Page 2 of Hate to Love You

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Page 2 of Hate to Love You

Mission accomplished, dude.

No one would ever accuse him of that.

“Then prepare to haul ass at the butt crack of dawn, my friend.” With that, Cooper turns his attention elsewhere, attacking the girl's mouth.

Luke eyes them for a moment before yelling, “Hey, you gonna take that shit to the bedroom or are we all being treated to a free show?”

Not bothering to come up for air, Cooper ignores the question.

Luke shakes his head and focuses his attention on making a comeback. Or at least knocking Sawyer’s avatar on its ass. “Guess that means we should make some popcorn.”

I pick up my duffel and hoist it over my shoulder, deciding to head upstairs for a while. I love hanging with these guys, but I’m not feeling it at the moment.

“Hi, Brody.” A lush blonde slips her arms around me and presses her ample cleavage against my chest. “I was hoping you’d show up.”

Given the fact that this is my house, the chances of that happening were extremely high.

I stare down into her big green eyes.

“Hey.” She looks familiar. I do a quick mental search, trying to produce a name, but only come up with blanks.

Which probably means I haven’t slept with her recently.

When it comes to the ladies, I've come up with an algorithm that I’ve perfected over the last three years. It’s simple, yet foolproof. I never screw the same girl more than three times in a six-month period. If you do, you run the risk of entering into the murky territory of a quasi-relationship or a friends-with-benefits situation. I’m not looking for any attachments at this point.

Even casual ones.

I’m at Whitmore to earn a degree and prepare for the pros. I’m focused on getting bigger, faster, and stronger. The NHL is no place for pussies. If you can’t hack it, the league will chew you up and spit you out before you can blink your eyes. I have no intention of allowing that to happen. I’ve worked too hard to crash and burn at this point.

Or get distracted.

In a surprisingly bold move, Blondie slides her hand from my chest to my package and gives it a firm squeeze to let me know she means business.

I have no doubts that if I asked her to drop to her knees and suck me off in front of all these people, she would do it in a heartbeat. Other than a thong, the girl grinding away on Cooper’s lap is naked.

My first year playing juniors, when a girl offered to have no-strings-attached-sex, I’d thought I’d hit the flipping jackpot. Less than five minutes later, I’d blown my load and was ready for round two. Fast forward five years, and I don’t even blink at a chick who’s willing to drop her panties within minutes of me walking through the door. It happens far too often for it to be considered a novelty.

Which is just plain sad.

When I was in high school, I jumped at the chance to dip my wick.

Now?

Not so much.

It’s like being fed a steady diet of steak and lobster. Sure, it’s delicious the first couple of days. Maybe even a full week. You can’t help but greedily devour every single bite and then lick your fingertips afterward. But, believe it or not, even steak and lobster become mundane.

Most guys, no matter what their age, would give their left nut to be in my skates.

To have their pick of any girl. Or, more often than not, girls.

And here I am...limp dick in hand.

Actually, limp dick in her hand.

Sex has become something I do to take the edge off when I’m feeling stressed. It’s my version of a relaxation technique. For fuck’s sake, I’m twenty-three years old. I’m in the sexual prime of my life. I should be ecstatic when any girl wants to spread her legs for me. What I shouldn’t be is bored. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be mentally running through the drills we’ll be doing when I lead a captain’s practice.

I pry her fingers from my junk and shake my head. “Sorry, I’ve got some shit to take care of.”




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