Dubinski had started a debate on who was the hottest female wrestler. Two broads named Charlotte Flair and Summer Rae were the leading contenders. Since Viggo had only a passing familiarity with the WWE, the topic didn’t really interest him. But then, nothing interested him right now.
“Are we boring you?”
Viggo turned to meet Hunter’s amused gaze. “Do I look bored?” he drawled.
“You look frustrated.”
Viggo didn’t deny it. Even if he’d tried to, Hunter wouldn’t have bought it. He had an uncanny knack for assessing people and sniffing out bullshit.
“I had other plans tonight,” Viggo admitted.
“With Scarlett Warner?” Hunter said with a knowing smile.
Viggo nodded. “Reid told you?”
“Yeah.” Hunter chuckled. “Though I’m surprised I didn’t hear it from Dubinski. He’s been going around telling everyone how he caught you and Scarlett bumping and grinding on a couch back in Detroit.”
Viggo scowled across the table at Dubinski. He was laughing with the others, still debating who was the most fuckable babe in the WWE. Oblivious to Viggo’s lethal glare, he whipped out his phone to pull up racy pictures of female wrestlers, prompting several others to do the same. It was like sitting at the lunch table with a bunch of horny freshmen who couldn’t wait to get home and whack off to yearbook pictures of the cheerleading squad.
“We ran into her when we were leaving after practice.”
Viggo returned his attention to Hunter. “I hope Logan kept his damn hands to himself.”
“His hands, maybe. His eyes were a different story.”
Viggo scowled.
Hunter chuckled. “Can’t fault him for looking. She’s pretty easy on the eyes.” He lifted his beer to his mouth. “I saw the cool music notes on the inside of her wrist. Does she have any other tats?”
Viggo hesitated. “A pair of crossed drumsticks on the back of her neck—” which he was dying to kiss “—and a Misty Knight tattoo on her ankle. I’ve only seen it on her Instagram, but it’s pretty amazing.”
Hunter nodded and sipped his beer. “So what happened to your date with her?”
“She left town to go on tour with Black Kross.”
Hunter’s brows shot up. “Black Kross? Really?”
“Yeah. Pretty cool, right?”
“Hell yeah. Black Kross is awesome.”
“They are,” Viggo agreed. “But I actually think Scarlett’s band is better.”
“Yeah? I’ll definitely have to check ’em out.” Hunter was born and raised in Quebec. Like many Québécois, he had a strong French accent. But he’d learned to turn it off and on without effort, as the mood struck him. Whenever Viggo talked to him, he could hear his own Swedish accent creeping back into his voice.
“So how long will she be gone?” Hunter asked.
Viggo grimaced. “The rest of the month.”
“Damn, bro,” Hunter said sympathetically. “No wonder you look like someone pissed in your beer.”
“No kidding,” Viggo mumbled.
He’d been looking forward to spending more time with Scarlett and getting to know her better. He wanted to go stargazing with her again, wanted to hear her laugh and watch her geek out some more over Misty Knight. He wanted to know her hopes and dreams, wanted to discover her deepest fantasies and fulfill them all. It sucked that he wouldn’t see her again for another three weeks. Three whole fucking weeks. He’d need rehab by the time she came back.
Some of the guys at the table got up and headed over to watch the pool game. Logan was destroying his opponents with his usual gleeful relish. The only one who gave him any real competition was Reid, but he was off playing house with Nadia. Lucky bastard.
Hunter turned back to Viggo, resuming their conversation. “Think you can handle dating a rock star?”
“I don’t know,” Viggo admitted, “but I’m sure as hell gonna try.”
“You should. Definitely.” Hunter paused. “But you need to go into it with your eyes open. Scarlett’s not like other women you’ve dated. She’s gonna be on the road as much as you are. She’s gonna be hanging out with other musicians and partying after shows. There’ll be a shitload of guys trying to get in her pants.”
Viggo’s fingers tightened around his glass. The thought of Scarlett hooking up with another man made him want to punch a hole through the wall and tear it apart with his bare hands like the Incredible Hulk.
