Chapter 3 Boone
I fucking hate Penn.
Actually, I fucking hate my whole team for embarrassing me like this.
Not only do I feel like I’m objectifying this beautiful woman who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, but Penn has to throw me under the bus about the past very rough six months in front of her.
Okay, fine. He’s not wrong. It’s been more like two rough years where every time I think I’m making progress I get knocked back down.
Ever since Anna—my ex-fiancée—and I called it quits, everything seems to be spiraling out of control. And I know it’s not entirely because I called off the engagement, but it’d be a lot easier to blame it all on that.
When we were together, I was the golden boy, the front center for the Manhattan Mayhem, New York’s National Hockey League team.
The media loved me, loved us. We were the couple everyone wanted to root for. Then I ended things, and suddenly, I became public enemy number one.
Since then, it’s been one PR nightmare after another. Branded a player who sleeps around even though I haven’t dated anyone in well over a year. Staying celibate to fix my reputation hasn’t helped much with that either.
And the bar fights that I’ve been caught up in recently? God, don’t get me started. I wasn’t even the one starting them, but every headline paints me as some hotheaded idiot, reeling from the ending of my engagement with no sense of direction but the way my fists swing.
At least the chaos hasn’t touched my performance on the ice. Yet. I’m still the top scorer for the team and in the whole East Coast league. Even at thirty-six—ancient by forward center standards where the average age is more like twenty-six—I’m holding my own.
I’ve got a year left on my current contract and a decent shot at re-signing with the team if I can stay healthy and injury free. But the pressing question that I’ve been kicking around for months now is whether I even want to.
“What’s your name?” Penn barks out, snapping me out of my thoughts and yelling at the woman who is now seated on my lap wearing nothing but purple-colored panties and a matching bra that leaves absolutely nothing to my imagination.
I wish I’d changed into something a little more presentable after our win tonight and not into a simple pair of grey sweatpants and sweatshirt.
I look like some creepy bum or one of the Italian godfathers who live in New Jersey and talk shit on the corner while gossiping all day.
But I didn’t plan on having a beautiful woman grind on me.
That was a surprise, just like being dragged to a strip club at my teammates demand.
“Rose,” she says, her voice soft, the sound of it landing like a brushstroke against my skin.
Penn laughs obnoxiously. “No, your real name.”
She glares at him and doesn’t respond.
I force myself to study her side profile to avoid focusing on the way she’s moving against me. The last thing I want is to get hard right now. God knows she’s probably used to it, I’m sure it happens all the time with a body and face like hers. But I don’t want to be that guy.
The creep who can’t keep himself under control from a simple lap dance.
Except she's good. Way too good. The way her hips circle, the focused rhythm of her movements, the teasing brush of her small curves against my cock. It’s all professional, like she’s done this a hundred times before. But if I think about that too much, I’m going to end up in trouble.
Because my hands are starting to itch to move. And if I so much as twitch the wrong way, I’ll be tossed out of here faster than I can blink—and I’ll be waking up tomorrow to my face plastered across every gossip site in the country.
Again.
Thankfully, my teammates’ attention has shifted away from Rose when the next act takes the stage. It’s a completely topless woman with nothing but two red tassels covering her nipples.
She’s shaking them so aggressively and at such an impressive speed that it’s almost all a blur. A guy who’s not with our group from the front row is losing his mind, yelling loud enough to echo over the music while he cups his noticeable bulge in his jeans.
The dancer bends down and motorboats the bastard while he stuffs what looks like hundred-dollar bills into the strap of her thong.
“So,” I clear my throat, feeling the awkwardness of this situation crawl up my spine. My neck is too hot. Why the hell am I so nervous right now? “You danced nice tonight.”
She’s still facing away from me, giving me her back and ass, but I catch the faint tug of a smile at the corner of her lips.
Her hands glide upward to the beat of the song, skimming along the sides of the swell of her breasts and then back down past her ribs like she doesn’t even have to think about what she’s doing.
Meanwhile, I’m breathing in and out, sweating through my clothes, trying so very hard to remain soft.
“Thanks. Is this your first time here?” she asks.
“First time in a strip club period.”
She lets out a laugh like she doesn’t believe me and then spins to face me, her movements so smooth it feels like she’s still dancing. Her legs slide over mine, straddling my hips with a practiced ease, and when she sinks back down on my lap there’s no way that I can hide how I’m turned on now.
It’s been so long. So, fucking long since I’ve been touched by a woman. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I got a lap dance either.
Her hands rest lightly on my shoulders, and I take a moment to look at her face clearly for the first time. Maybe that’ll help me get my dick under control.
Nope, fuck, she’s stunning.
Full, soft pink lips. Big, round green eyes—way too big for her face but somehow, they work. Dark blonde waves that fall past her shoulders. Her nose is slim and straight, and her cheekbones are high.
There’s no other way to describe her face than like a faerie, or maybe a ballerina.
And her body? Damn.
