Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
But yeah, adding “occasionally horny for a man” to my curriculum of misbehavior might actually be the thing that finally bumps me out of Dad’s protective bubble and gets me killed.
That inflexible man certainly would disapprove.
Not that I need his approval.
Because this is a phase.
I even asked Dr. Duret—vaguely, not mentioning Marcus or the coming-while-being-spanked incident—if a straight guy can find a man attractive.
She said yes so casually, like she wasn’t detonating my worldview.
Apparently, straight men can “experiment” sometimes. After that, they either discover they like both or prefer men, or they realize it’s not for them and return to women.
I’m obviously in that last category. Clearly. Because, hello? Jude or Kane would be my first choice, not some asshole who annoys me so much I want to commit homicide and also maybe have a stroke.
“You guys on form for tomorrow’s game?” Kane asks as he sits diagonally from me, picking at his food and barely eating.
“Always.” I grin.
“You should ask yourself that.” Jude takes a sip of his water. “Considering all the moping.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “You look like death warmed under the weather.”
Jude gives me an exasperated look. “You mean death warmed over. Under the weather is another thing.”
“I meant to use them together. And Kane looks like both.”
“You have a point,” Jude lets out in a grunt.
“I always do, big man. Don’t go stating the obvious.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll perform as usual.” He takes a spoonful toward his mouth, then puts it back down and points at Jude. “If you don’t get violent for most of the game, and you…” He drags his finger to me. “Play like the last game. We’ll be fine.”
I swallow the mouthful of rice with difficulty, but I force a grin. “I always play in top form.”
“No, last time was possibly your best game of the season so far,” Kane says. “Definitely makes up for whatever clusterfuck happened when we played against the Wolves.”
“So I had an off day, and you keep bringing it up like a broken flash drive, but Jude is always in the box, and he gets a free pass?”
“Hey, why are you bringing me into this?” Jude shoves my shoulder with his. “And it’s a broken record, not a broken flash drive.”
“Keep up with the technology, bitch.” I shove him back and then kick him under the counter for good measure.
“Jude does not get a free pass,” Kane says.
“Yeah, have you seen him nagging me every day like a bored housewife? With you joining, asshole?”
“That’s because you sabotage all my good work!” I throw my hands in the air.
“Well, you sabotaged mine against the Wolves, but you don’t see me talking about that.”
“You are now! Wanna fight, motherfucker?”
“Don’t be dramatic when you lose.”
“I’m gonna fuck you up.”
“You can try, Pres.”
“Enough,” Kane says in a cutting tone, putting a halt to my and Jude’s usual bouts of arguing that have a ninety-nine percent chance of ending up in a fight.
Now that I think about it, Jude and I often fight, punching each other just to get that aggression out. Have I ever gotten hard during any of those? The answer is no.
My dick has never reacted in any way like it did around Marcus.
Fuck this, honestly.
“Point is,” Kane says with a note of exasperation, having always hated playing the role of a mediator. “You played perfectly against the Ravens. We need that tomorrow. We’re only one point ahead of the Wolves, and one loss puts them in first.”
“Not on my watch,” I snarl.
“Exactly. So do whatever you did before the last game to play like that again.”
Ah yes.
Skating around with a bruised, throbbing ass courtesy of Marcus Osborn, that’s what I did.
And absolutely fucking not, that is not happening again.
I’m not about to use “getting manhandled by my rival” as my pregame ritual.
I’m going back to my default setting—women.
Now if I could just find one—anyone—attractive enough to awaken my borderline-insubordinate dick, that would be fantastic.
Like, please, universe, I’m begging.
Send a hottie immediately before my sexuality finishes its Windows reboot and picks Marcus as the default browser.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Once, then again.
I pull it out, and fuck my life, it’s Marcus.
Seriously, universe? I ask for a hottie, and you send him?
I meant a hot woman, goddamn it.
Marcus is now named Problem #11 in my contacts—for his jersey number. Hilarious, I know. I had him as PMS (Perpetual Male Syndrome) for a few days after that night, which was genius, if I may say so myself.
After that incident, I expected him to come find me in the locker room, which is why I was basically fleeing, just putting my jacket, pants, and shoes on, then I was out, leaving the place a fucking mess.
I just couldn’t face whatever the fuck happened in that penalty box—and no, it wasn’t me. I’ll deny it until I die.