Hunter grinned, observing his dark expression. “Damn, bro. It’s even more serious than I thought.”
“You have no idea,” Viggo muttered under his breath.
“…speaking of hot babes,” Dubinski was saying loudly, “what about Nadia’s cousin? The rock chick?” He sketched an hourglass shape with his hands and whistled lewdly. “That’s a fine piece of—”
Viggo lunged across the table and grabbed Dubinski by the front of his shirt. He squeaked in protest, his eyes widening with alarm.
“She’s not a bunny,” Viggo snarled into his face. “Keep her name outta your fucking mouth.”
Nervous laughter escaped Dubinski. “All right, man,” he croaked, holding up his hands in surrender. “No harm intended. Chill out.”
Viggo glared down at him, eyes narrowed menacingly.
Dubinski looked around the table as if hoping someone would intervene. No one did. All eyes were on Viggo as everyone waited to see what he’d do next.
Abruptly he released Dubinski, then dropped back into his chair and calmly picked up his glass of beer.
Hunter gave him an amused look. “Shit just got real.”
Viggo grunted and downed a swig of beer.
Across the table, Dubinski yanked his shirt back into place and threw Viggo a sulky look.
Viggo stared him down until Dubinski scowled, shoved his chair back and stalked off to go play pool. There were a few snickers around the table.
“Skitstövel,” Viggo muttered in Swedish.
Hunter chuckled at the slur. “I know he’s crude and immature—”
“He’s a fucking asshole,” Viggo reiterated.
“True,” Hunter conceded. “But he’s still part of the team, so you should try to get along with him. What am I always preaching in the locker room? It’s gonna take more than hard work and talent to win the Cup. Team chemistry will be just as important.”
Viggo gave a noncommittal grunt. Hunter was a cerebral guy who loved reading and enjoyed a good intellectual debate. He understood things on a deeper level than most, so when he talked, everyone listened. He could also be pretty intense at times, giving off a Godfather vibe that commanded total respect.
He signaled their waitress, a curvy redhead in skintight jeans. She hurried right over and leaned down until her boobs were practically spilling out of her shirt and onto Hunter’s lap.
“What do you need, handsome?” she purred.
Hunter gave her a lazy smile. “Do me a favor. Get Dubinski another beer and tell him it’s from Sandström—”
Viggo scowled. “The hell it—”
“—and he says no hard feelings.” Hunter grinned.
“Sure thing, HD.” The waitress winked at him before sashaying off to do his bidding.
His eyes followed the swing of her hips across the bar. After collecting the beer order from the bartender, she wiggled her way between tables to reach Dubinski, who stood watching the pool game with several other rowdy patrons. She tapped him on the shoulder and handed him the glass of beer, then pointed across the room to Viggo.
Dubinski looked over and started to grin.
Viggo flipped him the bird.
Dubinski’s grin faltered and he looked confused. His eyes darted to Hunter and then back to Viggo. After another moment, he grinned smugly and raised the glass to Viggo, then tipped his head back and chugged the beer.
Hunter chuckled, amused.
“What the hell’d you do that for?” Viggo grumbled.
“It’s called diplomacy, my friend. Yo
u should try it sometime.”
“Fuck diplomacy. And fuck Dubinski.”
“Hmm.” Hunter scratched his neatly trimmed beard, looking thoughtful. “He really admires you, you know. He looks up to you.”
Viggo snorted. “We’re the same age.”
“And?” Hunter countered, lifting an eyebrow. “You’re the leading scorer on our team. Women fall at your feet everywhere you go. Why wouldn’t Dubinski want to be like you? Hell, man, he even tries to dress like you. Doesn’t that shirt he’s wearing look like something right out of your closet, Mr. GQ?”
Viggo looked over at Dubinski and narrowed his eyes. “Hmm.”
Hunter chuckled. “Don’t be surprised if he runs out and gets himself a hot black girlfriend.”
Viggo frowned darkly. “As long as she’s not Scarlett.”
Hunter laughed and slapped him on the back. “She’s way out of his league. Yours too, come to think of it.”
