11. Mason
Chapter 11
Mason
A s soon as we walk into the bar, my eyes zero in on Ladybug, and my fucking cock gets harder than a hockey puck—and those things can break the bones in your hand.
I blame the dress she is wearing. It’s low cut and shows off her perfect breasts in all their ivory glory. It doesn’t help that I’ve always been a boob aficionado, even if said boobs are attached to someone I shouldn’t want anything to do with.
Fuck me. It’s bad enough I thought about this woman each time I jerked off in the past two weeks. Now she’s giving me hard-ons while being dressed? If my teammates didn’t love this bar as much as they do, I’d punch a hole in the wall, but after the last such incident, the owner said he’d ban us if we broke so much as someone’s nail.
I check if my teammates are staring at Sophia, ready to break bones instead of walls if they are.
Nope. They’re too busy with the horde of blonde puck bunnies that accosted us outside.
I grit my teeth and blame my intense swirl of emotions on the endorphin rush from the win. My teammates and I did all we could to burn off the crazy victory-related energy, from butting heads (a celebratory tradition in our sport) to hugging it out. This trip to the bar was supposed to be a continuation of the jubilee, but now it’s ruined, at least for me.
No. Wait. Maybe I can ply her with drinks and ask her to sell?
Or maybe not.
As soon as Ladybug spots me, her eyes narrow into tiny amber slits.
Pretty slits, but still.
She strides angrily my way.
This is not good.
“Don’t follow me,” I bark at my boisterous teammates and hurry forward to meet her out of their earshot.
To my surprise, not a single nosy busybody comes after me—probably because they’re too occupied with the blondes.
Ladybug and I come face to face in about the middle of the bar, and she nearly crashes into me, her ample bosom heaving and driving my cock insane.
“Are you stalking me again?” she demands.
I curl my upper lip. “Yeah. I always bring my whole team when on the prowl.”
“Don’t you mean my team?” Even her nostrils flare in a pretty fashion, somehow.
With an effort of will that should win me some sort of peace prize, I raise my hands, palms out. “I swear on our next game, I had no idea you’d be here.” She looks slightly mollified, so I go on. “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink? I promise not to pester you about selling the team.”
It will be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, second only to not staring at her breasts, but if I manage to bury the hatchet with her once and for all, then maybe when?—
“Fine,” she says, much to my shock. “One drink.”
“Two.” I have no idea why I just said that. The more drinks, the more chances to make a social faux pas—one that will likely involve her boobs.
“It’s a deal.”
She leads me over to her friend—Abigail, I think her name was. The friend’s expression reminds me of the one Spike gets when he corners a hapless spider in the corner to “play with it.”
“I’ve just realized I have to head out,” Abigail says and feigns regret very poorly.
“Why?” Sophia demands.
“It’s related to my job search,” Abigail says. “A friend of a friend told me they know someone at Octothorpe. I want to talk to them ASAP.”
Emergency job search conversation? At night? She couldn’t come up with something better?
To my surprise, Sophia seems to buy it because she says, “Can you at least stay for one more drink?”
“Sure,” Abigail says.
I motion to the bartender. “Another of whatever the ladies were having and a vodka for me.” Turning back to Abigail, I say, “You know, I have a good friend who works at Octothorpe. If tonight’s connection doesn’t work out for you, I can make an introduction.” And considering that tonight’s connection is imaginary, why would it work out?
“That would be amazing.” Abigail’s eyes gleam excitedly, confirming the suspected lie.
For the first time, Sophia looks at me with almost no hostility. “Why would you do that?”
I shrug. “If Abigail were to get the job, Landon—that’s my friend—would get a generous recruitment bonus from Octothorpe and therefore owe me one.”
“Ah, of course,” Sophia says and picks up a giant white glass from the bar. “I should’ve known that it would somehow benefit you.”
I gape at the monstrosity in her hands. “What is that?”
Abigail chuckles, and Sophia gives her a stare usually reserved for me. “It’s a Bailey’s cookies and cream milkshake.”
