Page 18 of Three Hockey Hotties

My hands grip the steering wheel of my SUV as we watch Abby get off the bus and rush toward the front door of her building to get out of the rain.

I don’t know if I hear it or just sense it, but Kane growls softly. He’s in the backseat but leaning with both arms braced on the front bucket seats, peering through the windshield, watching intently.

“Sit back,” I tell him.

“I’m going in there,” he says.

“You’re not,” I tell him firmly. “She got home safely. You just saw her walk into the building.”

“I don’t know that she’s in her apartment. I don’t know if she’s⁠—”

A light comes on in an apartment on the third floor facing us.

“We don’t know that’s her apartment,” Kane grumbles.

A figure appears at the window, drawing the curtains over it.

It’s Abby.

I look up into the rearview mirror. Kane is scowling.

“She’s home,” Dash says simply. Though he doesn’t sound happy.

“But we don’t know how she’s feeling. Maybe she’s cold. Or hungry. Maybe she’s regretting saying goodbye to us,” Kane argues.

“She didn’t even know us two hours ago,” I finally snap. “And she’s got all of her clothes and blankets right there. She’s got food.” I assume she’s got food in her own fucking apartment. “She’s fine.” I jam the car into drive and pull away from the curb with a jerk.

The thing that has my gut in a knot is not that Kane is being a pouty brat. It’s that I want to stay too. I want to go up to Abby’s apartment and strip her out of her damp clothes—especially that part—then wrap her in a blanket, make her hot chocolate, and tuck her into bed. Even more, I want to sweep her up, take her to my house, and do all of those things there.

And none of that makes any fucking sense.

Worse, clearly all three of us are feeling the same thing, and that is not only strange but also has the potential to be very, very complicated.

“Do you want me to drop you off?” I ask the guys after a few blocks of driving in tense silence.

They live together in an apartment in one of the nicer areas of the city. Not because they need to share rent, but because they just like living together. However, they spend a hell of a lot of time at my house. Which I love. In fact, I prefer it when they’re there.

When I was building the house on the outskirts of town, with a gorgeous lake view, tons of land keeping me situated well away from my neighbors, and adding a game room, den, and four bedrooms, all with ensuite bathrooms, besides the master suite, I was thinking of them.

I also have a fridge that is way too big for one guy, an enormous grill on my deck that I would never use alone, and a pantry easily big enough for a family of eight.

We barbecue on my gorgeous stone patio, we boat and fish off of my dock, and we sit around the fire pit with beers and talk late into the night on the weekends. They each have chosen one of the rooms as “theirs” where they crash on a regular basis and keep at least one change of clothes and few toiletries.

I’d love it if they’d move in. I know they would too. But we haven’t discussed it. It seems unusual to have three grown men, all bachelors, living together, I suppose, and since the two of them are in the public eye with the hockey team, we haven’t made that move.

“We’re not done talking about Abby,” Kane says, still pouting. “We’re coming to your place.”

Dash grunts his agreement. “But swing by our apartment. I need to get Linda.”

Yeah, I didn’t think that we were done with this topic. I also know that they know I’ve got burgers and steaks in the fridge and all of their favorite snacks in the pantry. It’s possible they haven’t shopped for groceries in a while. An empty fridge is a hazard of being on the road constantly.

Dash’s dog, Linda, is a golden retriever who also loves my house. When the guys are on the road she stays with me. Which means she pouts like the spoiled baby diva she is when she has to stay in their apartment.

The way Linda and I miss each other when she’s at their place is just more reason they really should just move in with me.

Dash runs in and grabs the dog, and she jumps into the backseat with enthusiasm, pushing her head forward between the seats onto the console.

“Hey, girl,” I tell her, rubbing her head. “There’s a bone with your name on it.”