puffed out his chest and narrowed his eyes, the sneer on his face almost enough to be intimidating. “If you bastards violated her—”
Spencer reacted like a whip cracking, shooting his arm out, shoving me back, and stepping between Klein and me. Coach was on us, too, easing his way between Spencer and Klein.
“Mr. Klein, come now,” Coach urged, trying to de-escalate the situation.
But Spencer was unperturbed by the interruption.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Spencer Anderson, Brayden’s husband.
” He only used his stage name—Spencer Clay—for his music.
Up until a few months ago, not many people recognized him, but the overnight success of his latest studio album was rocketing him up the charts.
He’d had presence before becoming famous. Now most people were in awe.
The prickle of awareness lit me up like a fireworks display as the power dynamic in the room shifted with Spencer’s stony silence. Larry was used to being the most powerful man in the room—and he still was—but Spencer wasn’t one to be pushed around.
My husband didn’t mince words when he finally continued.
“I shouldn’t have to warn you of the legal repercussions of accusing us of raping your daughter.
Before you dive headfirst into a lawsuit that we will win, you should know that Mila hooking up with us was completely consensual. She will verify that.”
Mila was pretty and fun, but the thought of sleeping with her hadn’t even crossed our minds until she marched up to us and dragged us into the storage closet.
When she unzipped her oversized hoodie to reveal a sheer lace bra that left nothing to the imagination, my brain officially checked out.
Then she hitched up her skirt and shimmied out of her matching lace thong, and my frontal cortex waved the white flag.
But it wasn’t until she demanded we fuck her that my dick took over my executive functioning, redirecting every ounce of my concentration to satisfying my base instincts.
That take-no-shit attitude by a strong woman who went after what she wanted was both mine and Spencer’s kryptonite.
“She even liked it,” I muttered under my breath, wanting to hit Klein where it hurt.
I understood being protective of your children, but accusing someone of sexual assault was a step too far.
I might have been a fuckup in everyone’s eyes, but I wasn’t a piece of shit.
The glare Coach sent my way was caustic enough to strip paint. Fuck him too.
My taunt was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Klein narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth at me like an animal snarling.
“My daughter is off-limits to every one of you boneheads, famous or not,” he shouted.
“She’s going to make something of herself, and I won’t let one of you get her pregnant—”
“Oh, there were two of us,” I reminded him with an almost gleeful sneer. Spencer elbowed me in the ribs. “Oof.”
With barely any hesitation, Klien continued his tirade, shouting, “You’re out, Miller. You hear me? You’re done with the Blizzards. Your contract is hereby terminated.”
My pulse thundered through my veins, anger vibrating through me with every beat of my heart. That was a low blow. But I was used to throwing down; I knew exactly how to make my hits hurt.
I plastered on a cold smile and eased Spencer to the side before I stepped closer to him. We were face-to-face, chests almost pressed together, and I delighted in the way his pulse jumped and he swallowed hard.
“Suck my dick, asshole. Oh wait, your daughter already did that.” I hummed. “Might be a bit weird for me to do daddy and daughter.” I pivoted on the ball of my foot, wrenched open the door, and let it bounce off the wall as I walked out. Fuck him and his team.
Spencer had the last word, a much more professional version of what I had to say. “We’ll see you in court, Mr. Klein.”
The door slammed behind us, and a bellow rattled the windows and doors as I passed them.
Spencer was hot on my heels as I marched to the locker room. He grasped my forearm when I reached for the duffel bag in my locker, pushed me up against the metal door, and hissed, “What the fuck were you thinking? Fair dinkum, you don’t rile up the team owner like that.”
“You know me,” I retorted and pulled out of his grip. “My mouth always gets me in trouble.”
Spencer’s eyes darkened, and he gripped my chin. I couldn’t pull away even if I wanted to. “Then maybe I should fill it so you can’t spout any more shit,” he growled.
My heart rate shot up to a thousand beats a minute, and he stepped in closer, hovering only a hair’s breadth away from me. When Spencer was near, there was a third option that presented itself with my fight-or-flight instinct—fuck.
I sucked in a breath, inhaling leather, chocolate, and sex, and moaned.
He bit down on his lip, and I tracked the movement, licking my own.
I was starving for him again. He pinned me to the lockers with his hips, and I rolled mine, leaving him in no doubt about the effect he was having on me.
He nudged my nose with his but kept his lips tantalizingly out of my reach.
“You’re gonna be my little cock warmer tonight,” he murmured, his lips against my ear. “Then when I’m ready to take your arse, I’m going to bend you over and empty myself inside you. You’ll be so full, my jizz’ll be running down your legs.”