Page 1 of Sleepless Nights and Hockey Fights

Chapter One

Bobby

I slam my hand against the steering wheel of my Cybertruck and instantly regret it when my left turn signal, high beams, and thumping rap music all turn on at the same time. That’s what I get for hitting my baby in anger.

“Sorry, Wolverine,” I whisper to it, stroking the wheel.

Another car honks at me before I get the high beams off, which is par for the course in Tampa, Florida. Someone’s always honking or flipping you off, even if you’re just minding your own business and driving like a normal person. I’ve had more than my fair share of middle fingers just for driving this outlandish beast, but I don’t care. This thing is a monster of a truck and I fucking love it.

I am pissed though, and it has nothing to do with the guy who cuts me off right before I turn into the parking garage below my apartment building. After parking in my reserved space, I lean my head back against the headrest and let the bass reverberate through my chest. Visions of our new head coach, Andre Marsh, yelling at me to get my shit together flash through my brain.He really handed me my ass the other day in his office. Coach Bowman would never have talked to me like that. Then again, I didn’t fuck up as much under his watch. He kept my brain busy with calculating stats and watching game film to figure out what was going wrong with our first-line offense. Coach Marsh just doesn’t understand me yet and doesn’t seem like he wants to.

A groan leaves my mouth but gets swallowed by the loud music. Chloe Cooper, my friend and the fiancée to one of my teammates, overheard the ass whooping in vivid detail. And she didn’t exactly take my side. She told me to straighten my shit up. Settle into this new contract of mine with the Storm Chasers and pull up my big boy pants.

I hit the button to turn off the truck, leaving me in deafening silence. Grabbing my bag, I exit the truck and glance down at myself. Whereas the other guys left practice in sweats and whatever questionable T-shirts they happened to have in their lockers, I changed into my favorite pair of jeans and this polo shirt the sales gal talked me into last time I visited Neiman Marcus. But no matter how impressive my outfit, I always make sure to pair it with a fun pair of boxers. Today’s have skeletons riding flamingos, a nod to both the state I now live in and the fact that pumpkin spice is back on the menu. My life philosophy is that undressing should be like opening a gift. The right pair of boxers either make a woman’s face light up or an eyebrow lift. And I prefer she do both, right before she rips the boxers off me. So, yeah, sorry Coach Marsh and Chloe and everyone else in my life who’s told me to grow up. I don’t have big boy underpants. I havefununderpants. Might even start calling them funderpants.

I slam the door and head for the elevators. Despite my dark mood, I force myself to whistle a tune. A quick Google search last year told me to interrupt the angry thoughts in my head by singing. I can’t carry a tune to save my life, so I’ve taken to whistling, much to the annoyance of my entire team. DoctorGoogle also told me to express my anger constructively. I’m not really sure what that means. Am I supposed to build a birdhouse or some shit? Punch a bad guy in the face instead of one of my teammates? Pretty sure Coach would bench me for hanging out in dark alleys at night and I have zero use for an apartment full of birdhouses.

The elevator opens and I hustle to my door. My oversized muscles are screaming for food after a tough practice. The television is on in the living room, which is weird. I drop my bag silently by the door and lick my lips, thinking I might have a chance to punch a bad guy after all. Except it’s my fucking brother. On my couch, hand down his pants, rubbing one out to the weather chick on channel nine.

“What the fuck, Dick?”

Richie tucks and rolls, landing on the ground on all fours. I know where that hand’s been and I don’t appreciate it on my fucking rug. His hair–the same dirty-blond shade as mine but longer–is a mess, like he’s just woken up for the day. “Why aren’t you at the bar?”

“I should ask you the same question!” I gesture to the end table strewn with three cups and a half-eaten donut. Powdered sugar fills in the empty space. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Richie pushes to his feet and adjusts himself, making me grimace. “I ran out of milk.”

As if that explains why he made himself at home in my apartment without asking. “So you thought you’d sip my milk and choke the chicken on my couch?” I glance at the television. She is kind of pretty with that knee length dress and helmet hair. Dammit, that’s beside the point. “Come on, man. Just a simple text to ask permission would be nice. And Jesus, keep your hands out of your pants.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Richie collects the glasses and heads for the kitchen as I follow. “I’m off tonight and I figured you’d be at the bar after practice like usual. Didn’t think you’d mind if I stopped by. I planned to be gone before you got home with some bunny.”

I roll my eyes and open the fridge to see what I have on hand to make for dinner. “I’m cleaning up my act, Richie boy. No more bars. Definitely no bunnies.”

He snorts and then wrinkles his nose at my shoes. “What’s with the loafers and no socks? You look like the director of a porno.”

My Gucci slides are first class. They just happen to be bright red. “Don’t worry about my shoes. Worry about how you’re gonna clean my couch, bro.”

He gives me a look I know all too well. Richie doesn’t know how to clean shit except for the pint glasses at the bar where he works, the Irish Rogue. One of the bars I should be at right now.

I sigh and pull out a box of spinach. “You have dinner?” He opens his mouth and I cut him off. “Donuts aren’t dinner, dumbass.”

Before I can place the spinach on the counter, the dude wrangles his lanky arm around my neck and yanks me down in a headlock. His knuckles try to drill a hole in my skull while I flail to save our dinner. I see red when he doesn’t let up, so I jab a quick fist into his kidneys. He lets me go, but not before sweeping a foot behind my knees, making them buckle. I grab his shorts on the way down and he shouts an obscenity as he finds himself pantsed. We’re both red-faced and pissed off as we call a truce. I make him wash his hands before we throw dinner together. He snacks on potato chips while I grill up some chicken and pair it with a salad. The dude would subsist on junk food if I didn’t feed him at least twice a week when I’m in town.

He’s got a mouthful of chicken at the small kitchenette table when he returns to the subject of my being home instead of at the bar. “Seriously, why are you here?”

“I live here,” I answer blandly. He kicks my shin under the table. “Fuck! You don’t have to resort to violence.” I reach down and rub the spot.

“We all resort to violence. That’s what we do, little bro.”

He’s not wrong. There are five of us Rhodes brothers. I’m the youngest, which means I took the brunt of everyone’s teasing and physical assaults. I learned to give as good as I got. Survival, baby. Richie lives here in Tampa near me, while the other three live back in Georgia where we grew up. I tease Richie he’s like the little fish that swims around with the shark, feeding off the leftovers. Honestly, I don’t mind him being here with me–except when he’s waxing the carrot on my couch. Richie puts his chin in his hand and stares at me. I know he won’t leave until I spill the details.

“Fine. Coach wasn’t pleased at me for getting in a scuffle with Mac the other day in the locker room. Said I’ll be benched if I don’t get my act together.”

Richie blinks repeatedly. His brain takes a little longer to process things. “So, you can’t go to bars now?”

I shove my plate away from me. I’ve lost my appetite. “I can go to bars, but not every day. And I can’t start any fights. Chloe suggested I buy a house with a fuckin’ white picket fence. Marry a girl. Wear an ugly sweater and get a dog. Or maybe it was the dog who should wear the sweater, I can’t remember.”

Richie sits straight up and slaps his thigh, guffawing like a donkey. “That’s the funniest shit I’ve heard all day.”

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