Chapter 16
CALLUM
ZambrOnies
Theo-who-won’t-shut-up:
WHERE MY BOYZ AT
Rohan:
Literally standing two feet from you.
Theo-who-won’t-shut-up:
Not you, Yogi.
Don’t beg for Daddy’s attention.
*Rohan has left the chat*
*Theo has added Rohan to the chat.*
Theo-who-won’t-shut-up:
Jeez, so sensitive
Rookie:
I miss Chloe. These girls are scary.
Mateo:
And you don’t find Chloe scary?
Rookie:
She’s terrifying. But awesome.
Theo-who-won’t-shut-up:
Dude, you’re down bad
But at least you’re getting laid
Spuddy, any luck?
Rohan:
I think I saw him at a booth somewhere.
Mateo:
I’m in bed. Moore, get the kids back to the hotel in one piece. And by kids, I mean Novak.
Theo-who-won’t-shut-up:
Hey!
Rohan:
Why do I have to babysit? This is dumb.
Mateo:
You’re earning that A on your jersey, Moore.
Me:
If you don’t hear from me in fifteen minutes, assume I have died of boredom
Rookie:
Weren’t you with a smoking hot woman?
Theo-who-won’t-shut-up:
He is?!
Rookie:
Dude she looked like Jessica Rabbit’s sexy cousin
Theo-who-won’t-shut-up:
YAAAS! CAL’S GETTING IT UP AGAIN.
You go, my boy!
Need tips?
Me:
Seriously, fuck you
Theo-who-won’t-shut-up:
I would but ive got a sexy librarian im taking back to the room.
Rohan:
She’s a waitress, dumbass.
Theo-who-won’t-shut-up:
Not tonight
shes a librarian and imma be the naughty boy with late fines
Me:
Gross
Turning off this chat now
Mateo:
That’s more information than I ever need, Novak.
Filter? Apply it.
Rookie:
I feel like I shouldn’t be here. Should I be here?
Theo-who-won’t-shut-up:
Why can’t you fuckers be happy for me?
Rohan:
I’ll pay you to let me leave this hellhole.
Theo-who-won’t-shut-up:
I’ll follow you to the ends of Earth, big bear
*Rohan has left the chat*
Theo-who-won’t-shut up:
I feel so loved.
Normally, I would’ve laughed. Rohan’s frustration with our resident unhinged golden-retriever-in-human-form is usually the kind of entertainment that leaves the entire team in splits.
But my disposition lately has been, for lack of a better word, stormy.
I’m not someone who has too many of these days so, when my mood plummets and remains in the valleys of doom and despair, I usually have a pretty clear understanding of why.
I simply don’t want to think about that reason. Or her pretty eyes. Or her mouth, or the fact that, if she weren’t related to Moore, my dick would’ve been intimately acquainted with every hole in her body by now.
I shake my head, trying to knock away those images. I turn to the person nearby, finding another set of brown eyes on me. Unlike the ones haunting me, these seem. . . forgettable.
She’s not the one. The thought plays in my head like a goddamn alarm I can’t switch off.
I’m a virile male in my prime. A professional athlete who just helped his team decimate the competition in a game we won 5-0. I’m lauded for my cool head and stamina on ice. And off the ice? Well, no woman’s ever left my bed early or dissatisfied.
Then why is the thought of having to flirt with this redhead so goddamn exhausting? She’s interested. I could spout the alphabet wrong and she’d still offer me a blowie. But I’m weighed down with a discomfort I don’t understand.
“So,” I falter, already unsure of what to say. “D-do you like potatoes?”
This woman who’s been flirting with me for the last ten minutes stares like I’ve just communicated with her in morse code. I’m desperate. I need to find a connection somewhere. Anywhere. I’ll even settle for her knowing how to spell the fucking word at this point.
She thinks—a little too hard, in my opinion. Her eyelids flutter like her entire system is buffering because of a simple question.
“Hey,” I try again, because, apparently, I don’t know when to quit. “How did the Irish potato become bilingual?”
What the fuck is up with me? Why can’t I stop talking about potatoes? Someone stop me!
A divot forms between her brows. She looks so awkward, I’d laugh if I wasn’t so embarrassed.
“He became a French Fry.” I force out a guffaw, hoping, fucking praying, for something to click.
Brittany—or is it Bethany?—sits there and gawks, her mouth opening once before she shakes her head.
“Are you hungry? Did you want to order French fries?” she asks, trying to brighten her confused smile into something more alluring.
Her lips brush my ears when she leans in and I suppress an alarming urge to shove her away.
The heavy scent of her perfume is cloying.
Tension coils beneath my skin as she whispers, “Maybe after you’re done with the fries, we can find something else to do together. Alone.”
She leans back, her lower lip tucked beneath her teeth in a practiced move clearly intended for seduction. That look promises every distraction I hoped to find tonight but. . .
