Wylde

by Sawyer Bennett

  The other women snicker, but I stare at Willow with abject fascination. “He rescued you from terrorists?”

  Willow’s expression softens, turning dreamy before she admits, “Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, as I’d already been saved by the time he arrived, but he did leave during the playoffs and fly to Turkey to come get me.”

  “And then immediately carted you off to Vegas for a wedding,” Pepper adds, her own voice sounding dreamy from the romanticism of it all.

  “Then off to a luxurious honeymoon in the Maldives,” Blue quips. “I hate you by the way.”

  “I really did score big with Dominik, didn’t I?” Willow chirps with a dopey smile.

  She gets an “amen,” a “preach,” and a high snap over a shoulder in agreement. I’m amazed and a little bit in awe of Willow. Somehow, I think these little tidbits I’m getting—brief peeks into these women’s love affairs—are really just the tip of the iceberg.

  “While I believe all of our stories are fascinating,” Willow drawls, turning her attention squarely back to me. “I think Clarke needs to tell us how she managed to nab the league’s most notorious playboy?”

  Really? Most notorious playboy?

  “There’s a reason they call him Wylde,” Regan chortles.

  “I’m glad my man handed that title over,” Blue mutters.

  “He’s not all that wild,” Brook observes, then gives me a very pointed look. “That man is smitten with you. So how did you meet?”

  I’m not sure about the smitten part, but we do have a good meet-cute, that’s for sure.

  I take a sip of my champagne, then settle in to tell them the story of how Aaron walked into my store and suckered me into a bet that would assuredly land him with two wedding dates.

  “Oh my God,” Nora exclaims. She’s been very quiet up until now. I know her man, Tacker, is Aaron’s best friend so I kind of thought she might have already known this story. But then again, I have no clue what Aaron has told his teammates. “That is like the best story ever. I thought Wylde might have layers to him… I just never knew they’d be so multi-dimensional.”

  “He can quote literary classics?” Blue asks, her eyebrows knitted in confusion. “I thought it was like physically impossible for athletes to be so well-read.”

  “Stereotype much?” Regan chides.

  Blushing, Blue shrugs. “Hey… I’m blonde and I’m not well-read like that. I’m a walking stereotype. I just mean… we all know how much effort our men have to put into this career. It’s more than a full-time job. When would he have time to read?”

  “Well, regardless,” Brooke intones, bringing the subject back around. “I think it’s adorable how you two met, and I’m glad things are working out. I think I speak for all the women in this group when I say it’s a pleasure watching someone like Wylde fall for the first—and hopefully last—time.”

  Her sentiment has me feeling awfully unsure of myself. While it’s been a bit surreal how much my feelings for Aaron have changed in just a few weeks’ time, I still can’t seem to shake that impending feeling of doom that this could all come crashing down in a heartbeat.

  Their pointed reminders of what a playboy he was are certainly not helping.

  “Did we say something wrong?” Brooke asks, her hand coming to settle gently on my forearm.

  Whatever is on my face, I try to smooth it out because I don’t want to cause the bride concern. I don’t want to cause any concern, as I’m the guest here.

  “No,” I rush to reassure her with an overly bright—completely fake—smile. “I’m fine, really.”

  “Because you don’t have to worry about that playboy stuff,” she continues. “Aaron is really into you, trust me on that.”

  “I know he is,” I reply, but the dullness in my tone has her frowning. She shoots a pointed look across the room at the women sitting opposite, then brings her worried expression back. She knows there’s more to the story. I feel like there’s a proverbial bright light shining in my face, and they’re on the verge of wrangling a confession out of me.

  “So there’s this thing that happened to me.” I actually blink in surprise at the ease with which those words come out of my mouth, especially since I had no intention of sharing my secret with these women. And yet… I keep talking. “A few years back, I was on this reality TV show called Celebrity Proposal.”

  I lay it out. All of my pain, shame, and humiliation over what happened. I tell them about the meme and how it haunts me still. How stupid I felt giving up my virginity to a man I had so thoroughly misjudged and how that shadow hangs over me to this day, still influencing my decisions.

