Page 2 of Dirty Devil

Especially theAhoyhat.

With a grunt, I shove the shorts back in the box, tuck it under my arm,and get up to open the door.

As soon as I crack the damn thing an inch, my teammates, the Bruiser Brothers, the best defensemen in the Nashville Devils, and possibly in the top ten of the NHL, barrel past me. They’re tall, broad-shouldered Neanderthals, and their bulky frames nearly knock me on my ass as they charge through the door. I scowl as soon as I see what they’re wearing.

They’re both dressed in black suits with a skeleton pattern on the front, white skull face paint, and a black top hat. They look similar enough in normal clothes—same light brown hair and dark blue eyes—but with the face paint on and the same outfit, they look damn near identical.

And Owen even has a gray marbled cane with a skull on top.I know it’s him because he’s the more dramatic one.

I can already feel my blood pressure rising.

“How the fuck do you two have cool costumes?” I gesture between them, barely holding back a growl.

“I ordered these for us,” Ian laughs, running a hand over his lapels and pointing his cane at me. “They’re cool as shit. The ladies are going to love how long my bones are,” he winks, the entire half of his face going into the motion. He obviously doesn’t realize how ridiculous it looks. “You can call me the Bone Daddy.”

“Definitely not calling you that.” Especially with how pissed I am right now. Fuck him and his cool as fuck bone costume. I frown at him, at Owen, at everything in my apartment, and then mutter, “Fucking donut.”

“Are you calling me a deliciously fried pastry?”

“No, I’m implying you have the intelligence of one.”

“Ouch. Someone pissed on your Cornflakes this morning.”

“Like you had nothing to do with it.”

“What? By being so cool? Oh, and hotter than you?”

Owen shakes his head and points to the box—the one that’s still under my arm and not on fire like it should be. “What did you get? And why aren’t you dressed? Aren’t we leaving in ten minutes?”

“You don’t know what’s in the box?” I ask, eyeing them warily and waiting for some sort of reaction that would give them away as the culprits, but their expressions are blank.

Figures.

Either they didn’t do this, or they’re superb at acting stupid.

And let me just say, they’re known for smashing people on the ice, not for their smarts or subtlety.

We stare each other down for what seems like several minutes before Ian sighs and takes a step toward me. “Are you showing us, or do you want the Bone Daddy to get in your box?”

“You keep your dirty Yankee hands—and your bone—away from my box.” I turn away from him, hiding it from his line of sight like Gollum guarding the Ring of Power in The Lord of the Rings. But then I realize what I’m doing—what I’m hiding—and toss the box on the kitchen table. I don’t care who sees it. If one of them wants to trade, that would be okay with me too. “I want to start by saying that I didn’t order this. I’d never order something as hideous as this, and there’s no bloody way I’m wearing it tonight.”

Owen glances over at Ian, takes off his top hat and runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “And you say I’m dramatic.”

“You are,” Ian and I are quick to respond, while Ian narrows his eyes at the both of us. But Ian is quick to shake it off, and the two of them make their way to the kitchen table.

I know as soon as that damn box is open because the two of them howl with laughter.

Arseholes.

Owen doubles over, clutching his stomach as he wheezes and snorts. It’s very unattractive, and Ian isn’t doing much better. He’s slapping the table between bursts of laughter. It’d be hilarious if I wasn’t so butt-hurt over the thought of having to wear the sailor outfit all night.

I’m a fucking famous hockey player for fuck’s sake.

Well, semi-famous.

I donotwant those pictures circulating the internet. My very reputation would be called into question. Not only would the guys on the team not let me live it down, but every damn player in the league would use this as ammo for years to come.

Years.

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