11. Jett
ELEVEN
JETT
The cool Seattle evening air bites at my cheeks the second we step out of the hotel lobby, but the heat radiation off the man holding my hand keeps the chill at bay.
Our fingers are laced together, he squeezes me here and there, looks at me, gives me that sly smirk of his, and I’m fighting the battle to tell him we need to go back to the room immediately.
Rowdy is dressed in what I’ve come to know as his signature outfit—low-slung jeans sitting impossibly low on his tapered waist and a dark form-fitting shirt that clings to every slab of perfectly defined muscles on chest and arms. Just then, he sends the devilish grin he wears like a weapon my way, and I’m caught in his crosshairs.
I’m in a pair of my favorite light-wash straight-leg jeans, cuffed at the ankle, a pair of black combat boots, a simple white fitted V-neck tee, and my blacker leather jacket zipped halfway up.
I’m wearing my layered necklaces, stacked earrings, and different style rings on my fingers.
Last night changed everything, and I’m still practically walking on air.
I’m also slightly sore in the best way possible.
Rowdy has officially turned me into a complete sex fiend.
After the marathon sex we put one another through, starting with the wild, dirty, out-of-this-world sex in front of the mirror while I wore his jersey, followed by round after round, the sun peeking through the blinds only made it that much better.
It seemed both of us were unable to get enough of the other.
We matched each other perfectly, in and out of bed.
Even now, as we walk down the sidewalk, his thumb glides back and forth over my pulse point, sending a constant, addictive reminder of how thoroughly he wrecked me.
And while I’d much rather be at the hotel tonight, locked behind closed doors, we’re heading to a local sports bar to meet up with the rest of the team for dinner and drinks on their night off.
A sports bar. How cliché, I say to myself, shaking my head with a faint smile.
But honestly? As long as there’s an abundance of food in the form of carbohydrates to satisfy the appetite Rowdy built inside of me after hours of burning calories in and out of bed, I’m game.
“Are you sure about this being a good idea, Bouch?” I look up at him.
His sharp jawline is highlighted by the streetlights, and his dark eyes are sparkling with his easy, magnetic confidence.
“Walking into a public spot with the team while holding my hand? If the press catches wind of this, Mitch might lose his shit.” I tilt my head toward our joined hands.
“Yes, I’m sure, sunshine.” He doesn’t loosen his grip for a single second.
Instead, he tugs me closer, keeping me glued to his side.
My shoulder presses into his ribs, and more of his body heat keeps me warm.
“I’m not hiding you. Plus, my teammates already know about you anyway.
There’s no slipping anything past them,” his deep voice rumbles smoothly in the cool night.
“They know?” My eyes grow wide. “What exactly did you tell them?”
“Didn’t have to tell them a damn thing, sunshine.” He chuckles, a smile tugging at his lips, and I’m given that damn smirk of his again. “They saw the way I looked at you during PT, and they saw you last night. Harrison already called me a goner before we landed in Washington, and he’s not wrong.”
Before I can formulate any sort of a comeback, Rowdy pushes open the heavy wood and glass door of the restaurant. The neon beer signs, the deep hum of chatter, and the rich smell of fried food and grilled burgers hit my senses. My stomach lets out a loud, embarrassing rumble, making Rowdy chuckle.
“Hungry, sunshine?”
“I’m currently starving, and it’s entirely your fault,” I whisper back, nudging his body with my hip.
“I can’t have that. You’re going to need sustenance for later.” He dips down to murmur into my hair, which causes a shiver to skate down my spine.
“Rowdy! Over here, man!” A loud shout comes from the giant corner booth near the back of the bar.
A group of massive athletes is piled around a wooden table covered in pint glasses and baskets of food.
Rowdy leads me over, his hand firmly clasping mine, completely unbothered by the sudden silence that falls over the booths, chairs, and high tops as we approach his teammates.
“Guys, this is Jett,” Rowdy announces. His voice is laced with a thick, undeniable satisfaction as he keeps me anchored to his side.
“Jett, meet the line.” He points around the table, introducing them to me one by one.
First is Harrison, the center, who immediately grins from ear to ear.
Next is Liam Fletcher, the steady-as-ever left defenseman, who gives me a polite head nod.
Beside him sits Pheonix Michaud, the right defenseman, leaning back with an amused expression.