  Knowing what I now know about Aaron, I can’t believe those past experiences almost kept me from exploring something with him.

  Oh, the things I would have missed out on.

  “I used to watch that show,” Nora says quietly, and all eyes turn to her. “I remember when that happened.”

  I flush with embarrassment. It’s one thing to recount the story, another to know one of these women watched it play out on live TV.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she continues, her voice firm. “You did nothing wrong. You merely followed your heart. Sadly, it misled you.”

  “Did it ever,” I affirm.

  “The point being,” Nora says, and I’m helpless to look away. She’s a therapist, so she must know something about which she speaks. “It’s an experience that has helped shape you into the person you are today. I’m going to guess that person is someone who is guarded and afraid to take risks. Nothing wrong with that, but just because that’s the person you are today doesn’t mean it’s the person you have to be tomorrow. You’ve already gone out on a limb by exploring things with Aaron. That means you’re willing to spread those wings a bit, which I think is wonderful. Personally, I think you have the right man to do it with.”

  I give her a wry smile. “Even though you all call him Wylde? Even though he’s the team playboy?”

  “Especially so,” Nora retorts with a giggle. “Nothing like watching a man like that fall.”

  The other women agree. More “amens” and “mmm-hmms,” and another snap over the shoulder.

  “I’m glad you shared that with us,” Brooke says, patting me on the thigh. “You’re one of the girls now. An official member of the Vengeance family.”

  I’m really not since I’ve only been dating Aaron for a few weeks now, but the sentiment is silly sweet.

  “Here, here,” the other women proclaim, holding up their champagne glasses.

  “By the way,” Pepper says, and I can tell by the tone of her voice the subject is changing, for which I’m glad. “Did you guys know Rafe is coming, and he’s bringing his new fiancée?”

  “Fiancée?” Willow exclaims. “He’s only been gone for a couple of months. How does he have a fiancée already?”

  “Says the woman who jetted off to Vegas to marry a man she’s only known for a few months,” Regan mutters out of the side of her mouth to Nora, who snorts loudly.

  Willow shoots Regan a glare, then looks back to Pepper for the answer to her question. Pepper shrugs. “No clue.”

  “We’ll find out tomorrow, I suppose,” Brooke says, then drains the last of her champagne. An attendant materializes out of nowhere, refilling her glass before moving among the women to top us off.

  The bubbly is already making me a little lightheaded, and I wonder what Aaron will do if I show back up at our room completely drunk later. Either things will get really crazy or I’ll be a complete dud.

  Regardless, I do know one thing with surety. It speaks to the fact I am willing to judge Aaron on his own merits instead of based on my past experiences.

  Regardless of the shape I show up in to our room later, Aaron will make sure I’m taken care of and protected. He would, in no way, take advantage of me.

  The fact I can admit that tells me quite a bit about myself.

  CHAPTER 18

  Wylde

 
I’m not a romantic type of guy. Scenery is lost on me. Details like flowers and wedding dress lace don’t mean a thing. But as I look around at the wedding reception, which is in full progress, I can’t really think of a more appropriate place to tie two lives together.

  Today, Brooke and Bishop got married on a bluff overlooking Caneel Bay. They said their vows right at sunset, so the water was sparkling with orange and gold. There were no chairs to sit upon and no formal aisle by which Brooke made her way to Bishop. Friends and family merely stood around in a large semi-circle facing the Caribbean waters. Brooke pulled up in a resort golf cart, and her father escorted her through the crowd that parted for her procession. She wore a strapless white dress that was lacking any adornment, but which flowed down to her ankles. It swished and rippled with her strides, and her bare feet peeked out as she walked across the lush green grass toward her intended. Bishop stood with his back to the sea, a local pastor from the island of St. Thomas beside him.

