10. Chapter 10
Chapter ten
~DOMINIC~
The booth is too damn small for eight grown men built like tanks, but somehow we’re all crammed in like a pack of overfed wolves.
At least it’s only eight of us. If the whole roster came, the owners would have to close the place and start slaughtering livestock out back to feed us.
Plates of ribs and dripping burgers hit the table every thirty seconds, and fries disappear as if nobody here has seen carbs since the preseason.
“The nutritionist’s gonna have a fucking aneurysm,” I mutter, dunking a fry in mayo.
Jace shrugs. “We killed it last night. We’ve earned a damn burger.”
We won another home playoff game, and even though I’d planned grilled chicken and a salad when I brought them here, the guys descended on the menu like starved sharks at a shipwreck. All except Zed, who ordered grilled salmon and a Caesar salad without the croutons.
“Pretty sure that’s not how it works,” Tanner says.
“Pretty sure I don’t care, Tanny,” Jace fires back.
There’s comfortable chaos. It’s the good kind, the winning kind. Yet every few seconds, uninvited and unwelcome, the memory hits me again—Jessica’s lips on mine, the heat between her legs when I pressed my thigh against her, the sounds she made—
Stop.
Two plates land in front of Jace, one piled with wings, the other with a burger.
“You really gonna eat all of that?” Addams asks, eyebrows up.
“Yeah, fast metabolism,” Jace says, dragging the plates closer.
“Might be IBS,” I tell him solemnly, patting his shoulder .
I should be relaxed. We won. Playoffs look fucking good. But all I can think about is Jessica’s mouth and how I lost it like a rabid rookie with a crush.
Matt elbows me. “So, Captain… you wanna explain why you went viral again?”
Here we go.
Every sports outlet and social feed is stuffed with videos of me carrying Jessica out of the club two nights ago.
Miami Blazers Captain Drags Drunk Girlfriend Out of Club. Is Captain Moreal Truly Off the Market?
It’s everywhere. Sports media. Gossip sites. TikTok edits with slow, horny music. Even Tinnie called the morning after. “Dominic, that was not a good look.”
I told her it was under control. I didn’t tell her I nearly fucked my fake girlfriend against a wall afterward. And I sure as hell didn’t tell her the reason I went feral was because I saw another man touching Jessica and the world narrowed to one thought.
Mine.
I take a long pull from my water .
“It’s not often you see Moreal carrying a girl out of a club,” Tanner says, grimacing as he wipes his fingers on a napkin.
“She was drunk,” I shrug.
“So she was at the club,” Jace says with a grin.
The smug bastard knows everything. He came over the second I called him that night and sat through my middle-of-the-night debrief.
I’ve never felt anything like the moment I saw that guy leaning into her. I didn’t think straight.
If she really ended up at that club because she’d seen Valencia at my house and jumped to the worst conclusion, that means she felt that jealousy too.
The thought tastes like victory and poison all at once.
“What the hell happened?” Addams asks, wiping his mouth.
What the hell happened? A bratty little blonde ignoring me all day, then entertaining another man at the bar happened. I’m pretty sure my slight crash out was valid.
“I just took her home.” I set my glass down with a thud. “Don’t know why it’s such a big deal. ”
“Because it is.” Matt blows out a breath. “I didn’t believe Clarissa when she said it. Thought she was being dramatic. Then I opened TikTok this morning.”
“You’re everywhere,” Tanner says around his mouthful. “And the comments are wild.”
My thoughts keep circling back to last night, to the way Jessica tore into me—furious, drunk, beautiful. But I also remember everything I didn’t say. I didn’t lie to her. I didn’t touch Valencia. We’re not close, not even friends. She’s just a business contact I keep in case.
But Jessica saw a woman leaving my house and filled in the blanks with the story that hurt most.
I get it.
It looked fucking bad.
But I couldn’t tell her why Valencia was actually there. If I do, the whole surprise goes to shit.
And honestly? I don’t want her knowing I’m behind what I have planned for her. The impact, the moment—that’s supposed to be hers—would disappear.
So I stood there that night taking her anger like a punching bag .
“You good?” Jace nudges my elbow.
“We’ll talk later,” I grunt. He gives me one of his looks.
She’s been avoiding and dodging me like I burned her.
She was at the game last night with Melody and the WAGs.
I used every opportunity to look at her and would always find her already looking at me.
But after the win, she didn’t come down like before.
Didn’t wait for me, didn’t hug me for the cameras.
She posted the usual stories—clips, shots of the ice, the “Go Blazers” crap PR makes her do—but she didn’t say a damn word to me.
