9. Jett
NINE
JETT
Between the energy inside the arena and what’s thrumming through my body after the morning we had, I’m not sure how I’m able to function.
Every time I close my eyes, I can still feel Rowdy’s thick fingers inside me, his breath hot against my neck, and his deep voice demanding me to give in to him.
Of course, after the most mind-blowing orgasm of my life, Rowdy would have little to no time to do much else besides eat, shower, and leave for the rink.
Which left me in limbo and my mind spinning in circles.
I shake myself out of my Rowdy-induced stupor, for now.
“You look like you’re a million miles away.” Mischa stands near me in the back of the suite. She has a glass of sparkling water in her hand and a sly look on her face.
“Because I am.” I don’t lie, not to one of my close girlfriends. There’s no use, she can see my emotions from a mile away.
“Then stand next to me, and we can commiserate together.” She has the hots for her brother’s best friend, Nolan.
He’s also her boss, but anytime the two of them are near one another, you can feel the flames licking at their heels, ready to combust. I don’t know why they don’t just give in.
Then again, I’m breaking my own rules, which could be a career ender—Mischa’s could mean Nolan losing his best friend and her brother.
“No kidding. Thanks for hooking us up with the suite.” I look across the lavish area. Mitch really pulled through on this being a perk of being Rowdy’s social media content creator. My friends are thoroughly enjoying the digs, and I’m glad for it.
Gavin and Gennie are practically glued at the hip on the oversized leather sofa in the center of the room.
They’re whispering and cuddling like the outside world doesn’t exist. Dante and Alex are off in a corner near the catered buffet, deep in conversation.
They’re murmuring to one another, drowned out by the noise from the arena below us.
“No problem. Kind of stinks the others couldn’t make it,” I say to Mischa.
Dom and Cory had an engagement to attend for work.
Vik is at home with Romy and her ever-growing belly as she’s getting late into her third trimester.
Apparently, the Viking of a man is becoming ultra protective and wants his woman close to home and the hospital.
“It does, but you know how it goes.” There’s a forlornness to her tone of voice, one I’m coming to understand quite well. It’s not like I can shout out to the world that I’m falling desperately for the Lonestars’ enforcer, not without certain repercussions.
“I do, and I’m glad to see you all when I can. I love my job, but, man, the traveling can be intense, and having no true homebase, well, it can be tiring,” I admit for the first time to myself and aloud.
“There’s always Seattle, but something tells me Texas might be calling your name.” Leave it to Mischa to read between the lines and come to the conclusion without me having to divulge all of my secrets.
“Yeah, well, duty calls,” I say, picking up my camera and press pass off the counter. “I have to head downstairs to the rink level to grab game footage. Tell the others I’ll be back up after the first period?”
“Will do, and be careful, yeah?” Mischa calls after me, a slight protective edge coming out.
“You too,” I say over my shoulder with a wink. Her face goes crimson. Those sparks are definitely about to fly between her and Nolan.
I take the service elevator down to the ice level.
The chill of the arena air hists my skin the moment the doors slide open.
The tunnel is sensory overload—the smell of the rink, rubber mats, and leather mixed with the deafening roar of fifteen thousand fans.
I flash my media credentials at the tunnel guards and step into my designated photographer nook right beside the penalty box, resting my heavy camera lens on the edge of the glass.
The Lonestars are already on the ice for the opening lineup, and right at the center of it all stands number 77.
Rowdy looks massive in their preseason dark green and silver game jersey.
His big, broad shoulders fill out the pads impossibly well, his dark hair is damp beneath his helmet, and his jaw is set with that raw instinct that makes him look like the most terrifying enforcer in the league.
The moment the referee blows the whistle and drops the puck, the game explodes into hyper-sped.
For the first fifteen minutes, Rowdy plays a clean, shockingly brilliant game.
He’s fast, laying heavy, clean checks along the boards that set up two major scoring opportunities for the Lonestars’ top line.
I track him through my viewfinder, snapping shots of his movement, his power, and his absolutely dominance on the ice.
The crowd is going wild, loving every second of the way Bouch is playing.
Then, with three minutes left in the first period, the Seattle’s resident pest of a player delivers a dirty, blindsided cross-check to our star rookie right in front of the net.
The arena collectively gasps, me included.
Before the ref can blow his whistle, Rowdy is already moving. He crosses the ice like a freight train, dropping his gloves before he hits the blue line.
Here it comes. My heart drops to my stomach. The angry outburst, the foul mouth, and worse temper that comes with a suspension and a PR nightmare.
Rowdy grabs the guy by the front of his jersey and gets in his face, talking what I can only assume is shit.
Except his face isn’t red. He’s not losing his cool, which is entirely different from last season.
The other guy attempts to push Rowdy away, but he holds his own.
It’s not until the opponent swings his fist that “The Bouch” as his fans know him as rises to the occasion.
He blocks the punch, checks him with his shoulder to the stomach, and knocks the guy to his ass.
The referees break it up before it gets too bloody.
And when Rowdy comes up for air, the angry expression, teeth-baring fury we all usually expect isn’t there.
He smiles.
It’s sharp, wicked, and a thoroughly amused smirk.
He dodges a wild left hook from the other player who managed to break free of a ref’s hold and avoids the collision by barely an inch.
The old Rowdy would have shoved the ref, slammed his stick against the glass, and screamed more profanities that would rival a sailor all the way to the box.
The new Rowdy steps back, throws his hand up in a ‘who, me?’ gesture, and bursts out laughing.
A genuine, booming, infectious laugh that rings out clear as day.
He pats the referee on the shoulder, cracks a joke that makes the linesman shake his head in disbelief, and calmly skates toward the penalty box.
The entire arena goes fucking nuts.
The crowd erupts into an ear-piercing, deafening cheer, chanting his name.
He took care of his teammate, handled his business like a boss, and laughed it off like it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
It’s the ultimate show of his cool, unshakeable confidence.
And I captured it all with my camera lens.
I watch him approach the box, the off-ice official opens the glass door for him, and Rowdy’s dark, searing eyes sweep the area until they land directly on mine. My breathing hitches, my hands freeze, and I’m completely caught off-guard.
Rowdy stands inside the penalty box, surrounded by thousands of screaming fans, and leans his thick forearms on the top of the glass. The wicked, playful smirk is back on his lips, eyes burning with a heat that makes my knees weak and my pussy ache.
Slowly, deliberately, he looks right at me.
I lower my camera, shaking my head in a mild, affectionate disbelief at his antics. At seeing my reaction, his smirk widens. He leans closer to the glass, making sure I can read his lips, and slowly mouths ten words that send a jolt of desire straight to my core.
You’ll be in my jersey tonight… making my favorite sounds.
My mouth goes dry and my heart slams against my ribs, because I know exactly what he’s talking about. The desperate, breathless whimpers, me moaning his name in the hotel room this morning when he made me come while fucking me with his fingers.
Rowdy winks at me, throws his heavy body onto the penalty bench, and picks up his water bottle like he didn’t just completely ruin my ability to move.
I use the edge of the seat in front of me to keep myself standing, clutching my camera to my chest, feeling my face burning a bright red and my pulse hammering in my ears.
Reformed enforcer, I think to myself, letting out a shaky laugh as I look at him again, sitting there like he’s the king of the world.
He might be transforming his image for the press, but as I turn to head back up to the luxury suite where my friends are waiting, I know one thing for certain: tonight, back at the hotel, Rowdy Bouchard is going to play entirely by his own rules.