4. Berkley
Spun Out
Soaking wet from the deluge that came out of nowhere and drenched me on the short walk from the bus stop to my apartment building, I was seriously looking forward to getting inside, stripping out of my sopping clothes, sliding into a hot bath, and drowning my sorrows in a bottle of wine.
It had been a long ass week.
Unfortunately, when I unlocked my door and pushed inside, I realized the bath and booze would have to wait.
“Make yourselves at home,” I grumbled to Amelia and Kimber, who were sprawled across my living room furniture, the One Tree Hill theme song blasting from the TV.
“We will!” Kimber said brightly, raising a drink into the air. It looked innocent enough, the clear liquid fizzing against the sides of the glass, but I knew from experience that there was enough tequila in it to knock out a linebacker.
I could use one of those right now.
And some peace and quiet.
“Why are you guys even here?”
“Your place is the biggest.”
“It’s literally the same size as Lexie’s.”
And I wasn’t being facetious in saying that. Our buildings were owned by the same company, and were basically identical, only they’d been constructed on opposite sides of the city. The footprints of my and Lexie’s places were exactly the same, though.
“Don’t care,” Kimber said flippantly, and my irritation rose. “You love having us here.”
“I love coming home to an empty apartment,” I murmured as I trudged upstairs to my bedroom, shooting Lexie an SOS text as I did.
Walking into my room was like finally breaking the surface of water after being below for a prolonged period of time. Everything in me sagged as I inhaled deeply, and my bookbag dropped unceremoniously to the floor.
I’d moved in last week, and half of my stuff was still in boxes because I’d been so busy with school that I hadn’t had any free time to sit down and find homes for all my shit.
Even so, I loved this place—when it wasn’t overrun by nosy, needy friends.
The main floor held the kitchen, living room, a half bath, and laundry room, as well as access to a small balcony. Upstairs were two bedrooms—the smaller of which I’d turned into an office—and two full bathrooms. It was probably—no, definitely—way too much space for me. But I’d grown up with two siblings, immediately moved into a dorm, and spent the last six years with at least two roommates, so I figured I deserved it.
I only wished my friends respected my boundaries a bit more.
The decision to give them a key to my door was proving unwise.
I knew I should go back downstairs and entertain, but the moment my feet sank into the light grey carpet of my bedroom, serenity overtook me. And a glance at the bathroom and my freestanding tub placed beneath the large plate glass window had my mind made up.
Fuck it, I thought, already padding into the bathroom and stripping my clothes.
Twenty minutes later, I was blissfully submerged in hot water and eucalyptus-scented bubbles, my brain focused on nothing but the words of the audiobook drifting to me from across the room.
Only my phone vibrating at the same time Lexie entered the room was enough to pull me from my reverie.
“Will you hand me that?”
Without a word, Lexie did as I’d asked. “Looks like a message from Brent,” she said when she reached the side of the tub.
I quickly dried my hands on a towel to accept my phone.
My eyes flew over the words on my lock screen, already formulating a response before I’d even fully opened the Instagram app.
“What’d he say?” Lexie asked casually.
Too casually.
I eyed her suspiciously. “Do you know anything about this?”
“About what?”
I snorted, but followed her lead, reading the message out loud.
@Brent22Jean: Any chance you’d be interested in coming to a Halloween party this weekend?
Lexie smirked when I finished. “He may have asked for my assistance.”
My eyes narrowed. “With what, exactly?”
“Making sure you show up to that party.”
“Lexie…” I groaned.
“Look,” Lexie said, pulling up the little stool I’d bought for my makeup vanity to sit next to me. “You’re too chickenshit to go out on an actual date with the guy, even if it’s something as harmless as drinks. That’s fine. I think you’re insane because he’s hot as fuck, and clearly into you, but you do you, sis. This is your chance to spend some time with him with absolutely zero pressure. The party will be packed, and if you get uncomfortable, we’ll be there to have your back.”
“We?”
“You really think I’d let you go alone? Or that Ames, Kimber, and I would miss out on a Halloween party thrown by a bunch of hockey players?”
Fair enough.
“I just…I have so much shit to do this weekend,” I protested weakly.