“I know. I’m hoping she won’t notice.” Viggo grinned crookedly at Hunter. “Anyway, was there a point you were trying to make about Señor Asswipe?”
Hunter gave a lazy shrug. “The world is full of haters. Why go out of your way to make more?”
Viggo smirked. “Who said that? Sun Tzu?”
Hunter grinned. “I’m impressed that you pronounced his name correctly. Reid and Logan butcher it every time.”
“They’re American,” Viggo said as if this explained everything.
Hunter laughed. It was a longstanding joke among the four of them that Americans mispronounced everything and pompous foreigners mocked them for it.
“Technically,” Viggo amended, “Logan’s only half American.”
Hunter waved him off. “He grew up in America. He’s American.”
Viggo chuckled, sipped more beer and slanted Hunter a wry grin. “Since you enjoy brokering peace so much, after you retire from hockey, you should go into politics or become a diplomat.”
Hunter chuckled. “I just might.”
Viggo drained his beer and slammed the empty glass down on the table. “I gotta take a leak.”
“Good to know,” Hunter said drolly.
Grinning, Viggo clapped him on the shoulder and rose from the table. He hadn’t gotten very far across the room before a group of puck bunnies pounced on him, as if they’d been waiting for him to separate from the herd.
“Veee-go!” they squealed excitedly, elongating the syllables of his name as they surrounded him, simpering and giggling and flipping their hair.
The leader of the pack was a busty brunette whose name he could never remember, even though she came to most of the Rebels’ home games and was a permanent fixture at Sullivan’s. She’d also gotten a couple tattoos in Viggo’s honor, most notably his name on her ankle.
Apparently she wasn’t done paying homage.
“I got a new tat, Viggo,” she purred, rubbing up against him. “Wanna see it?”
Before he could say yea or nay, she lifted her tight shirt to show him her newest tattoo. The previous one was the number nineteen—his jersey number—on her ample right breast. Freshly inked onto her other boob was a six-digit date in the mm/dd/yy format. The forward slashes were hockey sticks.
Viggo frowned, cocking his head to one side. Hold up. Was that…?
The bunny gave an excited little wiggle that made her boobs bounce. “It’s your birthday!”
Viggo stared in disbelief. Holy shit. This chick was turning her body into a fucking shrine to him! The crazy thing was that he’d never even hooked up with her. That sure as hell wasn’t about to change now.
“What do you think?” she asked, beaming proudly.
“It’s, uh…” He was trying to think of a diplomatic way of saying “insane” without making her cry. He didn’t like making women cry—unless it was during sex. And only then if they were shedding tears of pleasure.
As he discreetly tugged the bunny’s shirt back down—the whole bar was getting a free peep show—she gave him a worried look. “What’s wrong? Do you hate it?”
The other girls giggled as he floundered for an answer. “I’m flattered that you think so, uh, highly of me. But you should probably make this the last tattoo.”
She pouted. “Why?”
He couldn’t believe he had to explain it to her. “Because one day you’re gonna get married, and I don’t think your husband would appreciate having another guy’s vital statistics inked all over your body.”
“Then why don’t you marry me?” she coyly suggested, pressing closer to him. “Problem solved, right?”
Viggo chuckled as the other bunnies snickered and rolled their eyes.
The brunette ran a fingertip up his arm. “Wanna know what I’m getting for my tramp stamp?”
He was almost afraid to ask. “What?”
“Your face.” She winked lasciviously. “That way you’ll always be riding me. Get it? ’Cause your face will be tattooed on my back?”
Jesus Kristus!
“Don’t do that,” Viggo told her. “Really. Please. It’s a bad idea.”
Again she pouted. “Why?”
He thought fast. “Hockey players are really possessive. If you and I never hook up, it’s gonna be hard for you to nab another NHLer with my face tattooed on your back.”
That gave her pause.
He left her to ponder his advice while he escaped to the bathroom, dodging a few more bunnies on the way.
When he walked into the men’s room, there was only one guy at a urinal. He glanced over his shoulder, his face breaking into a grin when he saw Viggo.
“Yo, Viggo!” he called out as if they were old friends.
