How in the fuck had he lived with the knowledge that he might one day get a call from a hospital to tell him that she’d died?
My stomach turns, and I feel slightly nauseated.
“Mr. and Mrs. Monahan,” a voice calls. I’m still staring at Regan. She doesn’t look over and neither do I, because of the unfamiliarity of the titles in relation to us. It hasn’t sank in to either of us that we are now a unit. A husband and wife team.
She’s Mrs. Monahan, and it’s the first time I’ve heard her called that.
I snap out of it first, turning to see a woman who looks to be about my age standing in the doorway that leads back to the inner offices. Manilla folder in hand, she scans the handful of people in the waiting room.
“Regan,” I say as I take the magazine from her hand. She lifts her head, blinking at me slowly. “They just called us.”
“Oh,” she replies softly, attempting a smile. She appears to be too tired to even manage that.
I push up from the chair, drop the magazine on the corner table that was between our chairs, and hold my hand out to her. She slips hers in mine, and we both turn to the woman who called our names.
She beams a cheery smile. “Hi. I’m Monica Sanders, and I’ll be handling your case.”
We approach her, shake hands, and then follow her through a maze of cubicles with five-foot divider walls in between the desks. The air is filled with the chatter of dozens of customer service reps on the phone helping people to navigate the world of insurance denials.
Monica leads us to the far end of the room to a glassed-in office. She’s clearly someone above the cubicle workers as she rates an office, and I take this as a good sign. We are here, after all, to make sure Regan gets her treatment with no hassles.
We’re invited to take seats as Monica moves around to sit behind her desk. She puts the folder down, flips it open, and does a quick scan of the top page before giving her attention to Regan.
“Mrs. Monahan, it looks like we have the necessary documents filled out and the approval by Dr. Marino in place, but your health insurance company hasn’t given the approval for the Salvistis yet.”
“Why not?” I ask, noting Regan just seems to stare listlessly at her. I’m so fucking glad I came with her as she doesn’t look like she has an ounce of “give a fuck” in her right now.
Monica turns to me. “The red tape is sticky, Mr. Monahan. Especially when you’re dealing with a drug such as Salvistis.”
“You mean when your company charges almost half-a-million dollars for a medication I’m sure costs a fraction of that to produce? Yeah… I get why it takes a while.”
“Dax,” Regan says, finding the strength to chide me.
I ignore her, keeping my eyes pinned hard on the representative assigned to help my wife. “That’s unacceptable. She has to have her treatment this week.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure you can understand we have certain protocols—”
“All I understand is my fucking wife has a life-threatening condition,” I growl as I push up from my chair and slam my hands on her desk. Monica jerks backward, eyes opening wide. “I want her treatment set up, and I want it set up now.”
Granted, Monica seems like a nice person who is just doing her job. And granted, it’s a dick move to go all alpha controlling on her. I just met her less than a minute ago.
But I’m not in the mood. Particularly when she opens her mouth and spouts off a smart-ass response of, “Well, Mr. Monahan… I’d be glad to set it up if you want to shell out thirty-five thousand for the dosage.”
Regan’s head drops, and she presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose. I study her a moment, livid she even has to be put through this stress.
Eyes hard, I pull my checkbook out of my back pocket and cock a brow at Monica. Taking a pen out of a cup holder on her desk, I ask, “Who do I write the check out to?”
Monica’s mouth drops open, and Regan’s head pops up. She reaches a hand out, touching her fingers to my forearm. “Dax… no.”
I don’t spare Regan a glance, just state firmly, “Yes, Regan. You’re getting your fucking treatment this week.”
My stare off with Monica continues for just a few more seconds before she finally averts her attention to a drawer where she pulls out a form. “I can set this up as a self-pay. If and when the insurance approves, you can get reimbursed.”
“That will be fine,” I say, softening my tone as I take my seat again.
I look at Regan, who stares at me incredulously.
“What?” I ask curiously, a small smile playing at my lips.
She shakes her head. “Nothing. It’s just… well, thank you.”
“My pleasure,” I say and then turn to Monica. “Now… if we could get it set up before Thursday as she’s flying out of state.”
And it was my absolute pleasure. In fact, I can’t quite figure out why I feel so fucking accomplished and satisfied I could do that for Regan, but I do know I like the feeling.
I set the tray of food on the bedside table, not really keen on the fact it’s in the guest room where Regan had originally been put when she moved in. I had thought the fact she slept in my bed the last two nights would have meant something to her, but when we got back from the meeting with her case manager this morning and she said she wanted to take a nap, I didn’t think much about it then.
I went and worked out, stopped by Legend’s house to visit Pepper who is recovering nicely from her run-in with a bullet at the hands of a madwoman, and then came home.
It was just after lunch, so I whipped up some canned vegetable soup and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Regan. I’m not the best cook in the world, but I’d put it on a tray and carried it to my room for her.
Only to not find her not there, but instead asleep in her own room.
I was hesitant to wake her but realizing she needed to eat and could go right back to sleep if she needed spurred me to rouse her.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I put my hand on her shoulder and give her a tiny shake. She’s beautiful in her sleep, and the peacefulness on her face is something I relish.
