Page 87 of Rush the Edge

“Says the guy who called a woman to come get me,” I quietly snap.

I take off toward the ice, not wanting to hear any bullshit from anyone else on the team.

They think I’m unaware of their little group chat and how they take turns keeping a watch over me if I’m ever feeling antsy and need to let some steam off. The last thing I want is for anyone else to learn that Daisy is the real gatekeeper when it comes to me.

A few laps around the ice, and Malaki is at my back.

“Listen”—he taps his stick on the ice as we wait for the game to start—“I did it for your own good. The casino is the last place you need to be at.”

My jaw aches with pressure. I skate around, pushing my blades into the ice with force.

“You just got out of the hole because of your brother’s gambling,” he says quietly as I pass by. “Don’t end up there again because of your own gambling.”

He’d be beyond pissed if he knew I was there to pay off another debt of Miles’s, and I can’t blame him. Malaki saved my ass before, and I understand why he’s concerned that I may have my own gambling addiction, but that’s far from the truth.

In fact, I’m addicted to something far worse.

* * *

Coach gives us a warning before heading to his hotel room.If you go out, don’t fuck up.

Noted.

Lars asked me to go out with him, and I know it’s because I’m the only one who never refuses. He’s out on the dance floor, wearing some girl’s cowgirl hat while swinging her around, and I’m over here, sitting at the bar with my phone in my hand.

I glance at it for the fourth time since getting my beer. I keep River’s text on unread, not wanting the notification to disappear, because it’s a silent warning not to text his sister.

Back in my pocket it goes. I glance around the bar to find someone to fill my time with.

If I can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

More like, if I can’t be with Daisy, be with someone else.

The malty beer flows down my throat as I force thoughts of her and all the texts I’ve typed so far, only to delete a moment later, out of my head.

She’s survived several years without me—something she made sure to point out when I attempted to check on her earlier in the day.

My now empty beer bottle clanks onto the bar top after I catch the eye of a blond.

There’s a pull in my chest—and not the kind that is pulling me toward her.

I stand up because there is no way I’m letting Daisy get in my head to ruin this.

Instead of being a gentleman and asking the woman to dance, I wrap my arm around her waist and drag her onto the floor. The music is some kind of twangy country song, but it has enough beat to it that she can half-grind on my dick.

“What’s your name?” Her voice reminds me of someone who’d be on one of those housewife reality shows.

“No need for names,” I say.

Her hips don’t fit right in my hands, and the smell of her perfume is too crisp.

I sigh angrily.

I know what my problem is, even if I refuse to admit it.

Little Miss Wannabe Dolly Parton moves easily when I swing her around to face me. She’s flush against my body, and I pray that a spark ignites. My fingers wrap around her cheeks, and I lose them in her hair. I slip my tongue into her mouth, hoping she has some mystical kiss that’ll sweep me off my feet.

My phone vibrates, and I eagerly pull away.

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