And finally, Chance Scott, the defender, who has a smile on his face and looks like he’s about to say something.
“So, this is the famous Jett,” Harrison says, sliding over on the leather bench to make room for us.
“The woman behind the miracle,” Liam adds.
“Nice to meet you all.” I let Rowdy guide me into the booth beside him. He slides his arm over the back of the seat behind my shoulders, his large hand resting casually around my neck, keeping me close.
“Thank god someone finally got Rowdy to settle down.” Chance takes a sip of his draft beer with a slow shake of his head. “Jett, you deserve a medal. The guy was living up to his namesake too damn much before you showed up.”
“No kidding,” Pheonix chimes in, leaning his elbows on the table. “Two weeks ago, he was scowling at everyone in the locker room. Now he’s smiling at cameras, dropping guys on the ice, and laughing it off like an infomercial host. It’s downright creepy, Bouch.”
“Shut it, Michaud,” Rowdy grunts, though the smirk on his face betrays him entirely. “I’m a changed man.”
“Yeah, right.” Liam laughs, tossing a wing bone in the basket.
“Changed until someone looks at you the wrong way in the crease. Seriously, Jett, the social media clips look badass. You’ve got a whole fanbase swooning over him.
” I lean back against Rowdy’s side, feeling his chest rumble with laughter, along with his warmth as it seeps into me through my leather jacket.
“Well, I’m glad you guys like my strategy.” I decide to play it cool, using a dry, playful tone. “Because I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be working with him. I could very well be fired by tomorrow if the managers decide this isn’t a good image. You know, professionalism and all.”
“Not happening,” a sharp, familiar voice booms from behind our booth.
I turn my head to see Mitch striding toward us, holding a glass of bourbon.
The Lodestars’ coach looks far more relaxed than usual in jeans and a shirt, a genuine smile on his face as he looks down at Rowdy and me sitting glued together at the hip.
“Mitch,” I say, blinking in surprise.
“Thought you were in meetings tonight,” Rowdy states.
“Just finished.” Mitch waves a hand dismissively. “And to answer your statement, Jett, nobody is firing you. You’re the best thing that’s happened to Rowdy in four seasons.”
“Hear, hear!” Rowdy raises his pint glass toward Mitch in a toast.
“Genuinely,” Mitch continues, leaning against the edge of the booth.
“The engagement from last night’s penalty box clip is off the charts.
The higher-ups are ecstatic. The fans love the energy.
You took a guy who looked like a ticking time bomb and turned him into the league’s favorite reformed bad boy. ”
“I told you, sunshine.” Rowdy dips his head, his mouth at my ear. His breath whispers against the shell while his fingers give my shoulder a possessive squeeze beneath my jacket. “You’re irreplaceable.”
“Don’t let it go to his head, Jett,” Harrison warns, passing a basket of fries across the table toward me. “He’s already insufferable enough in the locker room. Now that he’s a star, we’re never gonna hear the end of it.”
“Hey, I’ve always been a star,” Rowdy counters smoothly, snatching a fry from the basket and feeding it to me. I bite down and roll my eyes at his blatant display of affection, but the butterflies in my stomach are due to happiness. “I just needed the right person to point me in the spotlight.”
The table erupts into easy, boisterous laughter.
The banter flows seamlessly between all of us, the guys treating me like one of their own while keeping the jokes flying.
Somewhere along the way, Rowdy orders my dinner, and when the waiter arrives and sets down a massive bacon cheeseburger in front of me, I dig in without a shred of hesitation, making Rowdy chuckle as I devour nearly half of it in record time.
“Marathon training takes a lot out of a girl,” I mutter around a bite when I notice the guys are all engrossed in their own conversations.
“Good thing we’ve got all night to keep training, sunshine.
” Rowdy leans in close, his dark eyes flashing with heat that only I can see.
His hand slides away from my shoulder, landing in my lap, settling between my thighs and so close to my aching core that I can feel myself flush.
I shake my head at his antics as I take another bite, but I can’t hide the happiness building inside me.
Sitting in a crowded sports bar in Seattle, surrounded by laughing hockey players, a hot, broody enforcer touching me at all times, who has completely upended my world, I realize my ironclad rules aren’t just broken—they’re entirely gone.
And looking at Rowdy as he watches me eat, I wouldn’t have it any other way.