Lexie crossed one leg atop the other and folded her arms over her chest, staring me down. I was at a gross disadvantage for this argument, a position I hated to find myself in.
“I’m not giving in to a single one of your lame ass excuses,” Lexie said, her expression stern. “So buck up, buttercup. You’re young, you’re hot, and a sexy ass hockey player personally invited you to this party. So you’re going, and that’s the end of it.”
Before I could protest—though, it was impossible to argue with her, which was saying something considering I was in school to become an attorney—Lexie stood and strode from the room.
So that’s how I found myself in the car—Kimber at the wheel, Amelia in the passenger seat,
Lexie and I in the back passing a bottle of tequila back and forth—on the way to Greektown.
“What exactly is this place?” Kimber asked as she stopped at a light.
“I have no idea,” I said, dabbing a dribble of liquor off my chin that splashed when she’d hit a pothole. Hopefully it hadn’t ruined my makeup. I passed the bottle back to Lexie. “Brent just sent me the address and told me to come any time after seven.”
Though it was dim in the car, I saw each of my friends glance at the clock on the dash.
Seven oh five.
“Bit eager, aren’t we?” Lexie asked with a snort.
“Fuck you.”
“I can’t imagine there are too many event spaces in Greektown,” Amelia mused, ignoring my and Lexie’s squabble. “Maybe they rented out the casino or something.”
“Just drive,” Lexie said, and I pinched her thigh. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”
Less than two minutes later, we pulled up to the building. Out front, a valet approached the driver’s side window, which Kimber rolled down. A gust of frigid wind blew into the car, raising goosebumps on my exposed thighs, the only stretch of skin visible in my costume.
“Can I help you?”
“We’re here for the party?” Kimber sounded unsure, and I knew that wouldn’t help matters with this guy who clearly fancied himself security for a Taylor Swift concert.
“Who invited you?”
“Brent Jean.”
The valet’s gaze narrowed. “I’m not sure—”
“They’re with me!” a voice yelled from the sidewalk, and my head whipped in that direction.
At the sight of him, all of my nerves inexplicably vanished. When I rolled my window down and his eyes met mine, the smile that graced his lips could’ve stopped traffic. And it was directed at me.
Fucking swoon. He was beautiful, and I hoped I got the chance to tell him that tonight.
Dressed as Superman moonlighting as Clark Kent, Brent sauntered toward our car. The artfully swept back hair and thick-framed glasses were really doing it for me. The dress pants that molded to his thick thighs and perfect ass, and the way his white button-up strained against his biceps certainly didn’t hurt matters.
“Hey,” he said, white teeth glinting in the street lights as he bent so our faces were level. “Fancy seeing you here.”
My cheeks heated, and I was thankful for the darkness that hopefully hid the worst of it. Feigning nonchalance, I shrugged. “I had some free time.”
Brent chuckled, the sound a warm caress to my body, raising goosebumps exactly like the chilled air had. Then he straightened and, over the roof, told the valet to take care of our vehicle.
We all scrambled out, following him onto the sidewalk and toward the nondescript brick building dominating the corner of the block.
“What is this place?” I asked as we approached the glass and metal door.
“You’ll see,” he said with a sly grin as he turned away from me to hold the door open for us. I entered first, my friends following me into the small foyer with a giant freight elevator along one wall, an ascending staircase to our right, and a wall of ancient and clearly unused mailboxes to the left.
Once the five of us were inside the elevator, Brent closed the door—I nearly groaned at the sight of his biceps and back muscles bunching as he did—and pressed the button for the fifth floor.
“You’re not taking us somewhere to kill us, are you?” Amelia blurted.
“What the fuck, Ames?” I said as I elbowed her in the side.
My friends had a terrible habit of embarrassing me—it was hard not to when they knew my deepest, darkest secrets—but I really wished they’d pull it together in Brent’s presence.
Thankfully, Brent only barked out an amused laugh. “Absolutely not,” he assured Amelia. “I just want this to be a surprise. This is one of my favorite places.”
When we arrived at the fifth floor, the elevator opened to reveal a long hallway with a single large door about halfway down. Voices and the thumping of bass came from beyond.
