Kaleb

Shootouts are my least favourite way to end a game. Especially after we played a good-turned-shitty game. We blew a five goal lead in the third period, which led to overtime. Blaming the loss on other teammates is the route I want to take, but that would make me a petty fuck. Shea and I are also to blame. Our usual synchronization was off. Whenever he passed the puck to me, I would either be too far behind or too far ahead. Or I'd fumble with it. Shea's usual speed was off tonight, too.

The mood in the locker room isn't much better than mine. It feels heavy. Losing against the Boston Bruins in a shootout is painful. I can feel the sting resonating through my gut. After playing against Boston with the Canadiens and now the Canucks, the sting feels worse. The hatred that radiates through both arenas is inevitable. As hockey players, that hatred is supposed to fuel us in beneficial ways.

Yeah, this loss hurts.

But at least I have something to look forward to: our engagement party. Our game was early and we have the day off tomorrow. It's the perfect night to get shit-faced with my friends while celebrating our engagement. Yesterday, Mel and I spent hours prepping appetizers and getting the house ready. This party is for the hockey team. Closer to the spring, Mel and I will have a little get together with our close friends and family.

To my right, Shea nudges me. "Anything you want me to bring tonight?"

I press my back against the padded wall, crossing my arms and expelling a heavy sigh. "Aside from your own alcohol? Nothing. Just yourselves." I glance at his jeans. They're splattered with a soft yellow paint. "And maybe some clothes that aren't covered in paint."

As he looks away, his lips curve into a toothless smile. There's a faint pattern of blush across his cheeks. However, I can feel the self-doubt radiating from him. See it in the way he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees. In the way he rubs the back of his neck with both hands.

"Shea," I say, clapping him on the shoulder. I give it a shake. "Stop that. You're gonna be fine, man. You're not your father. That is something I can say with confidence. And if my word isn't enough, ask Brenna or Ella. Call Jayden or Tucker."

Mel would say the same, despite not knowing what Shea's father was like. Which is why I don't mention her name. I'm not devaluing my fiancee's opinion or the power of her voice. What I'm basing this off of is experience. The people I listed experienced the behaviour of Shea's dad.

Shea's dad is an asshole. All I can remember are the harsh words he would inflict upon Shea after games. The minimal amount of games he went to. I also remember him verbally abusing Brenna after the wedding. That was the first time I've seen Shea physically retaliate against his father, but not the first time I've seen him break down.

Brenna and I had to talk Shea down after the incident. He was an emotional mess, stating he was like his father. I disagreed with him. Shea's dad needed a reset. He needed to understand Shea isn't a child anymore. Shea controls his life, and the decisions he makes no longer need external opinions.

If Shea's dad were my father, there'd have been a reckoning long ago. Shea has a much better tolerance for selfish stupidity than I do.

He continues to rub the back of his neck. His gaze is fixed on the rubbery floor. "I'm not worried about that. You and Brenna were adamant about me being nothing like my father after the wedding." He chuckles. "You two tried to brainwash me."

I punch his shoulder. "Damn right we did. You were spiralling out of control." I pause, combing over my words. Saying he was spiralling out of control sounds a little insensitive. "Let me rephrase that: you were suffering from trauma induced by your father. Your reaction was normal, but Brenna and I were still concerned about you."

Shea breaks his gaze with the floor, flashing me a genuine smile. "Always saying the right thing, eh?"

I shrug, throwing one of Shea's quirks back at him. "It's what I do, Smith."

Just then, a towel hits the side of my face. When I look up, I see Mikael standing before us. He's dressed in dress pants and a pair of polished dress shoes. The belt it halfway undone. His pine-green-coloured dress shirt hangs over his arm. A damp towel is wrapped around his neck, soaking up any remnants of water dripping from his hair.

"Save it for the bedroom, you two," he smirks.