Eyes fluttering open, she focuses on me. “Hey,” she says, her voice all groggy and husky. Kind of sexy. “What time is it?”
“About one,” I say. “I figured you should try to eat something.”
Regan pushes up in bed to lean against the headboard, wiping her eyes with her fingers. She gives a long yawn before glancing at the food on the table. “You made that for me?”
“Yup,” I say with a smile. “Impressed?”
“Incredibly,” she says, and I note her eyes are a lot brighter and more focused.
“You feel better?”
“I do, and I’m kind of hungry,” she replies.
This is my cue. I reach over, grab the tray, and carefully lay it over her stretched-out legs. She grabs the spoon and leans over, pulling some soup to her mouth with a sigh of contentment. I watch her eat for a few moments, satisfied knowing she feels better.
Also in knowing it’s not a chore taking care of her. I always thought commitment and relationships were a drain on my own time and energy, but not so much.
At least not with Regan.
She pauses the soup slurping to reach for the sandwich. I had cut it in half, on the diagonal to be fancy, but I left the crust on. She takes a bite, chews, then after swallowing, she says, “I totally forgot to ask you… but how did your meeting go yesterday morning regarding that lawsuit?”
I had forgotten about it, too, as it was resolved to my satisfaction. The team’s attorney had met with me, Erik, Sebastian Parr—our director of merchandising who was also named in the suit—along with Christian Rutherford, the team’s general manager. Word had come down from the head honcho—that would be Dominik Carlson—that he didn’t intend to pay a dime to the woman since her claims were bogus and generated only to try to squeeze some money out of lucrative pockets.
The risk was in if we refused to pay, she could
continue with the lawsuit and it would be a long, arduous process to go through. However, we all agreed we’d rather stick to our guns since we were in the right and she was in the wrong. We were all in agreement with the decision to not offer a single penny at the mediation that was coming up in a few weeks.
I relate all of this to Regan while she steadily eats—alternating between her soup and sandwich, sometimes even dipping the latter into the aforementioned.
“So why would she even make such a claim against so many different people in the organization? I mean… how could she even think it’s credible when you guys weren’t even involved with her?”
“I guess that’s all relative to what you mean by involved with her?” I say dryly, thinking of the lengths this woman went to set things up for her “lawsuit”. “She had a job interview with Sebastian, then claimed he told her he’d give her the job if she gave him a blow job.”
“Eww,” Regan says, wrinkling her nose. “What did she make up about you and Erik?”
“That we slept with her and used our leverage as team players to get her something within the organization in exchange for sexual favors.”
“What did she do? Just like… pick you guys off the team roster and target you?” she asks in disgust, clearly incensed on our behalf.
And I wasn’t expecting these direct questions. Suddenly, I’m feeling a little hot under the collar.
“Not exactly,” I admit.
“Not exactly… what?” she inquires with her eyebrows drawn inward.
“Well… I actually kind of slept with her.” I watch her expectantly, wondering just how low I’ve sank in her opinion by admitting that.
“You slept with her?” she demands, her eyes now flaring with heat and indignation. “Dax… how could you?”
I know I should feel angry and defensive over her tone, but frankly, it’s cute as fuck. I can’t help but mess with her a bit. “Are you jealous, Mrs. Monahan?”
“No,” she snaps.
“Are you sure? Because it sounds like jealousy.”
“I’m not jealous,” she growls.
“That’s good,” I chide while trying to hide a smile. “Because that was long before you became Mrs. Monahan and before anyone even knew what a nut job this lady was. She came on to me, Regan. She was hot. And while you might not want to admit your husband was such a bad boy, I really didn’t turn my nose up at that sort of thing.”
Regan huffs and grabs onto the tray, attempting to swing her legs off the bed, but I’m still sitting there and blocking her way. I lean over her, plant a hand on the mattress, and put my face into hers, grinning down. “Don’t be jealous, baby. You are so much hotter than she was.”
“Oooohhh, you big jerk,” she snarls, trying to figure out how to push me away without spilling the half-full bowl of soup.
I can’t help but laugh, taking the tray off her lap and setting it on the table. She uses this as an opportunity to roll the opposite way off the bed, but then I’m on her.
I’ve got her flipped on her back, underneath me in the middle of the mattress. My hands go to her wrists, and I pin them above her head. She glares, tries to buck, and I start to get hard that she’s fighting me.
What a sick fuck I am.
“I think this woman targeted us,” I explain. “In hindsight, that’s what I believe she was doing. The night I met her, she was flirting hard with both me and Erik. She went home with me. Later, she tried for Erik, but I’d warned him off her as something wasn’t quite right about her. She targeted Sebastian Parr, our director of marketing, for sure. Set up a job interview with him, then later claimed untrue shit. It’s an unfortunate situation we’re all in, but at least the team is standing behind us on this.”
Her face softens a bit as she takes it all in.
Dipping my head, I press my mouth to hers. She tries to turn away from me and I let her, using the opportunity to put my lips to her ears. “No one compares to you, Regan. No one. Not ever. And you can’t possibly be mad at me for something I did months ago before I ever came to find out how amazing you are. Long before I ever thought we’d be married. So stop being mad and kiss me back, okay?”
