by Frost, Sosie
Her espresso eyes darted everywhere in the room but toward me. They finally rested on her overnight bag. She must’ve packed a pregnancy test.
It was a punch to the gut. Worse.
A puck to the balls.
That was the third time.
Our third month of trying with only frustration, fear, and uncertainty to show for it.
But a hell of a lot of other emotions raged that I wasn’t ready to admit.
I’d always loved Clover, but now those feelings roiled and burst and threatened to release in an unintentional argument. I had no idea what to do with them, if I should reveal them, or how to keep the confession hidden.
If I wanted to keep her happy, I had to give her a baby.
But how many more times could we try before she’d realize that something was wrong.
Before I’d admit what I had always known.
I curled my finger, inviting her back to the bed. She stood before me as the tension rolled from her shoulders.
“It’s okay,” I said.
It wasn’t, but she still forced a smile. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. There was no reason for you to join me today.”
Another gut punch. Didn’t she see how much I cared? If she had asked, I would’ve walked across the country for her.
“Training camp starts soon, and my life’s gonna get fucking busy,” I said. “There’s no sense wasting the few days we have together fighting. Especially over something so silly.”
Clover swallowed hard. “It’s not silly. It’s important. It’s our baby.”
“And were gonna keep trying. You and me, like it’s always been. No matter what.”
“How can you be so…confident?” she asked.
I wasn’t, but I also wasn’t as bad a liar as she thought. “I made a promise to you. I swore I’d get you pregnant, and I won’t stop until I make your wish come true.”
“Why?”
I had no answer to give that wouldn’t destroy everything.
So instead I pulled her close to me, held her tight, and savored the quickening beat of her heart as she rested her head on my shoulder.
I couldn’t let my feelings—my own ravenous desires—complicate something that should’ve been so pure and selfless.
That meant I needed to suppress what clouded my thoughts and raked at my chest until I was certain I had given her the baby she deserved.
I’d spent my life being the one man that Clover could depend on to fix her every problem. Anything from traipsing through three inches of water in her flooded basement to racing home after practice to slay a particularly hairy spider skittering across her living room wall.
I wanted to be the one who gave her everything.
But a baby wasn’t something I kept in my toolbox. Starting a family wasn’t as easy as ordering her a pizza from across the country. And texting her a silly joke every night was not the same as getting on one knee and revealing my love to her.
I couldn’t fix this problem.
I couldn’t hide my feelings.
And I couldn’t ignore the impending disaster.
How was I supposed to provide for this woman when I was too chicken shit to confess the truth to her?
If I couldn’t be the man to give her what she so desperately wanted…
Would I still be the best friend she’d trust to mend her broken heart?
18
Clover
The Ironfield Forge’s honorary banquet celebrating the opening of training camp began at eight in the evening…
Precisely four hours after Adrian’s cock started trending on Twitter.
And, boy, was it one hell of a good picture.
According to all accounts, the first official training camp practice had gone well. Unfortunately, the locker room interviews began a little earlier than expected. As captain, Adrian was the last to leave the ice…which meant he was the last out of the showers.
And just as the players had to acclimate to their new locker room, the media had to adjust to their new digs too. One careless pan of the camera later, and Adrian’s talent became the most notable picture shared on social media.
Worst of all—Adrian’s mascot gave the journalists a scoop which didn’t include boring statistics, practice footage, or season predictions. The debut training camp was forgotten in lieu of Adrian’s Forge, the biggest scandal in the league.
And so, when the team arrived at Ironfield’s fanciest hotel for the banquet, the conversations lauded Adrian for finally bringing awareness to the fact that yes, Ironfield did have a hockey team, and, yes, the captain was an athlete who possessed a monstrous gift.
This didn’t make Adrian any happier.
A shame, really. We didn’t play dress-up that often, and the change of pace was just the sort of misadventure I could tease him about for the entire season. Especially as a formal banquet with string quartets, champagne, and black ties was not the Forge’s idea of fun.
But what the team lacked in camaraderie it made up for in decadence. Despite the franchise’s attempts to destroy the morale of the players, they presented the Forge with pure elegance. White gloves, red wines, and a whole lot of green. Everyone in Ironfield with the suffix -aire on their net worth had arrived to bid the team good luck in the coming season…
And to ensure their properties and businesses were sufficiently advertised on every square inch of the arena.
Caviars and foie gras passed on trays with linen cloths. Prime rib and lobster awaited us later in the evening. They’d even sprung for a chocolate fountain—the size of a whole SUV. It was the stuff of fantasies—but I decided to keep that desire secret until had a little more privacy and a lot more whipped cream.
Adrian led me through the ballroom, dodging curious glances and muffled laughter from those who no longer needed to imagine what he looked like without the tux. A glass of champagne hid his lips from the party-goers.
“Releasing the photo was intentional,” he whispered. “The so-called journalist didn’t have the right credentials to be in the locker room, and he posted the video unedited, immediately after he was kicked out.”
I hated how paranoid the team had made Adrian, but the knot in my stomach had tangled with my own suspicions as well.