Shea's posture turns tense, but he keeps a fake smile pasted on his face. It's so fake, I have to prevent myself from laughing by biting my lip. Dude has a terrible poker face now compared to when we were in high school.

"Speaking of bedrooms..." He turns his attention to me. "What do Ella and I need to bring for tonight?"

"Alcohol," Shea grits out.

I jerk my thumb at him while trying to ignore the unpleasant taste in my mouth. Shea's warning is ringing through my head, and they make me worry about Ella. Even if Mikael, from my experience, has done nothing wrong. Based on fragments of conversations I've heard between Mel and Ella, Mikael's been a good man. But that's the thing about narcissists and other bad people: they know how to manipulate others.

"What he said," I reply. "Mel and I have lots of appetizers. But if you feel the need to bring something with sustenance, appetizers are welcome. Mainly just alcohol, though."

He uses the towel to wipe away a droplet of water sliding down his cheek. "Great. Ella and I'll be late. We're grabbing dinner before the party."

Shea's posture tenses, and I have him a subtle nudge with my knee. He can have his opinions about Mikael. But whether he likes it, Mikael and Ella are interested in each other. I'm not saying I doubt my friend. What I'm saying is there's a mutual attraction being pursued by Ella and Mikael. Interfering will only cause distrust.

Shea should know better than anyone that you can't interfere with someone's relationship. While Connor's interference benefited Shea and Brenna, it wasn't ethically right. If Shea had hard evidence that Mikael was pressuring women into one-night hookups or assaulting them, then Mikael's ass would be in prison. Damn any codes or unwritten rules. If consent isn't given, you're in the wrong. I'll report them and make sure their life is a living hell.

With Mikael, the only wrong he's done is talk shit about the women he's hooking up with. Yes, it's a red flag. It also makes him a hypocrite. But Shea used to spew shit about Brenna all the time. People can change; they can become better people and learn from their mistakes. Words differ from actions, and maybe Mikael is realizing he needs to work on himself. Ella's a lot like Brenna. If Mikael has displayed any shitty behaviour, Ella will let him know.

"Great," Shea grits out. Hatred flashes in his eyes, which earns a few raised eyebrows from our teammates.

I knock my knee against him again and murmur, "Shea."

He ignores me.

Mikael crosses his arms. "Got a problem, Smith?"

Shea climbs to his feet. His stance is deadlier than his glare, which raises concern. Something pissed Shea off, but I'm not sure what. Normally, he won't give Mikael the time of day, let alone challenge him to a fight—verbal or physical. Seems like this encounter could go either way.

"I do," Shea shrugs. "You. I swear to god, Mikael. If you so much as look at Ella wrong, I'll make your life a living hell."

With residual hatred and the lingering sensation of a threat lingering in the air, Shea grabs his hockey bag and sticks, and leaves the silent dressing room. A few murmurs echo seconds later.

My gaze stays fixed on the door. I have the urge to scratch my head in confusion. Shea's never reacted this way before. Usually, he can hold his shit together, complaining about Mikael later.

"Easy boys," Mikael says. "Don't get your nuts in a knot. Captain's just pissed we lost. Let him nurse his damaged ego before Jones' party."

Mikael tosses the other towel to the bench, and then pulls on his dress shirt.

Not once does he break eye contact with me.

I can't help but wonder what his smirk means as Shea's assumptions echo in my mind.

* * *

Later, I'm adjusting the collar of my dress shirt in the mirror. It's dark blue, not quite navy, but close enough. It goes well with the tan-coloured pants I'm wearing. Whenever Mel contributes to the choosing of my outfits, dark blue is always involved. She says it matches my peachy complexion.

After buttoning my dress shirt, I contemplate wearing a suit jacket. It lies on the vanity before me, next to the window. It's where Mel always does her makeup in the morning because it provides the best natural light. In the daytime, the view is nothing but large cedar trees that emphasize the privacy our backyard has.