  And right there, with no fancy music, flowers, or even chairs, they exchanged handwritten vows while guided by the pastor. It was the purest thing I’d ever seen, and I thought… if I ever decide to get married, I’m doing exactly this same thing.

  The reception is way fucking cool, held in an old abandoned sugar mill dating back to the 18th century on the resort property. It’s nothing more than cobbled brick walls—half having fallen—a refinished wooden floor, and no roof to hide the stars above us. Round tables dot the interior, spilling outside to a large tent set on the lush lawn to accommodate the guests. A full sit-down meal of beef tenderloin and lobster is served, the champagne is never-ending, and there’s a DJ who’s going to be cranking some jams before long. It promises to be a night of partying and celebration. Thank fuck, we’re not leaving until the day after tomorrow because I’m sensing many, many hangovers.

  We’re somewhere in between the newly married couple’s first dance and the cutting of the cake, a mellow time for people to mingle and digest the glorious meal we just had. Clarke sits to my left, looking lovely in a peach-colored dress that hugs her body, has only one sleeve, and is cut fairly low. Not that I mind her glasses in the slightest, but she went with her contacts tonight and is wearing her hair down. But rather than her normal wavy curls, she did something to straighten it so it’s sleek and hanging even farther down her back than normal. I expect when we make it back to our room at some point, I’ll have it wrapped around my wrist, perhaps while taking her from behind.

  I immediately banish that thought, not wanting to sport wood in front of my friends, and take the moment to talk to Rafe. He and his new fiancée, Calliope, flew in yesterday and I’ve not had a chance to catch up with him yet. Merely some brief introductions right before the wedding, so I was happy to see us seated at the same dinner table, along with Tacker and Nora.

  Rafe is someone I got close to toward the end of the season, but for reasons I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Just as the playoffs were gearing up, Rafe’s dad got diagnosed with an aggressive form of pancreatic cancer and was given only weeks to live. Through some wrangling of deals between Dominik Carlson and Gray Brannon, the general manager of the Carolina Cold Fury, Rafe got traded to that team to be near his dad as he faced his end-of-life journey.

  And now, Rafe is here with a fiancée.

  “So, what’s the deal?” I ask, shifting to peek past Clarke. I drape my arm casually across the back of her chair, then give a sly wink to Calliope, who sits on his other side. She grins back. “You leave, then, a few months later, you show up with a beautiful new fiancée. Dude… fill me in.”

  Rafe throws a little shade my way, nodding at Clarke. “I’m not the only one with surprises.”

  Chuckling, I nod back as if to say touché. “My story is probably much simpler than yours.”

  “And way more fun if I tell it,” Clarke cuts in, her eyes sparkling from the fun of the evening and a few glasses of champagne.

  She proceeds to entertain Rafe and Calliope with my antics of walking into her store and baiting her into a contest for a date she had no clue was rigged in my favor. She holds nothing back, not even her pure intentions of only ever attending the weddings with me before parting ways.

  “I love it. What a great story.” Calliope claps her hands once, then sweeps them wide to indicate the festivities around us. “But you two clearly have a thing for wedding dates.”

  Clarke tips her head, snorting with humor. “Yeah… maybe that’s our thing.”

  “We definitely have a thing for weddings,” I concur, leaning over to brush my lips across hers. When my eyes slide over to Rafe, I find him regarding me with a mix of amusement and approval in his expression. He definitely knows me sitting here at a destination wedding with a woman I worked very hard to get to notice me is far and away from my normal. But enough about me. I give Rafe a pointed look. “Tell us everything about how you two got engaged.”

  Clarke and I settle in, listening to Rafe and Calliope tell the story together. One starts, setting the scene, and the other takes over to put a spin on the story. Back and forth they go, two people who clearly know each other very well, which isn’t surprising given they grew up together. A true second-chance-at-love type of story, leading up to his proposal to her about a month ago.

  “I hated you had to go through that with your dad,” I tell Rafe, bringing the mood down just a bit, but it had to be said. “I really admire your courage through it all.”

