25. PARKER
TWENTY-FIVE
PARKER
Conishkin and I sit at the front of the team plane.
I warned Connor not to be overly familiar when we were with everyone else, so he’s sitting in the row behind us, and it makes my gut swim to know that I kissed him goodbye this morning.
Goodbye for, like, thirty minutes while we traveled separately to the airport.
The cloak-and-dagger secrecy is fun, I can’t deny that—if I ignore how detrimental to our lives this whole thing would be if it ever got out. Connor let his brothers and Knox know, but while there’s nothing seedy or abusive going on, we’re both aware of how inappropriate our situation is. No one we don’t trust can find out.
For now, all I’m letting myself focus on is the regular orgasms with a guy who’s not only hot but also as affectionate as I am and that we’re having fun while we do it.
“Is that … a rat?” Macklin asks, squinting at Conishkin’s cage.
“Yep. I adopted him.”
Macklin hmpfs . “What’s its name?”
I freeze. When I’d named him Conishkin, I hadn’t thought far enough ahead. If I tell the truth, it might open up questions about why. Favoritism accusations will be thrown around, and I don’t want people paying too much attention to us. The last thing I need is for my first stint as team owner to be shrouded with controversy. That’s no way to honor Dad.
“Nish.” The warm voice over my shoulder fills me with relief.
I turn to where Connor has his elbow propped against the top of my seat. “Yes. Nish.”
“He’s our new mascot,” Connor says. “If you ask me, I think Mr. Duchene secretly wanted to buy Florida and got stuck with us.”
“I’m good with my choice.” I use my most professional voice and ignore the way I want to smile. My unrequited high school crush has turned into infatuation when it comes to Connor, and considering it’s reciprocated this time, I’m going to enjoy it. I’m going to lean into those butterflies and the urges to text. I’m going to enjoy the snuggles and the sex and waking up to him making me coffee.
Even if all this is temporary while he figures himself out, I’ll never regret it.
“Mascot …” Macklin repeats. He must be used to hockey players’ antics because he lets it go pretty quickly. “Lucky us.”
“I’ll keep him in his cage, don’t worry.” It’s hard not to laugh over big, tough jocks being thrown by a tiny little rat.
Maybe I should have gotten a pet sooner. Like in high school.
It wouldn’t have made me even more of a target at all.
I’m hit with a wave of Connor’s familiar aftershave as he leans back into his seat, and those butterflies kick up again.
We land in Dallas, and I keep my eyes averted from Connor the entire time we’re leaving the plane.
There has already been speculation about why I’m flying with them and not chartering my own jet, and if this ever gets out, I’m sure people will speculate it’s because of Connor, but my money doesn’t change the fact that deep down, I’m a simple guy.
Who bought a hockey team.
So maybe I’m bullshitting myself and I’m more extravagant than I like to think, but I’d prefer to go through life not being noticed, and a private jet doesn’t scream anonymity.
I get friendly smiles and disinterested looks from the team as they pass, and at least they’re used to me now. I might be back in suits because I feel more comfortable, but I’m still making an effort to be personable, and it’s helping them be less scared of me.
Easton definitely seems less scared of me, given the way he looks me over as he hurries to fall into step with Munter.
Here I was, worried about Connor being the one to give us away when I should have been worried about his brother. Fuck. Imagine if people start speculating that I’m sleeping with him ?
Our chartered bus is waiting to take us to the hotel, and as much as I want to text Connor and have him come to my room once we get there, I won’t. I’m also not planning to join in the team dinner. They have a practice skate tomorrow, then the game tomorrow night, then back on the plane to Vegas the next morning. We have three away games before heading back to Colorado, and somehow, I need to go almost a week keeping my hands to myself.
I don’t know how Easton and Knox do it.
Luckily, I have self-control. Allegedly. For the next week, I’ll look after Conishkin and watch hockey. I’ve gone for way longer than that without sex, so this shouldn’t be an issue at all.
Still, it’s hard not to be disappointed when midnight comes and goes with no sneaky knock on my door.
After room service that looked on the undercooked side and a night with crappy sleep, I stare at my phone, debating if I should text him good morning. Does that muddy what we are? What if he’s with someone from the team and they see ?
I’m about to put my phone down when a text comes through with his name on it.
Spooning a pillow isn’t the same.
Hello, infatuation, and welcome back from that five-second vacation you took. My nerves take over, and I have no clue what I’m supposed to write back to that. “Being spooned by my pillow wasn’t the same either” is less cute and flirty and more on the psychotic end of the spectrum. I badly want to type something that will make him smile as well, but I’m not good at this. I’ve had no practice, my ex wasn’t overly affectionate or sweet, and being cool isn’t something I’ve ever been. It doesn’t magically change now that I’m getting off with a hockey god.
The illusion for him is going to burst very fucking quickly if I don’t get myself together.
Only six days left until we’re home!
I die the second I hit Send. Is that too presumptive? Too stalkerish? Six days, nine hours, and fifty-two minutes until we land and I can drag you back to my sex cave.
I drop my face in my hand. What the hell have I done?
His reply comes through.
But who’s counting?
There. That’s exactly what I was worried about. Now he thinks I’m obsessed with getting him back home, like I even have that right. Damn it, Connor, I have a hookup app, and I’m not afraid to use it.
I’m not a clingy idiot.
I’m not.
I’m typing back faster than I can think.
Not me. It was just a general observation. Six isn’t a high number to count to.
And now, it sounds like I’m calling him dumb.
Connor:
Damn. I guess I’m the only one who can’t wait then. Six days and ten hours, in case you were wondering. ; )
Relief melts through the tension in my muscles. Then, another message quickly follows, and it takes me a moment to work out what I’m looking at.
It’s a photo.
Of his abs.
Connor’s abs.
On my phone.
I’ve been sent a million and one dick pics before, but never in my life have I seen something so sexy. My mind turns to an endless stream of gah urg ma haahhhh as I try to figure out if he sent the picture to turn me on, and if he did, does he know what I’m planning to do with that later?
Me:
That photo is mine now.
Connor:
Thought it might tide you over until we’re home again.
Me:
And just checking, when we are home, I’ll be able to see those in real life?
Connor:
If you play your cards right. Until then, I wouldn’t say no to my own picture.
His … own picture? Of me? I glance down at my torso like abs might magically appear, but nope. Still scrawny and pale.
Me:
Are you sure you sent that text to the right person?
Connor:
You’re an idiot. Now show me that V.
That “V” is my hips, but it’s not like I can say no, based on my lack of abs, when he already knows this about me and he’s asking anyway.
So with a breath of courage, I hook my thumb into the front of my pajama pants, tug them down enough for a glimpse of pubes, then screw my eyes up and snap a picture. I text it to him without looking because otherwise I’ll be here all morning, analyzing and overanalyzing. Maybe I should make plans to go to the gym today? Building muscle is something I could maybe get into?
I’m terrified to see his reply, but the second it comes through, I’m scrambling to open it. And it’s one word.
Daaaaaaaaamn.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a better message in my life.