I run my fingers over the fabric, eventually deciding that the addition of a suit jacket is too formal. The jacket can be packed away until May, when we get together with our families. So can the tie. Instead, I decide to roll my sleeves up past my elbows, making sure the cuffs are even. My forearms are bare, save for the watch around my wrist.

The bareness makes me long for a tattoo.

Which I would get without a second thought.

If needles didn't scare the shit out of me.

"Daydreaming about that tattoo again?" Mel teases.

Her voice is melodic from behind—pun intended.

Smiling, I meet her gaze in the mirror. She's dressed in a backless lace dress with a deep V-cut. A sliver of her scar is visible, an even starker white against the dress. But my eyes are distracted by the gold pendant hanging from her neck. The chain is a simple gold, and the pendant, while medium-sized, is circular and flamboyant. It reflects the light coming from the ceiling lights.

"Of course I am," I laugh.

Sauntering up to me, Mel wraps her arms around my waist. Since she's shorter than me, she rests her cheek against my bicep instead of atop my shoulder.

"What design would you have inked into your skin? Y'know. If you weren't scared of needles."

My mouth quirks to one side. I love her goading and her curiosity. That's a question she's never asked, despite knowing my longing to have a tattoo.

"Your face," I tease. "Right here."

I make a motion over my chest.

Mel wrinkles her nose. "I'd have to kill you, Kal. No way in hell would I let that happen."

I release a mocking gasp of surprise. "How you wound my fragile heart."

She snorts, giving my back a pat. "Gristle up, baby boy. You don't always get what you want."

Turning to face Mel, I rest my hands on her hips and stare down at her. She's a couple of feet shorter than me. Okay, that's a lie. I only have like four inches on her. But right now, it feels like a couple of feet. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "We both know that's not true. I have everything I need"—I kiss the delicate column of her neck, then her chin, her lips— "right here."

She smiles, refusing to make eye contact with me as her cheeks turn pink. Instead, she twirls in her dress. Its lace pattern is beautiful, and it hugs her curves with grace.

"What do you think?"

I take her hand in mine and press a kiss to her knuckles. "It's perfect."

"You don't think it's too flashy?"

Mel's dress is showing a lot of skin, but I don't mind. I'm not some asshole who will tell her to change because my ego can't handle it.

"Mel, what matters is if you're comfortable wearing it. Are you?"

She nods.

I give her hand a squeeze. "Then wear it. Because you look gorgeous in it. But you don't need my validation."

Unable to predict Mel's actions, I'm suddenly stumbling backwards into the wall. Her legs are wrapped around my hips and her lips are on mine. They taste like lime and tequila with a hit of salt from the margaritas we were drinking. Her lips are warm and soft, and now and then, she nips my bottom lip. She smells like musky vanilla from that Sol de Janeiro product she uses. The body spray in the pink bottle. I think it's black amber plum and vanilla woods.

Whatever it is, it makes my head spin.

It's so fucking intoxicating. I'm willing to forget the engagement party, and fuck her instead.

I harden the kiss, tipping Mel's chin up and stroking her tongue with mine. Our bodies are pressed heatedly against each other while my back rests against the wall. One arm is locked around her waist, keeping her suspended around my waist.

Meanwhile, her hands are explorative. They tangle in my hair, slide down my chest. Her nails scrape against the nape of my neck. She's all over the place until she reaches my belt. Which she unbuckles with expertise.

"Mel," I warn. "All bets are off if we do this."

She snorts, toying with the hem of my shirt. Her thumb grazes my lower abs, sending a shiver cascading down my spine and straight to my dick. While my logic is telling me guests will arrive at any second, my body thinks it's playtime.

"What bets?" Mel drawls. She pops the button of my dress pants open, then drags the zipper down. Her gaze drops to the bulge forming through my boxer briefs. "Looks like someone else doesn't know about the bets, either."

She flattens her palm against the bulge, pressing against it. With the heel of her hand, she applies more pressure.