“Are you ready?” Brent asked when we reached the door. Behind the thick, black frames of his costume glasses, his blue eyes twinkled.
The bass was heavier here, vibrating against the soles of my shoes and up my legs. I briefly wondered if walking into whatever lay beyond that door was a good idea after all. Outside of what the media spoon-fed the masses, I didn’t actually know much about him. I liked being in control, and relinquishing that in this moment was proving to be more difficult than I’d expected.
I was seconds away from turning tail when Brent slid the door open.
“Welcome to the loft,” Brent said with a flourish.
“Oh. My. God.”
I would’ve echoed Amelia’s sentiment had I not been rendered momentarily speechless. Who knew something like this place existed in the heart of Greektown, Detroit, of all places?
“Loft” was a woefully inadequate term to describe the space that took up no less than half a city block, and to say it was industrial would have been an understatement, though no other word came to mind. The walls consisted of metal sheets screwed directly into the frame of the building and worn brick along the exterior. Exposed heating and cooling ducts crisscrossed over the ceiling. The floor was poured concrete that had probably once been polished to a high shine but was now scuffed in high-traffic areas. There were large couches and comfortable-looking armchairs arranged sporadically about the space in conversational groupings, and a giant glass and metal bar dominated the center of the wall to my left.
There were people everywhere.
“What do you think?” Brent asked me, raising his voice to be heard over the old school Eminem blasting from the sound system.
“It’s definitely not what I was expecting!”
“In a good or bad way?”
I glanced up at him then, and something in my face must’ve emboldened him to reach for me, because he settled a warm hand on the small of my back, bringing us closer so we didn’t have to scream at each other.
“Definitely a good way,” I answered with a grin.
“Good,” he said, smile unfurling to match. Then he turned to my friends. “Now how about we get you ladies some drinks?”
“Hell yes,” Lexie said from behind me, and as a group, we migrated toward the alcohol.
“You can order whatever you want.” Brent told them. “It’s fully stocked and completely free.”
Lexie, apparently needing no further encouragement, moved away from us to find an empty space at the other end.
“‘Free alcohol’ are my two favorite words,” Kimber said. Amelia nodded in agreement, and both of them slid up to the bar in the middle of the throng.
I didn’t follow, though, and Brent remained at my side. Instead, I spun in a slow circle, taking in the space. The bodies writhing to the music, the clusters of people conversing, laughing, and drinking. This party might be hosted by NHL players, but it was really no different than the numerous house parties I’d attended during undergrad in East Lansing.
Before I could unroot myself and head for the bar, Brent leaned close.
“I love your costume.”
I snapped my eyes to his, then glanced down at myself. For years, I’d been dying to dress up as Alicia Silverstone in Clueless, and this year had been my chance at last. I’d donned Cher’s iconic yellow plaid skirt and jacket combo, white socks pulled up to my knees, my feet stuffed into white patent leather t-strap heels I’d scored at a thrift store only yesterday. I’d left my long hair down in a straight blonde curtain.
“And I love yours,” I told him. With the glasses, the white shirt unbuttoned to reveal a blue tee emblazoned with the Superman logo, and those dress pants, he was a wet dream come to life. Not to mention, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, showcasing both forearms covered in tattoos, well…I was a fucking goner.
“What do you want to drink?” he asked, close enough now that the words were barely above a whisper.
“Beer is good.”
“Anything in particular? ‘Beer’ is a pretty broad category.”
“I hate IPAs and anything too heavy,” I said. “I’m partial to lighter craft Michigan beers.”
“I know just the one then,” he said, turning away from me and offering our drink order to the bartender. A minute later, the guy pushed two full-to-the-brim glasses across the counter to us.
I accepted mine from Brent and took a tentative sip. It was crisp and cool and went down smooth—exactly how I liked it.
“I love it,” I said when Brent shot me an imploring look. “What is it?”
“It’s a light lager from this brewery in the Upper Peninsula. It’s not widely available down here yet, but it’s Mitch’s favorite, so he pays a pretty penny to stock kegs of it. Perks of being a professional athlete,” he said with a wink.
