Page 44 of Cross Check Daddies
I lose it again, everything inside me clenching around him. I cry out, throat raw, legs giving out. He groans, driving deeper, chasing it with wild, ragged breath.
“Damn, sugar... You take me so fucking good.”
He thrusts once more, hips jerking, and stills. Heat spills inside the condom, his body heavy against my back, both of us sweating and breathing like we ran a marathon in five minutes.
For a moment, all I hear is the tick of the wall clock. Somewhere in the distance, Lisa is probably pretending she didn’t hear a damn thing.
Cam presses a kiss between my shoulder blades, then zips up, eyes still dark as he pulls back, and watches me.
My knees threaten to buckle again as I straighten, blouse wrinkled, panties ruined on the floor, the desk an absolute wreck. I glance at him, breath still ragged. “This solves nothing.”
“No,” he says, reaching for my face again, brushing hair from my cheek. “But at least now I know you’re not pretending.”
He walks to the door, unlocks it, and pauses. “Think about what I said. Then come find me.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
I’m left standing half-naked in my office with the taste of him still in my mouth, my thighs sticky, and absolutely no idea how the hell I’m going to survive working with either of them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ace
The locker roomclears out in waves, but Tanner lingers. I catch him leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eye already bruising from last night’s bullshit. He’s not talking. Not smiling. Just standing there like someone shoved replays of every mistake he’s ever made into his head.
I jerk my chin. “Office. Now.”
He doesn’t argue. That’s one thing about Tanner. Stubborn, reckless, but when I use the voice, he listens.
Inside, the door clicks shut behind him, and I fold my arms across my chest, watching him take the same chair he did when he was a rookie. The kid’s grown into a hell of a player. Strong on the puck, smarter than he looks. But today? Today, he looks like a man who knows he fucked up.
“What the hell was last night?” I ask. “Why were you fighting your brother?”
He rubs a palm over the back of his neck. “It’s complicated.”
Of course it is.
“Family drama is for the offseason,” I say. “Right now, you’re in uniform, on my bench. I don’t care what Cam said or did. Handle your shit.”
He nods once. “Yes, coach.”
I pause. Let the quiet stretch. “You focused?”
He meets my eyes. “Yes.”
“Good. Stay that way.”
I dismiss him with a nod, then head out to talk with Leo about roster shifts for next week. There’s too much tension in the air and not enough tape on the sticks. This season’s been a goddamn soap opera, and I’m over it. I need players who show up clean and leave blood on the ice. That’s it. That’s all.
After the meetings, I drive out to my burger spot. No crowd. Just grease, spice, and peace. I order the usual—double patty, caramelized onions, extra pickles—and step off to the side to wait. My mind’s still on strategy, post-season PR, and whether Deke’s shoulder is healing fast enough. The bell above the door rings behind me, and I glance back by habit.
She’s there.
Brooke.
Alone in a booth, curled slightly in on herself, staring down at her half-eaten fries. One elbow on the table, hand toying with her phone. Her expression is tight. Guarded. Lips painted but smudged like she’s pressed them together too many times tonight. Even from across the room, she looks wrecked in the quiet way people try to hide.
I curse under my breath.
