Trouble : Boston Bolts Hockey

The energy after a game always makes it hard to sleep. For hours, my ears buzz from the loud arena and my blood pumps with adrenaline. This is exactly why I normally hit up a bar at the end of the night.

A few drinks, a little flirting, then a round of sex are the perfect combination to ensure a good night of sleep.

Tonight, though, rather than heading out, I’m sitting in my hotel room in Philly, twiddling my thumbs, racking my brain for an excuse to call Mel.

Sure, Saturday night was one thing. She and I had been up most of the night before, then we’d followed that up with two rounds that next morning, so by Saturday night, I was wiped.

When I saw Leo at the bar after the game, I had this heavy, uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Like even engaging in innocent flirting with him would be wrong. Which made zero sense. She’s not really my girlfriend. And even if she was, there’s no rule that says I wouldn’t be able to talk to people I’ve fucked before.

Did I call her hoping she’d stake a claim in front of him? Maybe. Did I want her to be jealous? No. Not really. But I also didn’t expect her not to even bat an eye at the idea of me being with another person.

All night, I’d wondered whether she and Declan were together. Not because I was jealous of the idea, but because I missed her. Them.

Fuck.

Flat on my back, I stare at the ceiling. The guys are probably out celebrating after our win. I could easily go out, find someone to work out this frustration with. It’s the logical thing to do. No feelings. No chance to get hurt.

Instead, I snatch my phone from the nightstand and shoot a text to Declan.

Me: How’s Mel been?

I don’t expect a response. In fact, if he doesn’t reply in the next five minutes, I’ll force myself to get dressed and go out.

Fuck it, he’s definitely not going to text. I drop the phone on the bed and haul myself up to sitting.

The familiar ding alerting me to a text makes my stomach flip in a way that’s concerning. It’s hope and excitement: something a forty-year-old man shouldn’t feel.

Declan: Fine.

I cough out a laugh. Why do four letters on a screen attached to his name make me fucking smile?

Absolutely fucking pathetic. Sinking my teeth into the pad of my thumb, I contemplate my next move.

Me: Why don’t you come up with Mel on Friday for the game? Stay in Boston for the night.

Dots dance on the screen just like the damn butterflies in my stomach. The guy never replies. When two full sentences appear, my jaw falls open.Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

Declan: And where am I going to stay? You have one bed, Cade.

Even though the words are printed rather than spoken, I can hear his reprimanding tone. Can see his jaw clenching in annoyance. He hates texting. So why is he? Is it because of Mel? Something about her softens him. Makes him try a little harder. And for some godforsaken reason, I like that. I shouldn’t want him to soften for someone else. But I like her, and I like that he likes her. It makes no fucking sense.

Neither does my response. But I’m feeling daring, I guess. Wondering just how much he’d do for her. How far he’d go to make her happy.

Me: You could share the bed with us.

My chest tightens as I wait for the dots to dance, and my mind races with thoughts of what could happen if he did.

I know he won’t take me up on the offer, but the image of him in my bed, with her, both of them naked on either side of me…

“Fuck.” With fumbling hands, I undo my belt and suit pants and pull my cock out. I’m so fucking hard it hurts.

In my mind, it’s not my rough hand gripping my cock, it’s Declan’s. The way he strokes me instantly sends heat rushing through my veins. He tells Mel to spit on it in that gruff way of his. I whimper at the mere thought, closing my eyes and losing myself to the dream.