“Mitch Frambough owns this?”
“I sure do,” the man in question said as he approached me and Brent.
Where Brent was tall and broad shouldered but not overly bulky, Mitch was a giant. Though only an inch of height tipped the scales in Mitch’s favor, everything else about him was just…big. Thick arms and thighs, a broad torso, and heavy, barely wavy blond hair that fell to his shoulders—Mitch was built more like a linebacker than a hockey defenseman. He was dressed, of all things, like a pilot, though his cap was settled backward on his head, aviators hooked on his shirt collar.
I felt about two inches tall standing between them.
“This place is incredible,” I told him.
Mitch offered me a wide, warm smile. “Thank you. I take it you’re Berkley.”
“I sure am.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet the girl who has our boy so spun out.”
Next to me, Brent groaned, but I was openly pleased that I wasn’t the only one whose friends embarrassed them for no good reason.
“I fucking hate you,” Brent said to Mitch, giving me an apologetic look that fell somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “I’m not spun out,” he added to me. “I just…want to get to know you.”
Internally, I was screaming and jumping for joy. Outwardly, I merely winked.
“I think we can make that happen.”
For tonight, anyway.
I’m not saying it made sense, but for tonight, I could fully slide into the costume I wore and be someone else. I could forget about law school and my career aspirations. I could forget about my shitty dating history and how badly I’d been hurt before. I could even forget about the fact that Brent had heartbreak written all over him in the form of dark hair, light eyes, and sexy tattoos. Tonight, he wasn’t NHL star Brent Jean and I wasn’t some random nobody. For tonight, I could simply be a girl, basking in the attention of a charming and attractive man.
Brent opened his mouth to say something, but the opening notes of “C’Mon” by Ke$ha pounded through the speakers, injecting me with a shot of pure nostalgia. As one of our favorite pregame songs, me and my friends had listened to it on repeat in college before going to our favorite dive bar in downtown EL.
As if I’d summoned her, Lexie approached our group, and introductions between her and Mitch were made. Maybe I imagined it, or maybe I was reading too much into things thanks to my own fantasies coming to life with Brent at my side, but I swear I detected something spark to life between the two of them.
Before I could examine it further, Amelia’s excited scream sounded from somewhere across the room, and I looked to Brent apologetically.
“I’m sorry!” I shouted as Lexie tugged me toward the dance floor. “I’ll be back!”
I passed through the crush of bodies until I was in the center of the crowd and unleashed myself. With my girls around me, I shook and shimmied to the beat, letting my instincts lead me. Every thought eddied out of my head as I lost myself to the music.
One song bled into the next, and still I danced.
Kimber left and returned with a fresh round of drinks, and I was unbothered by the splashes on my toes as I continued to move.
Hands snaked around my waist, and I briefly stiffened before the scent I’d already come to associate with Brent—clean and crisp with a hint of spiciness—settled around me.
“This okay?” he asked, voice husky in my ear.
“God, yes,” I breathed. “More than.”
I should be embarrassed by how freely the words left me, but all I felt was a sense of rightness settling over me.
Brent and I swayed to the beat of an Ice Spice chart-topper, followed by another rap hit by someone I didn’t recognize.
On and on the music played, and still, Brent and I danced.
Right when I was about to turn to Brent and tell him I needed a break, “Faithfully” by Journey came on, and when he spun me to face him, his arms wrapping tight around my middle and pulling me close, I figured one more song couldn’t hurt.
Before I could stop myself, I buried my face in his chest and inhaled, emboldened by proximity and the alcohol in my veins.
Call me crazy, but something about being with him like this felt right. Was I allowed to have thoughts like that after spending less than an hour around him? Probably not. But the fact that this man—Brent freaking Jean—was giving me the time of day was a miracle. I planned to milk it for all it was worth.
Even if there was a tiny voice in the back of my mind warning me to tread lightly.
I told it to shut up and let me enjoy this moment.