“Hey, man.” Viggo went up to a urinal, leaving an empty one between them. He hoped the guy wouldn’t try to make conversation. As much as he enjoyed chatting with fans, he had a thing about dudes talking to him while he was holding his junk. It was a big no-no.
“Look at you having a monster season,” the guy crowed with a big grin. “How many goals have you scored already?”
Viggo chuckled. “Your guess is as good as—”
“Thirty-four, bro! You’ve scored thirty-four goals and sixty-eight points! And we’re barely halfway through the season!” He laughed, zipping back up. “You’re fuckin’ awesome, Sandström.”
“Thanks, man. Appreciate that.” Viggo finished his business and flushed the urinal. As he washed his hands at the sink, the guy talked his ear off about the Rebels’ back-to-back games against Pittsburgh and St. Louis. Viggo was mostly just listening and nodding when another dudebro came into the bathroom, laughing boisterously into his phone. When he spotted Viggo, he grinned a mile wide and reached out to enthusiastically shake his hand.
“What’s up, Viggo? How’s it going?”
“Good, man. Can’t complain.” Not wanting to get drawn into another conversation, Viggo ducked into an empty stall and closed the door. Propping a shoulder against the wall, he pulled out his phone to check for any missed calls or texts. A “Low Battery” warning flashed on the screen.
“Skit,” he cursed in Swedish. His phone had been acting up ever since he’d installed the latest updates. The battery had been draining a lot faster, sometimes dying even at fifty percent. It was irking the shit out of him. What good was having the most expensive phone on the market if it was a piece of crap?
When he checked his notifications, he had a bunch of missed calls, texts and emails. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone but Scarlett, but she wouldn’t be available until later.
Scrolling through his notifications, he saw that his mother had made her weekly phone call. Stockholm was eight hours ahead of Denver, so coordinating long-distance conversations was always tricky. But that didn’t stop his mother from checking up on him every week.
He queued up her message and brought the phone to his ear, smiling at the warm familiarity of her voice.
“Hello, my treasure. It’s Mamma,” she spoke in Swedish. “Just calling to see how you’re doing. It�
�s snowing here. I was just looking out the window and remembering how you and your siblings used to love sledding in the snow. I know you get homesick every time it snows there in Denver. I really wish you could come home for Christmas. We all miss you. Love you, darling. Call me back soon.”
Viggo was still smiling as he saved the message. He would have loved to fly home and spend the holidays with his big, boisterous family. It sucked that he couldn’t due to his game schedule.
But at least he’d get to spend Christmas with Scarlett at some cozy lakefront cabin. God, he was looking forward to that.
His big sister Freya had texted him a few pictures. The first one showed a pan of freshly baked cinnamon buns sprinkled with pearl sugar. It made his mouth water. There was nothing in the world like Swedish kanelbullar.
The next photo showed an empty pan. Puzzled, he scrolled to the last picture and then let out a laughing groan when he saw his brothers and sisters huddled around the pan, grinning diabolically as they stuffed their faces with the warm cinnamon buns.
Jealous? Freya’s text taunted.
Laughing and shaking his head, Viggo was about to shoot off a butthurt retort when his phone buzzed with an incoming text.
His heart thumped when he saw that Scarlett had sent a selfie. He immediately clicked on the pic to enlarge it.
She was lying on a sofa flashing devil horns at the camera with her tongue sticking out. She wore black combat boots, tight camouflage pants and a cropped black T-shirt that showed off her pierced belly button and unbelievably sexy abs. Her curly hair was styled in some type of cool Mohawk with the tips dyed a bright purple, and she wore sparkling purple eyeshadow and purple lipstick. She looked like the smokin’ hot rock goddess that she was.
The caption under the photo read: Almost showtime! Wish us luck!
Viggo was grinning so hard his face hurt. He stared at that badass pic, devouring every detail as his dick rose in his pants. He was so busy drooling that he almost forgot to text Scarlett back.
Straightening from the wall, he quickly typed: U guys are gonna do great. Wish I was there. Have fun and hit me up when it’s over. Btw…u look hot AF!
The Swede Page 11