Page 3 of Necessary Roughness

“Still on for the bubble bath tonight?” Lance asks, standing completely naked in front of me. I glance at him and shake my head.

“You really did it, you madman.”

“Damn right I did!” Lance laughs. “I’m as smooooooth as a butterfly.”

“Butterflies aren’t smooth, dipshit,” Jordan says, shouldering him out of the way. But Lance doesn’t care; he told us two days ago that he was going to wax his whole body to bring out the definition in his muscles, but none of us thought he’d actually go through with it.

“You look like a canned ham,” I tell him as I get to my feet and head for the showers.

The bubble bath he’s referring to tonight is one of my famous parties we’re having on the rooftop of the Revere. It started my senior year at BU; you get a whole bunch of bubbles, a bunch of half-dressed chicks, some music and some booze, and party until the sun comes up.

Come on. Can you blame me? I’m having the time of my life. Why would I want to get tied down to some girl who only wants to be my girlfriend so she can live the easy life? Maybe one day down the road I’ll meet a girl who really grabs my heart, but I’ve been taking a pretty generous sample size survey of the female population of the US, and so far it doesn’t seem likely that that’s ever going to happen.

I scrub the sweat off my body, hit the water, grab my towel, and head back into the locker room to grab my stuff. Lance is chatting with some press that have clustered around the door; he’s a sucker for that kind of stuff. I personally like to keep my distance. I fucking hate reporters with their leading questions and prying bullshit. Let them think and write what they want; they’re going to anyway. But when I see who Lance is talking to, something comes over me that I haven’t felt in a long time: jealousy.

The reporter he’s grinning at is an absolute goddess with curves that have my jaw hanging open. She shouldn’t be writing for a magazine; she should be in one. Any men’s magazine would kill to have that body in between their pages. Her thick, brunette hair hangs down her shoulders, framing her plump breasts that she’s hiding behind a professional black shirt. I instantly wonder what she’s wearing underneath, and my cock swells at the idea of sliding inside her and making her moan my name.

She’s obviously dressed to be taken seriously, but she’s also wearing a pair of black fuck-me pumps and a matching black skirt that pull my eyes to her baby-making hips. Supple. Fertile. Breeding material. She’s all that and more, and as I drag my eyes up her body, I feel like I’ve just taken the hardest hit of my life.

But there’s something on her face that has me even more intrigued; it’s like she doesn’t want to be here, and the way she’s flicking her eyes past Lance—who is clearly working game on her—makes me think she really wants to be talking to me. And really, who am I to deny a reporter an interview, right?

I get right up, let my towel fall to the floor, and stride right over to her. Lance is giving her some anecdote about when he was first picking up hockey as a kid, and I shoulder him out of the way, wanting to get him as far away from this goddess as possible. Shit, I think. Up close she’s even sexier.

I’m feeling slack-jawed, but it’s her eyes that go wide when she sees that I’m wearing nothing more than my birthday suit.

“Oh! Um…hi!” she stammers with a voice that sounds like honey. “Bobby! I—I was wondering if I could do an interview with you.”

“I don’t do interviews.” I smile as she does her best to keep her eyes above the waist. I’m half-hard already, despite the crowd of people around me. Thankfully, there are no other reporters behind her. She must have snuck in somehow. I like her already.

“Yes, I hear that, but—”

“I’ll do dinner though,” I smirk. She’s blushing. Nothing like she would be with my tongue against her clit.

“Mr. Brodeur—” she starts to say. I cut her off.

“Bobby. Call me Bobby. Or Champ if you’d like.”

I’m throwing her off, but she’s doing a good job keeping it together.

“I was just wondering if—”

“You look young,” I tell her, eyeing her up and down. Her shirt is doing its best to hide her rack, but failing miserably. “You don’t work for ESPN. Barstool?”

“Boston University,” she says proudly. Ah, now I get it.

“My alma mater.” I nod. “They sent you over here to butter me up and get the scoop, huh?”

“We’d just love to get an interview with such a successful alumnus.”

I lean in and take a breath. Christ, she smells good. “And I’d like to get those clothes off you,” I tell her.

I expected her to break, or at least show some sign of embarrassment, but she just nods slowly with pursed lips.

“Well, unlike you, Mr. Brodeur, I don’t take my clothes off for just anybody.”

She turns to go, but before I even know what I’m doing, I have my hand around her wrist and I’m pulling her back to me.

“No? Who then?” I ask her. “Your boyfriend?”

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