I squint at the atrocity in the glass—which dwarfs everything around it, even Sophia’s ample bosom. “Are those crushed Oreos?”
“Yes,” Sophia says with an eyeroll. “The drink has the word ‘cookies’ in the title.”
“And fudge?” Though I’m not into sugary concoctions, an image pops into my brain, one where I’m smearing fudge over her pale, smooth, perky?—
“It’s used as a topping,” Sophia says. “It’s delicious.”
I surreptitiously rearrange my cock. “It probably has a quarter of my daily calorie intake.”
Wait. I shouldn’t have said that. I blame too much blood being away from my brain.
The slitty eyes are back. “Are you calling me fat?” Sophia hisses.
Abigail steps back, like she’s worried her friend might explode.
“Your body is actually perfect,” I say earnestly, and my cock strains against my boxers, as if in confirmation.
A blush spreads from her face down to her breasts, and it makes me want to toss her over my shoulder, caveman-style.
“Doesn’t vodka have a ton of calories?” Sophia gestures at my drink.
“Touché,” I reply. “A single shot is about a hundred calories, which is why I only indulge on a rare occasion.” And I don’t want to develop an addiction like my grandfather—the one who supposedly died of alcohol poisoning before I was born.
Good. Thinking about my family has slightly dampened my libido… that is, until Sophia takes another breath, causing her breasts to rise and fall.
Abigail sets her empty glass on the bar with a thud. “I hate to interrupt all this diet-oriented flirting, but I really have to go.”
“Good luck,” Sophia says.
“Thanks,” Abigail says and rushes away.
Sophia turns back to me and takes a big sip of her so-called drink. “Do you think there was a job thing, or was she just trying to leave us alone?”
So she’s not as gullible as I thought. “The latter, I’m sure.”
She cocks her head—and even that gesture is sensual when she does it, which is insane. “Could you really help her get a job at Octothorpe?”
“Of course.” I take out my iPhone. “Let’s exchange our contact information so you can pass me her resume.”
“How very Machiavellian.” She pulls out her phone. “You just want my number.”
I shrug.
She downs the rest of her dessert, then texts me and makes sure I text her back.
“Let me get you another drink.” I warily eye her empty glass. “Do you want the same thing?” I hope she says no because if she stomachs another one of those things, she might become diabetic and go into a coma on my watch.
She examines the bottles behind the bar. “Want to do tequila shots with me?”
I wince. “Tequila doesn’t agree with me.” In that the alcohol tolerance afforded to me by my Estonian genes goes out the window when I drink tequila—and this is after accounting for the fact that most brands of tequila have higher alcohol by volume content than most vodkas.
Sophia’s sexy evil grin makes me regret my admission. “It’s either tequila or another milkshake. Your choice.”
I wave at the bartender. “Two shots of your best tequila.”
“I can’t believe it,” Jason says, arriving with Parker just as the shots hit the bar. His speech is slurred. “You said you’d never drink ‘worm piss’ again.”
Fuck. I forgot the team was here, and now these two bozos have snuck up on us.
“Jason, Parker, this is Sophia,” I say pointedly. “The new team owner.”
“Oh,” Jason says stupidly.
“We’re going to be leaving,” Parker says, sounding much soberer than Jason, though that’s a low bar.
“Before you go.” Sophia downs her shot like it’s water. “It’s not a worm that you see inside bottles of mezcal. It’s moth larva.”
Why doesn’t mention of worms or moth larva help my stupid erection subside? Did one of my children—I mean, teammates—slip me some Viagra?
Jason elbows Parker. “Even the women he likes sound like nature shows.”
I glare at them both. Parker quickly gets the picture and drags Jason away to the dance floor, where they immediately start grinding on the blondes.
“Is Jason on the team?” Sophia asks. “I don’t remember seeing him on the ice.”
“He’s the goalie, so his mug is thankfully covered by a mask during games, sparing our fans the horror.”
“Is that a joke?” Sophia cocks her head again. “His face is actually quite handsome.”