When I saw my friends pointing and making inappropriate thrusting motions from across the room, I flipped them off, hoping Brent didn’t see. The last thing I needed was for my friends to send Brent running, deciding that a girl who came with that kind of posse wasn’t worth the trouble. He only pulled me closer, resting his chin atop my head. When the song ended and a bass-heavy, up-tempo number replaced it, we didn’t break apart. Though I’d been ready to take a breather before Journey played, the way he gripped my hips and sped our swaying to match the beat…well, there was no way in hell I was walking away.
Especially not when he spun me again and the hard length of his cock pressed against my backside.
It was a powerful, heady realization, to know I turned him on in this way. His dating—and I meant “dating” loosely—history included models, B-list actresses, and beautiful influencers, but to know I was the one who’d made him hard simply from dancing? That was a high unlike any other.
Brent leaned in until his lips brushed my ear. “This doesn’t bother you, does it?”
“Definitely not.”
I felt his grin against the side of my neck a moment before he pressed a kiss there, then gripped my hips tighter and fit our bodies more closely together.
Several songs later, when Brent attempted to spin me out but I stumbled a step, he steadied me, face etched with concern.
“Are you okay?”
“My left foot is asleep!” I yelled, laughing in surprise. I’d been so consumed by Brent that I’d willfully ignored the pain in my feet from these infernal shoes.
“Let’s go sit,” he said, and before I could take a step in the direction of the couch he’d indicated, he swept me off my feet and carried me through the crowd.
“I guess you’re more like Clark Kent than I thought.”
Brent only smirked. “You’re in pain,” he said. “The least I can do is carry you.”
I wasn’t going to argue. I loved being wrapped up in him, his strong arms cradling my body and moving easily like I weighed next to nothing.
Instead of putting me down first and sitting next to me, Brent dropped himself onto the couch and settled me across his lap. For untold moments, we simply stared at each other until my breathlessness could no longer be attributed to dancing.
Brent’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though considering something, and he licked his bottom lip in silent question. I knew what he was asking, and I nodded once.
A flash of something that looked like triumph shot across Brent’s eyes, and my blood heated in response as he tilted his head and leaned in.
“Jean!” someone yelled behind me, startling me, and I sprang away so fast I nearly fell off Brent’s lap. Only his quick reflexes kept me upright.
“Reid,” he gritted out when his teammate reached us. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“You could, but you wouldn’t have a ride home. I’m heading out.” Reid’s expression was sheepish, as though he understood what he’d just interrupted. The way Brent’s body tensed told me he’d happily punch Cole for the intrusion. I settled my hand on his arm and squeezed.
“Berkley Daniels,” I said, extending my hand to Brent’s teammate.
“Cole Reid,” he said, accepting my hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I’ve seen you play a lot,” I offered dumbly. Thankfully, Cole and Brent both laughed, then Brent gave me an apologetic smile.
“I’m so sorry, but we’ve got practice early, and Cole is my ride home.”
Crestfallen, I dropped my chin and nodded. “Okay.” Then I asked, “Do we have to leave, too?”
Brent shook his head. “Nah. Mitch has people that’ll make sure things don’t get out of hand when he’s not around. Stay. Enjoy yourselves. We’ll talk soon, right?”
“Of course,” I promised. “Maybe we could finally get that drink?”
“How about dinner?”
I couldn’t help but grin. He may be dipping out before I was ready to let him go—though I didn’t think I ever would be—but he wanted to see me again. Hope and excitement bloomed in my chest.
“I would love that,” I said. “Give me your phone.”
Withdrawing it from his back pocket, he unlocked it and passed it over. I tapped around, adding my name and number to his contacts, even going so far as to snap an overexposed selfie to use as my contact photo. When I gave it back, he grinned. I’d saved myself as “Berkley” with a little heart-eyed emoji next to it.
“Text me,” I told him.
“I’ll call you,” he amended.
“Old school. I like it.”
“What can I say?” Brent said with a shrug. “I’m an old-fashioned kinda guy.”
“Well, then,” I said. “Don’t keep me waiting on your call long.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Brent bent and pressed a kiss to my cheek, setting the nerve endings there alight. “See you soon, Berkley.”
“Bye,” I said, and watched his retreating form until the sliding metal door of the loft entrance blocked him from view.
Not two seconds later, my phone rang.