She totally deflates. When she turns her face to me, her look is chagrined. Pursing her lips, she mutters. “Still… gross you’d be with someone so manipulative.”
“Didn’t know she was manipulative then, babe,” I reply smartly. “Fact is, we didn’t do a whole lot of talking, so—”
“Okay,” she says quickly to interrupt me. “Don’t want to hear details.”
“Can I kiss you now?” I ask with a grin.
Regan’s eyelids droop slightly, her mouth curving into a sexy smile. “Depends on where you want to kiss me?”
“Do you have a preference?” I ask, my voice having dropped an octave on its own accord.
“Between my legs,” she whispers. “And take your time with it.”
My cock goes from tingling in anticipation to full-on hard in about a nanosecond. “Jesus, Regan… you’re learning things awfully damn fast.”
Her straight teeth flash as she wiggles under me. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
I’m not waiting. Not for another fucking moment.
CHAPTER 20
Dax
February 25th.
Trade deadline.
It’s nineteen days away.
For some players, it’s a time of stress. Other times, it’s a time of hope and excitement. I expect the Vengeance management is going to be looking at all offers quite seriously as we head into the playoffs as one of the top-ranked teams in our division. Our shot at the Cup is as good as any, which means management will take any and all serious offers that will bolster our team further.
This is causing a bit of speculation as well as stress as the biggest player at risk on our team is Tacker. He currently stands suspended from our team for being drunk and driving his vehicle into a concrete barricade. While on the ice, he was playing at his best, but his emotional instability is a liability no one can overlook. On top of that, no one knows if management has even given Tacker a way to try to make it back onto the team, and if they have, if Tacker is even interested.
The unknown can make it difficult to put our heads in the game, until well… we’re actually in the game.
Like we are now.
The Chicago Bobcats are giving us a run for our money, and this game is coming down to the wire.
Rafe Simmons has moved permanently to the first line, replacing Tacker as center. Rafe was replaced by a pretty damn talented player from our minor team in Denver, and there’s a chance he and Rafe could claim those positions for the rest of the season if the powers-that-be determine Tacker just isn’t fit to stay with our team.
I’ll be the first to admit… Rafe is fucking good at his job. He’s now the center glue that holds Bishop as the right wing and me as the left wing together on the ice. By way of example, Rafe intercepts a pass down low, then whips it backhanded to Bishop as we all take off toward the Bobcats’ goal. Bishop, Rafe, and I execute what some would call an almost-choreographed dance as we weave in and out of players, passing the puck between us.
Bishop to Rafe to Bishop to me.
The Bobcats’ goalie pitches left and right on his skates, his eyes darting fast as he tries to get a slight lead on our plan.
We don’t really have one, but we have drilled many breakaways before.
I give a short tap to Rafe, then he passes to Bishop and starts to wind up his shot as Bishop does nothing more than snap it right back at him. He connects solidly, the puck whizzes to the top right, and I crash it to the net.
There’s a loud “clang” as the puck hits the pipe and ricochets right at me. I raise my stick no higher than my hip, turn so the blade catches my prize right on target, and I direct it right over the goalie’s left shoulder.
The red light blazes, the Chicago fans groan, and our own Vengeance allies go crazy over the play. It took no more than five, six seconds from en
d to end to score that goal.
My teammates all converge with pats to my head with gloved hands or taps on my calf with a stick. It’s a fucking awesome feeling that never dulls over time. I’ve been playing professional hockey for a decade now, and the thrill of scoring is still one of the best feelings ever.
I would even go so far as to say it used to be the top-ranked feeling I’ve ever had the pleasure of beholding, but that honor now goes to Regan. Scoring a goal comes second, and I wonder if Regan is watching on the TV right now. It was tough leaving her this morning, especially after the rough day she had yesterday at her case manager’s office.
She seemed good this morning. Was right there with me when I took her after we woke up. Her legs over my shoulders, panting in sharp, tiny bursts as she orgasmed so hard I felt it in my balls. I left her not long after with a satisfied smile on her face as she drifted back to sleep in my bed, and I left to catch the team plane to Chicago.
I had a smile on my face, too.
“To Dax,” Erik shouts as he holds his mug of beer up high.
“To Dax,” Bishop and Legend echo.
We all tap our beers before taking a sip. I set mine down, then pick up a nacho. The four of us decided to go out after the game for some food and beers. I scored a total of two goals and had an assist, which also landed me the MVP of the game in our three-two win over the Bobcats.
I called Regan right after the game from outside the bus while everyone was loading. It was hard to have any privacy, but damn if I didn’t need it.
We chatted about the game—she had indeed watched, and I liked it maybe a little too much how much she gushed about how well I played. We chatted about how she was feeling—she said she felt so much better than the day before, and she was excited about her treatment the next day thanks to the thirty-five-thousand-dollar check I’d written out.
And then… she asked me how big my cock was, and I couldn’t have been more shocked.
Except she hadn’t said it like that.
She’d said, “How many inches is your… um… penis? You know, when it’s fully hard.”
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