Nothing. I feel nothing. Not a single stirring of attraction, not a shred of desire for anything other than the quiet of my hotel room where I can wrap my hands around my cock and think of—
I groan, dropping my head back with a thump against the wall behind me.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. With each bump, I wait for sensibility to return.
I’d happily induce a concussion if that would help.
But, as it stands, I have a sinking feeling that nothing is going to rid me of my problem except the woman I can’t have.
“A-are you okay?”
I bark out a single, frustrated laugh before cracking an eye open. She looks like she’s not sure if I’m all there anymore and, honestly? I don’t blame her.
She seems nice. Six months ago, I would’ve had no hesitation locking this down. We’d have been heading to a hotel right about now, all over each other.
Past her shoulder, I see Moore notice me, his eyes dipping to the leggy redhead.
She chooses that moment to place her hand on my forearm and lean in, pressing her boob against my side.
The minute arch of Moore’s brow, like he’s not surprised to see a woman getting handsy with me, feels like I’ve been socked in the head by a wayward puck.
I don’t know why, but the conclusion he’s clearly drawn bothers me. I draw away from her touch but when I look again, Moore is gone, probably keeping Novak out of trouble.
“I’m sorry. Not feeling well,” I explain. Brit-Beth looks irritated for a moment before her shoulders lower.
“Sorry.” I reach for the back of her hand to pat her but think better of it. No reason to give her any wrong signals. “It’s not you. I’m—”
“Having an off day?”
I nod. “Maybe another time?”
“Maybe.” She grabs her martini before leaving the booth to join her friends.
I’m thankful she took the rejection in stride.
Her graciousness is not lost on me, and I feel terrible I wasted her evening.
Beth-Brit—god, I’m a dick for not remembering her name—was someone I would’ve enjoyed spending time with.
She’s easy on the eyes, nice vibe. She deserves someone better than me, even if for one night.
She deserves someone who sees her when he looks at her, instead of picturing someone else altogether.
Someone with dark hair and kissable lips.
Someone whose shy smile and gentle laughter have become my reason for losing sleep.
Snatching my drink, I chug the last of it.
Maybe it’s time to call it a night and return to the hotel.
Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I swipe it open to text the guys when my gaze falls on the chat right below.
I have no control over myself when my fingers automatically open the text thread between me and Alia.
I scroll slowly, reading through the history with a wistful desperation I’ve never experienced before. I’m no different than a toddler reduced to licking a chocolate wrapper to make the taste last longer. Needless to say, the old texts only make the absence of new ones more conspicuous.
Alia has been distant since I all but rejected her. I groan into my empty mug, reliving the horror of that moment. It is now part of the collection of memories I will cringe at even when I’m sixty, because what fucking idiot pats a beautiful woman on the head when she’s expecting a kiss?
I’m not a fool. Usually. I understand things well enough to know Alia is attracted to me. And a dirty politician in a church has a better chance at salvation than I would if I tried denying my attraction to her.
I thought being friends with her would be fine, but then she looked at me with those gorgeous, fuck-me eyes, practically begging me to lap her up like a man starved. Which I am.
I’m famished and craving Alia-à-la-mode with a cherry on top. Or on her tits.
My mind explodes with visions of a naked Alia laid out in bed with some strategically placed whipped cream and cherries. I go from being hungry to sporting a painful half-chub. I could cry but then I’d have to explain why I’m sobbing alone like a little bitch while holding my boner in public.
If it wasn’t for my promise, Alia would’ve found herself propped up atop that park bench with her legs wrapped around my hips and my hands marking her ass. The image of it flares to life in my mind and my cock stiffens.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I reach under the table to adjust myself, forcing myself to think of things to deflate my unintended erection.
Slimy lettuce on my burger. The sticky floors of a movie theatre.
Having to hug an ultra-sweaty fan who’s trying to grope me.
Novak parading around the locker room naked, asking us if his butt is round or flat.
I breathe a little easier when this disgusting exercise helps. My eyes fall on her contact and I pause. The little green phone icon beckons me like a siren call, enticing me to re-establish lines of communication.
She needs friends. I’m her friend. I should check in on her. What if she’s thinking of me like I’m thinking of her?
No! She’s Rohan’s little cousin!
Off. Fucking. Limits.
I turn my phone off and shove it into my pocket, determined to stay the hell away from her.
It’s bad enough that I wrap my hand around my rock-hard cock each night and beat it like it owes me money, all the while picturing the only face to which I’m currently able to climax.
I imagine her tan skin moving against mine, the length of her hair wrapped around my fist, her curious gaze widening in wonder as she writhes under me, her body twisting when I fill her up.
It’s disconcerting that, every time I’ve spoken with another woman, my cock refuses to light the fuse.
Sitting in a noisy bar in Seattle, surrounded by revelry and drunken cheer, I come to the terrifying conclusion that, while Rohan Moore has the ability to dislodge my balls, Alia Joshi is the one with a firm grip on them.