I did my best to smile at the players, the media, and the notable Ironfield celebrities and politicians arriving at the banquet to join the festivities. Normally I would’ve loved that chance to break out my slinky black dress with the gold looped belt—if only because it finally gave me the opportunity to try out my sexiest pair of impractical heels.
But tonight, with all eyes on Adrian, I wished I’d worn something a little more sensible. The backless dress was sexy and stylish—and Adrian couldn’t stop brushing his hand along my bare back—but it wasn’t an easy outfit for a quick getaway.
A passing waiter offered an appetizer of bacon-wrapped scallops. The crowd of uncomfortable, muscle-bound, tuxedo-clad athletes raced to scarf down as much as they could before they starved to death after the tough practice. Cash grabbed a handful of the seafood. Leo requisitioned the entire tray. Orion stole Leo’s date. And that’s when the arguments started.
We seized the chance to reposition ourselves away from the bewildered stares and camera flashes.
I took Adrian’s arm and pretended not to feel a little thrill of pleasure.
“You don’t think the Forge would set you up like that, do you?” I asked.
“It’s an easy way to create controversy.”
“But you didn’t take the picture.”
Adrian wasn’t convinced. “Sports Nation ran a story about my wild and dangerous house party injuring men on the team. It doesn’t matter who took the picture. My reputation is getting destroyed, and every bad piece of press just ruins the goodwill I’ve earned in the league.”
I didn’t buy it.
Sure, Adrian’s scandalous picture was probably saved to the hard drives of every woman in America, but he was still the epitome of class an
d composure. His tailored black suit fit him perfectly, flattering his best features. His broad shoulders. Barrel chest. His hockey butt.
The man was downright delicious in his jersey and pads, but he was just as heart stopping in the vest and tie as he was in the illicitly filmed video.
The camera had panned over him just as he leaned into the shower. Steaming water drenched his hair and soaked his sweaty body, taut with muscles. His dark features turned to sensual shadows in the haze, and his trimmed beard framed his masculine jaw line. Rivulets of water had trailed low, following every angle of his toned, perfect form.
And then…his cock.
I enjoyed that part of him, but I wasn’t eager to share. I hadn’t expected to see so much of him outside of our bedrooms, let alone plastered over Twitter and Instagram.
But there it was.
He hadn’t been hard, but Adrian was a show-er. And what he showed was supremely impressive. Core-clenchingly big.
Maybe it was a naughty photo, but it silenced anyone doubting the health of his general and battalion.
“Look, there’s a bright side to this.” I hated to raise my voice, but between the screeching violins of the string quartet and the arguing team, I could hardly hear myself think. “If the media covers…you, then they won’t have a chance to report on how few fans showed up to watch training camp.”
Adrian avoided a couple who had danced a little too close to get a look at his trousers. “We had a ton of people at the arena.”
True…but I doubted he could see much from the ice. “Those were the food vendors, radio stations, and activity coordinators.”
Adrian had attempted to slick his hair for a more dignified style in the tux. One frustrated hand later, and he’d returned to bed head.
“Let me guess,” he said. “No fans actually showed?”
“I got there bright and early.”
But I was the only one.
I’d fully expected the arena to be crowded with kids clamoring for autographs, men thrilled to have a professional hockey franchise in the city, and horny puck bunnies all too eager to flash the players a little skin as they passed from the tunnel to the locker room.
Instead, I had an entire row to myself. A few friends of the team and their families showed up, cheering on husbands and daddies. But the rest of the arena had remained empty.
“Okay, so this training camp won’t be like the Marauders’ and their block parties,” I said. “But this banquet is really nice. Lots of music. Food. Alcohol.”
“You’re not supposed to be drinking.”
I sipped my champagne anyway. “We’ve got another week before we worry about that.”
Adrian’s lips thinned. He prepared to speak but seemed to think better of it.
There was once a time I could easily read my best friend.
A frown meant he was hungry.
A smile warned his opponents that he would destroy them on the next faceoff.
The shallow crinkles around his eyes only showed when he was hurting.
But now? I was losing my touch.
Not because I didn’t understand Adrian, but because I no longer understood me.
It was natural for a girl to develop some feelings for a man after sex. The difference was, those other women realized their fluttering hearts and bumbling words were a result of a smitten crush.
But this? What I had wasn’t a fling or passing infatuation.
It was devastating, catastrophic, and uncompromisingly frustrating. And every realization dropped my stomach like a plane in turbulence.
I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hide from it.
And it all seemed so wonderful.
Adrian tensed as a wickedly handsome man in a tailored designer suit broke through the throngs of tuxes and gowns to approach us.
“Keep your knees closed,” Adrian whispered. “That is Jack Carson, quarterback of the Rivets. I sure as hell don’t trust him around a fertile womb.”
I could see why. Though he pretended to be a suave gentleman, Jack Carson had the swagger of a man who lived for trouble and survived only because he could seduce his way out of it.
Jack was big, far more muscular than suited a pretty-boy quarterback. Something told me he wasn’t the sort of athlete who simply called the plays and waited for the perfect moment to strike. He was a man of action…regardless if that action was right or wrong.
