Page 143 of Twisted Needs

“It was a joke.”

“I know, but still.” His expression softens. “There are guys on your team who might never get this chance again. You know that.”

And there it is again. That thing he does. That impossible way he loves me through the things I love too. I’m sitting here wishing the season would end so I can get back to him faster, and he’s thinking about my teammates. About the guys who’ve spent their whole lives chasing the Cup. About everyone.

I don’t think I could build a better person in my head if I tried.

“Then I’ll win it for them,” I murmur.

Anders grins. “There’s no I in team, old man. Delegate.”

“You’re right. I’m a captain. Delegating is my entire job.”

“Mm.” He settles deeper beneath the blankets. “Whatever. You’re the only player I care about.”

“Oh yeah?” I smirk. “Big fan of my backhand?”

“I get insanely horny when I see you in uniform,” he says matter-of-factly. “Something about the sweat. Very homoerotic of me.”

I laugh so hard I nearly choke. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you’re obsessed with me.”

So fucking obsessed…

“Get some sleep,” I tell him softly. “Be good for me until I get home tomorrow.”

“I’ll try.” His expression softens again. “Good luck telling Bishop.”

I groan quietly, grimacing. “Ugh. Yeah. Thanks, baby.”

He gives me a sultry look and blows a kiss. “Night, Daddy.”

When the call ends, I set my phone on the nightstand and stare at the dark screen.

For years, hockey has been the thing pulling me away from home. Now it’s the thing I’m rushing through so I can get back to it.

CHAPTER 39

BE CAREFUL

PARKER

Maybe this was a bad idea. Every single time Logan Bishop talks me into drinking on the team plane, it ends with me saying something I shouldn’t.

My knee keeps bouncing. “I already feel sick,” I mutter, putting the empty shot cup back on the tray table with more force than necessary before chasing it with orange juice. The citrus burns against the vodka coating my tongue. “Ugh. This was a horrible fucking idea.”

Bishop leans back lazily in his seat, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “You said you had something important to run by me. This is liquid courage.”

“I didn’t need liquid courage.”

“You didn’t have to drink it.”

I shoot him a flat look. All the bastard does is grin in response.

We’re somewhere over the Midwest by now, halfway home after another miserable road loss, and I’m thirty-eight years old feeling like a teenager about to confess to crashing my stepdad’s car.

I scrub a hand over my mouth. “Never mind,” I mutter. “I’m not telling you.”