It won’t be after I punch said stupid face, even if I have no idea why I suddenly want to. “You want an introduction?” After he sobers up, of course, and checks out of the hospital I’ll put him in.
She shakes her head. “I don’t date brutish men. Or even find them attractive.” She doesn’t add “present company included,” but I can tell she wants to.
I grit my teeth and take the shot, then grimace.
Whether we’re talking worm or moth larva, it’s still insect piss.
Sophia seems to enjoy my expression. “Another shot?”
“Is this a challenge?”
She replies by ordering four more tequila shots, “the cheaper the better.”
Fuck me. I’ve never tried the cheap stuff, but I’ve heard it tastes even worse, as hard as that is to believe.
“Cheers,” Sophia says and throws back the first shot, her face gleeful instead of grossed out.
How bad can it be?
I take the shot and gag. It’s like someone extracted the needles from the fucking cactus this drink was made from, dipped them into sewage, and scraped them down my throat.
And yet, miraculously, I’m still turned on.
“Another?” Sophia asks with a hiccup.
I glare at her. “Bring it on.”
What am I doing? She’s twenty-four and has the excuse of her frontal lobes still developing. I’m over a decade older and supposedly wiser, so I should put an end to this… but I take the shot glass, close my eyes, and experience the horrific taste once more.
“Admit defeat?” She gestures at two more shots.
Does she not understand what it means to be a competitive athlete? I drink not just the shot designated for me, but hers as well—and surprisingly, the last one doesn’t seem as bad as the rest.
“Give up,” I say when I catch my breath. “You’ll get alcohol poisoning way before I do.”
“Yeah, no.” She orders four more shots, uses two to catch up with me, then nods at the next one. “Want to give up?”
“No, but if that’s what it takes to save you from getting your stomach pumped tonight, so be it.” I push the tequila away.
She bats her fluffy eyelashes at me. “You care about my wellbeing that much?”
“No,” I lie. “I just figure that if you were to kick the bucket, whoever would inherit the team after you might be an even bigger pain in the ass.”
“Ah,” she says over a hiccup. “I’m the devil you know?”
“Exactly,” I reply, then realize I’m talking to her boobs instead of her face, so I lift my gaze.
“Sounds more like a bunch of excuses.” She grins devilishly—which hopefully means she didn’t notice where I was looking. “Lightweight.”
I’m the adult—or so I remind myself, over and over. “How about we pause our drinking contest for a few minutes and have a dance-off instead?” I suggest.
Given how much she’s had to drink, she’ll have enough trouble getting up from that chair, let alone managing a dance move.
To my shock, she gets to her feet with only a slight wobble, though even that might be my slightly blurred vision playing tricks.
Hmm. Maybe the last few drinks haven’t hit her liver yet?
I get up from the barstool myself, and the world around me slides around a little, as if I were back on the ice but without my skates.
Noticing my discomfort, Sophia arches an eyebrow. “Ready for that dance-off?”
Ready or not, I extend my hand to her, and when she takes it, the feeling of her soft skin on my callused palm makes my already-hard-for-too-long dick scream Estonian obscenities.
When Sophia isn’t looking, I readjust myself so I can walk despite the monster hard-on.
Somehow, we get to the dance floor.
My teammates make a wide circle for us, but their partners—the blondes—seem unhappy about something, at least if I go by the dirty looks that they give Sophia.
Sophia leans in and her juicy lips brush my ear, turning my cock green with jealousy and balls blue with?—
“Instead of competing,” she whispers, “do you want to do a more cooperative sort of dance?”
I draw back to stare at her dumbly. “Why?”
“Because I’ll concede the tequila contest if you say yes,” she says.
“No, I mean why dance ‘cooperatively?’” And doesn’t that merely mean “dance together?”
She shrugs. “I feel like making your little blonde fan club jealous.”
“Fuck, yes.” Wait, did I say that out loud? Well, whatever. I pull her so close that I can taste her mango-and-watermelon scent. “Let’s fucking dance.”