By the time I get home, she’s already in her pajamas, if you can call tiny sleeping shorts and a tank top pajamas. She brushes past me with a glass of water without meeting my eyes. “Congratulations,” is all I get.
She hasn’t said more than two words to me since. I don’t know if it’s because she still doesn’t believe me or because she knows exactly what she’s doing.
Pulling away after that damn kiss to make me crave it again? It’s working so fucking well it’s pathetic .
Her silence is torture. And if she’s doing this on purpose, trying to get under my skin, then congratulations. She’s already buried deep.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m back with her mouth parting under mine and her body arching like she wanted me to take her apart.
I’m halfway lost in my own shit until Addams talks about where we’re going after we win the Cup. Team tradition. That yanks me back to the table.
“We doing it again this year?” Dan, our equipment manager, asks.
“Hell yeah,” Tanner perks up immediately.
“Just to remind you,” Jace chimes in, “I’m renovating the beach house, so this year… someone else’s place.”
All at once, every head turns to me. Seven men staring like dogs waiting for someone to drop steak scraps.
“Dom’s it is.” Jace lifts his drink.
I take a slow drink and pretend to think about it. I’d agree in a heartbeat if it weren’t for Jessica. The idea of leaving her alone in Miami after the club shit? Absolutely the fuck not.
Jace elbows me. “Hello? ”
“I’m listening.”
“Good,” Tanner grins. “So? Your place?”
“We’ll see.” I nod assurance.
“That’s a no.” Addams scoffs.
“It’s not a no,” I say calmly.
It is absolutely a no. But the trip’s gonna happen whether I host or not. Still, worse than leaving Jessica alone in Miami is bringing her to a beach house with an entire team of testosterone, eyes, and intrusive thoughts.
There is no universe where I let my team watch Jessica stretch out in the sun in tiny bikinis. Not unless I want to gouge out twenty pairs of eyeballs.
And we need those eyeballs to win games.
“We gotta start planning it.” Tanner drags a fry through ketchup.
“We’ll… figure it out.” I exhale slowly.
They’re not getting front-row seats to Jessica half-naked on my property or anyone else’s. Over my dead fucking body.
Which brings me to the next problem: the schedule. We have away games coming up, and the idea of leaving Jessica alone in Miami after everything that happened—leaving her unsupervised—sets every alarm off in my head.
God fucking knows what she’ll do with me out of town if she throws another fit. The cameras all over my house don’t mean shit if Jessica decides her playground is Miami’s nightlife. And she absolutely would if she wanted to prove a point and torture me.
A new thought drops in: She might have to come with us to away games. Maybe I can tell her it’s mandatory. PR thing, make it sound official. Make it impossible to argue. Because I sure as shit won’t go anywhere she’s not.
I step into the house and let the door fall shut behind me.
The place looks the way it always does: quiet, bright, still.
Afternoon sun spills across the kitchen island, catching on stainless steel and glass.
I move through the open living room, eyes doing what they always do when I walk in—a quick sweep.
The kitchen is clean, the dining table clear. The couch—
I slow. One of the throw pillows is not how I left it.
I go over to straighten it, fingers catching the edge, and the fabric underneath feels different.
I look down and see why. It’s not the pillow; it’s something lying over it.
A white T-shirt, almost the same color as the cushion, crumpled like she peeled it off and tossed it there without thinking.
“Jessica,” I exhale, short and annoyed.
I pick it up with one hand, ready to carry it upstairs and dump it on her bed so she gets the message. The fabric slips between my fingers as I lift it, and her scent reaches me. It’s faint but hits hard enough to stop my next step.
I look down and, before I register what I’m doing, bring the shirt to my nose and inhale the sweet scent of her. The moment is over as fast as it happened, replaced by the familiar tension sitting between my ribs.
“Fuck,” I mutter, irritated at myself for even reacting.
I toss the shirt back onto the couch to get it out of my hand .
What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t smell women’s clothes.
I rake a hand through my hair, tugging once at the roots.
Pathetic, Moreal.
I turn, ready to march upstairs, when movement catches at the corner of my eye through the glass doors. My feet stop before the thought forms. There’s a figure stretched across one of the sunbeds outside, the umbrella pulled back, sunlight spilling over bare skin.
Jessica.
She shifts onto her stomach, adjusting the towel under her hips, long blonde hair falling over one shoulder. Her bikini bottom is a bright, barely-there scrap of fabric curved perfectly over her ass, vivid against her skin.