He shook Adrian’s hand with a dimpled grin that belied a far more scandalous nature than his impeccable suit and decent manners would have us believe.
“I wanted to introduce myself.” He stood eye-to-eye with Adrian but seemed leaner in comparison to a hockey player’s shoulders and chest. “I’m Jack Carson. I play for the Ironfield Rivets.”
“Adrian Alaric. Captain of the Forge.” Adrian took my arm, holding me a little too close in the presence of a man who wore his wedding ring with pride. “This is my…friend, Clover Crosby.”
“You a football fan, Clover?” Jack asked.
I’d never admitted to Adrian that I hated all sports, but I think he knew.
“To be honest…” I picked my words carefully. “I think hockey is a little more exciting.”
“I’m starting to think that too...” Jack scanned the room, noting the position of the journalists and sports reporters like a CIA operative might’ve memorized every exit. “Especially with the media coverage you guys are getting. Gotta say, I know a little something about having a bad reputation, but I’ve never had a photo of my playbook circling the Internet.”
Adrian found this amusing. “You sure?”
Jack thought for a long moment before hissing between his teeth. Somehow, the man managed to appear both proud and shamed. Seemed a normal look for Jack Carson.
“You’re right,” he said. “Once during my rookie season. No. Twice. But both of my pictures were blurry as shit. Yours? High definition, baby.”
Adrian downed the rest of his champagne. “At least the photographer got my good side.”
“Hey, any day you can humiliate your opponents by swinging your dick around is a good day,” Jack said.
“Yeah…” I arched an eyebrow at Adrian. “Pretty sure Sun Tzu wrote that in Art of War.”
The quarterback grinned. “To survive in any professional league, you gotta have the biggest balls on the field and off.”
“Would’ve preferred no one saw them though.” Adrian sighed.
“Fuck it. You’ve signed with the best PR agent in the country. It’ll be forgotten in a week.” He winked. “Or you could become a living God if that’s how you want to be remembered. Leah’s very good.”
I nearly laughed as Adrian stole the rest of my champagne in a frustrated gulp.
“You?” I said. “You, Adrian Alaric, got a PR agent?”
Jack winked. “My wife’s company. And if she can make me look squeaky clean, Captain Pecker here won’t have any problems.”
This didn’t reassure Adrian. “I never had any…issues like this before I came to Ironfield.”
“That’s the beauty of this city—it spawns chaos.” Jack gestured for us to slip further away from the party. He wasn’t the sensitive type, but he picked his words as best he could. “The Forge seem to be…”
Adrian clenched his jaw. “In disarray?”
“I was gonna say fucked.”
“That too.”
The quarterback paused as a waiter offered us new drinks. “Look, I’ve got as many years with the Rivets as you have in your league. And I get that every man has his own style of leadership.”
The Forge needed to act like a team before Adrian could assume the role as their leader. But he graciously gestured for Jack to continue.
“I won’t tell anyone how to control their guys…” Jack lowered his voice. “But if you could stop your crew before they make a shitty mistake, you outta do it.” Jack offered his hand but pulled Adrian close when he shook it. “Get your guys out of the back room before they do something stup
id with that cocktail waitress.”
Adrian’s expression hardened. “What?”
“Three of your men followed some floozy waitress when she promised them a good time.” Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Problem is…her boyfriend found out, and he’s looking for a fight.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Don’t let the media learn about this one.”
“Shit.” Adrian handed Jack our champagne. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Just looking out for a fellow captain.”
We bolted for the storage closet, leaving the quarterback to juggle three glasses of champagne. A camera flashed, and Jack groaned as he realized he’d been captured in a rather compromising position with so much alcohol.
“Christ…” He swore. “Leah’s gonna kill me.”
The shouting carried down the hall from the fight, and the breaking of glassware had summoned the caterers and banquet staff. Servers loitered in the hallway, ringing their aprons in their hands as they assessed the chaos.
“We should call the police!” A ginger girl with shining braces tossed her cell phone at her coworker. “You do it.”
Her friend, a pimple-pocked boy with a squeaking voice, bit his nails to the quick. “What if the fire department comes cause we used the fire extinguishers to break them up? Oh man, my manager is gonna kill me.”
Adrian ignored them both. He kicked in the door to the storage room and crashed over a pallet of fifty wine goblets, breaking them all. But he managed to prevent three of the Forge from going WWE on the scorned boyfriend with extra folding chairs for the banquet.
“Fucking stop!” Adrian ripped a chair away from Vasha. “Стоп, хва́тит руга́ться!”
Adrian’s Russian must’ve improved as Vasha surrendered with his hands held high in the air. The other men weren’t as obedient.
Foam dripped from every surface in the room, including the three members of the Forge, their floozy of a lady, and her drunken, meth-skinny boyfriend. The fire extinguisher had been a good call. For some reason, a ring of scorch marks encircled the carpet, and a cloud of acrid smoke roiled to the ceiling.
Vasha, Orion, and Beau were not drunk enough to warrant this sort of behavior. It was the waitress who had caused the most damage, beating at her boyfriend with an oversized purse. Her blonde hair was mussed, and her magenta lipstick smeared a bubblegum halo under her bottom lip.