Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
His frown says option two.
“You could be having some letdown pangs from the season being over, or disappointment that we didn’t win the Cup this year.” He opens his mouth to argue, but I steamroll right over him. “But you’re not.” He clacks his mouth closed and I flash a grin. “You’re being a bitch because you need your dick drained.”
Riggs grumbles like I’m annoying him, spinning away to bury his head in the fridge like he’s looking for something, but the bottles of his favorite post-workout chocolate milk are right up front where they always are.
I’m getting close to the truth. Or I’m praying I am.
“But not by just anyone. Nah, you need a good fucking by someone in particular. Amiright?”
Riggs stands up, hand still on the fridge door and still not looking at me. “Like who?”
“A tall, pretty blonde with blue eyes that shoot fire and a mouth that says the most out of pocket shit. Goes by the name…” I pause dramatically, and seeing the clench of Riggs’s jaw, I finish with a pointed whisper, “Kay.”
He grabs a bottle of milk, turns back to drop it to the island, and plants his palms wide on the cold surface I think the realtor called something like ‘fantasy brown’. Not that I gave a shit about countertops. All I cared about was that Riggs and I were buying a house fancier than anything I’d ever dreamed of. It was brick and stone proof that I’d made it as a professional hockey player.
Eyes narrowed and shrewd gaze locked on me, Riggs replies, “Why are you asking about… her?”
Despite being very obviously unable to say Kay’s name, he tries to sound casual, like he has no idea why I’d be bringing up the woman we slept with months ago, but the mere fact that he doesn’t deny it off-hand speaks volumes about my quiet friend and his thoughts. I swallow my pride, nearly getting it stuck in my throat, and admit, “Because you haven’t had anyone since then. And… I’ve been thinking about her too.”
It's the truth. I have been thinking about her, though probably not the same way Riggs has been.
Something changed that night for him, in the way I always hoped it would. He found an unexpected connection during the hours in that hotel bed. Yes, with the sex, but more so, while we were shooting the shit over paper boxes of fried rice, moo goo gai pan, and sesame pork. He was comfortable and confident. He was happy, and I haven’t seen that type of emotion in him in years. Scratch that, maybe ever.
And I want that for him with my whole being. It’s been my goal all along—for Riggs to find the balls to risk his heart again because despite his full and complete shut-down, he’s a lover by nature. He wants someone by his side and wants to be that someone for his woman too.
As for me, I don’t chase women, I don’t beg for more, and I certainly don’t do commitments outside hockey, but I’ve replayed that night in my fantasies too, grunting Kay’s name when I jack off and waking up to fresh disappointment when I reach for her to find she was a figment of my sleep-induced imagination.
After a beat where he scours my face to see if I’m fucking with him, Riggs lets out a sigh of relief. “You too, man?” He chuckles as all the tension drops off his shoulders. Shaking his head, he asks, “Goddamn, what the hell happened to us that night? I swear I’ve been jonesing for another hit of her ever since. She’s like crack, one taste and I’m hooked.”
He makes it sound like he wants to fuck her again, and while that’s true, there’s more to it. So much more. But Riggs isn’t someone who can handle the bare, honest truth of a direct center hit. He needs a gentler touch to get to the nitty gritty or he’ll clamp down tighter than a virgin’s ass. Hell, he’s probably not even aware that the last time he smiled was when Kay was tracing his tattoos with her fingernails, lifting gooseflesh over his arms and chest like the room was cold.
Measuring my verbal steps toward my target, I tell him, “I’ve been Googling her like the world’s shittiest private investigator. Haven’t found a damn thing.” The confession is mild compared to the reality of hours I’ve spent poring through my memories, looking for some clue about how to find her.
“Me too.”
We look at each other in silence for a long moment. I’m weighing what I’ve already said versus what more I could say. I think he’s doing the same.
“We have to find her.” I don’t know if I say it or he does, but the declaration echoes through us both, resonating deeply.