  Rafe’s dad succumbed to the cancer just as the Cold Fury was starting the conference finals against the L.A. Demons. Rafe missed the first game, but because of a promise he made to his dad to see it through, he didn’t miss any others. They held the memorial service for his dad after the season was over. That happened when the Vengeance took the Cold Fury down in game seven of the series.

  “I couldn’t have gotten through it without your support,” Rafe admits. “Having gone through it with your dad already made you such a valuable resource.”

  And there’s the reason he and I bonded. We both went through the profoundly sad and exhausting experience of watching a loved one die from cancer. Throughout Rafe’s transition to the Cold Fury—while he was attempting to lead a normal life—I talked to or texted him daily to see how he was doing, give him moral support, and encourage his continued strength. I was able to take my experiences and translate them, offering what I hoped was at least the ability to make the terrifying just a little more acceptable.

  Clarke’s hand moves over to rest on my thigh, near my knee. I know it’s in response to this new revelation that my father is dead and my own hand comes to cover hers, my fingers curling to capture it tightly.

  We continue talking, never missing a beat. The conversation returns to lighter topics. Brooke and Bishop’s first dance occurs to the classic Unchained Melody, and the cake is cut with not one single dollop smeared on the other person’s face.

  People come and go from our table.

  Clarke and I do the same, mingling so I can introduce her to people she’s never met and so we can take our turn on the dance floor. We press in close for the slower songs, then bump and grind to the faster stuff. We move from the champagne to the open bar. Brooke and Bishop retire around ten, presumably to get to the fun ritual of consummating their marriage. The reception rages on without them. The next group of people to retire are some of the older family members and friends who are partied out. Clarke and I keep dancing, laughing, joking—having the best time together while surrounded by my closest friends.

  Near midnight, though, I see Clarke yawn for the third time, and I realize I’m exhausted as well. The younger guys—mostly the rookies and their equally young girlfriends—are still slamming shots and dancing. I can’t help but look on them with fondness as God knows I acted that way when I first came into the league.

  Clarke and I hold hands. She wraps her other hand around my arm, leaning into me as we make the long walk back along lighted pathways to our room. It only takes a couple of paces for me
to realize her feet hurt by the way she’s leaning on me. I mention it, but she denies it.

  Instead, I merely move in front of her, squat, and tell her to jump on. She takes me up on my offer, so I give her a piggyback ride to our room, loving her laughter at being hauled back across the resort.

  Once in the room, she drops down to the bed and removes her high-heeled sandals, groaning in relief as they come off in quick succession.

  I study her, noting she looks exhausted. My initial inclination upon stepping foot in this private paradise of a room was to hurry up and get her naked. But God knows… we’ve done a lot of damn fucking this week. Relaxed on the beach, came back to the room, and had sex. Went out to dinner, came back, and fucked all night. Went snorkeling, came back, and screwed like bunnies.

  I want her now. Always will. I doubt that will ever wane, but as I said, she looks exhausted.

  “You look like you could do with a good night’s sleep,” I mention casually as I come to stand before her.

  She tips her head back with a smile. “Actually… I wouldn’t mind a dip in our pool to cool off a bit.”

  “We can do that,” I say, holding my hand out to haul her up from the bed. She places her palm against mine. Once she rises, she moves right into my body.

  I’m surprised when she wraps her hands around my waist to give me nothing more than an affectionate squeeze, briefly pressing her cheek to my chest. “Thanks for bringing me here this week. Tonight was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

  I give her a squeeze back, my tone laced with faux offense. “I thought I was the most fun you’ve had in a long time.”

  She giggles, bending back to see me. “Individually, yes… you’re the most fun. As an event, a date, or whatever you want to call it, but the wedding and reception was a lot of fun tonight.”

  “Agreed,” I say. “Bathing suits or naked in the pool?”

  True to Clarke-fashion, she blushes. While she’s been naked plenty in front of me, she’s still not fully comfortable with it yet. Any time she has gotten naked, it’s been at my hands or my direction and in direct preface to us having sex.