It’s small but toned. Her back looked strong like she works out and her curves are petite but easily a mouthful. Perky little tits, high and tight. But it’s her smile that’s easily the prettiest thing about her.
“I don’t believe that for a second,” she says, her voice playful.
I come back to the present. “It’s true. It’s not really my thing.”
“Oh, half naked women and lap dances aren’t your thing?”
“I swear,” I say quickly, holding my hands up in defense before realizing they’re dangerously close to touching her chest. I drop them to my sides and run a hand through my too-long hair instead.
It’s nearly shoulder-length now, messy, dark brown and in need of a good wash, but it keeps me warm under my helmet when I'm out on the ice and frankly, I haven't cared about my appearance much lately. And I intend that in multiple senses.
“My teammates… they dragged me here. We had a huge win tonight, and they insisted on celebrating. Apparently, this is the club our rivals frequent, so they thought it’d be funny to show up and outspend them or whatever. Make a point that we just kicked their asses.”
“I see.”
She doesn’t sound convinced and I'm not sure why it matters to me that she believes me. It shouldn’t matter. I’ll never see this woman again. And yet, the disbelief in her eyes makes me want to keep trying to defend myself.
Her hips shift with the beat change, and her hands slide down to my chest as she does some sort of body roll that she absolutely should not be doing if she doesn't want me to embarrass myself.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask, switching gears because that feels like a polite thing to ask. Ask a professional how long they've been doing their job when they're so good at it.
Yeah, sure. Not creepy at all.
Her smile shifts, softening, her eyes sparkling just a little. “It’s my first night.”
“Your first…” The word gets stuck in my throat as I try to process that.
No way. The way she just danced on stage like she'd been up and down that pole a thousand times—hell, the way she’s still moving against me—it doesn’t line up with someone new to this.
She’s too polished, too confident and I'm way too turned on right now.
“Tonight was your first night?”
“Yep.”
I’m stunned, and it must show on my face because her smile deepens, a touch of amusement there now.
How does someone like her end up here? Sure, this club is high-end, way nicer than the grimy, neon-lit dives I’d always pictured strip clubs to be, but she doesn’t fit the mold. There’s something too refined about her, polished in a way that doesn’t quite match the setting.
But then again, maybe that’s part of her charm.
My gaze drifts to her fingernails—perfectly manicured, trimmed short, and coated in a simple nude polish.
Even that detail feels deliberate, understated, like her refusal to wear nipple tassels or take off her top, unlike her dance partner. It’s different, and it stands out.
I don't think I've ever met a woman who didn't have colorful nails but nude screams ‘I'm a professional and I’m not trying to distract you from whatever the hell I’m about to say. So, listen up!’
“Well, it didn’t seem like your first night,” I finally respond.
Her lips curve into another soft smile, but she doesn’t reply, her body still moving to the music.
I have no idea what to say now. She’s avoiding eye contact, her gaze flitting over my shoulder like she’s looking for someone and I’m not even here, all while her hips continue to roll and grind against my solid dick.
Aren’t strippers supposed to make small talk? Tell me I’m handsome or something? Try to get me to drop a paycheck on a private room? Make me think they enjoy this?
But Rose’s giving me nothing. Her moves are polished and professional, but there’s this quiet tension about her, like she’s keeping herself apart from it all. Disconnected from the night.
It feels wrong, watching her. Like I’m part of something she doesn’t really want to be doing. And damn if that doesn’t make me feel disgusting for sitting here, letting her dance on me, while my friends hoot and holler at the act that's currently on the stage, forgetting all about us.
The song ends, and she gracefully untangles herself, legs sliding off either side of my hips as she straightens the straps of her barely there lavender bra.
The soft color makes her skin glow, creamy and soft, and I hate how I notice.
Like she’s something to admire when she’s clearly just trying to do her job without creeps hitting on her.
“Um… can I… tip you?” I ask, fumbling as I reach for my wallet. I pull out a wad of twenties, not even sure how much is in there. It feels like she deserves all of it. Hell, not just for the way she danced but because… I don’t know.
Because she’s beautiful. Because it kind of seemed like she was being forced into doing that. Because she's the first woman that I've allowed to touch me in a long time and I’ll never admit this to my teammates, but I’ve missed a woman’s touch.
She shakes her head, her expression unreadable as she gently pushes the money back toward me. “Give it to Lily. Please. She was my partner tonight.”
And with that she turns, her tight little ass swaying as she walks away, leaving me sitting there watching her like a sad and lonely dog.
What kind of stripper turns down cash? I don’t know, but it lingers in my mind even as I force myself to pay attention to the next act.
At least tonight didn’t end in a total disaster. No one snapped a photo of me doing something stupid. I didn’t break any rules and accidentally touch one of the dancers. My friends didn’t start a fight for once, dragging me into another mess that would wind up in the tabloids.
Overall, despite being dragged here against my will, I’d call it a good night.
Not one that I’ll remember, of course.
In fact, I’ve already forgotten all about Rose…