I clench my teeth. "Fuck, Mel. Are we doing this? People will be here any second."

That's a lie. Only Shea and Brenna will be here any minute. They're coming over early to beat the crowd. Apparently, they have a pre-wedding present for us.

Mel's breath is hot on my earlobe as she nips it and whispers, "Then we better be quick."

She increases the pressure again.

I groan. This is a bad idea, but my hands are working on their own accord. Setting Mel down, I push my dress pants and boxer briefs down. Then I wrap an arm around Mel's waist and spin her around, pushing her against the wall. Where I then grip one thigh and lift it, along with her dress. Her dress pools around her waist, and I push her panties to the side. My knuckles graze her damp folds, which causes me to groan. Knowing I can make her body react is a fucking blessing. And although I want to give her several mind-shattering orgasms, first with my mouth, then with my fingers, we need to be quick.

Bracing one arm against the wall, I guide my erection to her entrance with my free hand. Then I thrust my hips forward, sinking to the hilt.

Mel knocks her head against the wall. Her eyes are closed. Her voice is breathless. "Shit, Kal. You getting a vasectomy was the best."

She's right. The lack of a condom is bliss. No fumbling to open that foil package. No rolling the condom on. Just thrusting into her with no delays or barriers.

A heady laugh escapes my chest. It's tense with longing and want. "Mel, your body has been through enough. You don't need to suffer from the side effects of birth control pills and whatnot. Sperm's been preserved, too. We're all good."

Mel presses her forehead against mine. Her eyes are dark with lust and they sparkle with excitement. "Enough chit-chat, Kal."

Capturing Mel's lips with mine, I circle my hips, keeping the pace moderate. Keeping the pace slow will allow me to last longer. She moans as her nails dig into my shoulders. A pleasurable shiver radiates down my spine, spurring me on.

Then her muscles constrict around me.

I flatten my palm against the wall, grunting in response. She's wet and warm and tight, and holyfuckinghellimightdie.

"Jesus fuck," I groan. "It feels so fucking good."

She rests her palm against the nape of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair. Tugging the strands. "Harder, Kal. Please."

Being the gentleman I am, I oblige. One hand slips between us, rubbing her clit, while I drive her hard and fast, not stopping until my restraint fades.

Sweat slides down my temples.

Mel cries my name out.

And then I come. Hard. Harder than I ever have.

I drop my forehead against hers, letting it rest there until I've caught my breath.

Once we're no longer stuck in the afterglow, I smile at Mel. Her cheeks are flushed pink.

"Hey," I whisper.

Mel cups my face. "Can we stay like this?"

My lips curve around the urge to say yes. Yes, I'd stay here, buried deep inside of her, talking and doing more of what we just did.

But before I can say anything, the doorbell rings.

Goddamn you, Smith. You owe me one.

Mel flashes me a lazy smile. "Go welcome our guests. I'll clean up the mess."

Grinning, I pull out of her and set her down, ignoring the mess sliding dow her inner thigh. "We'll make better use of our time next time."

The doorbell rings again.

She gives me a playful shove, her cheeks still pink. "Go. Shea's impatient."

"That's an understatement," I mutter, pulling my boxers and pants up. While Shea is patient on a normal day, the lack of activity regarding welcoming them into my house will fuel him. He'll know something is up, which will cause him to continue to ring the doorbell. Just to annoy me. It's another form of banter, which is what our relationship is based on.

As if he can read my thoughts, the doorbell rings again.

I roll my eyes. "Asshole."

Laughing, Mel adjusts my dress shirt. When no longer looks rough, she turns her attention to my hair, which she also fixes. "There. You're good to go. I'll meet you downstairs."

Before Mel can turn away, I press another kiss to her soft lips. "We're not finished here."

"I know," she replies, giving me another shove. "Now go. Our guests are waiting."

With a smile on my face, I exit the bedroom and head downstairs. Soon enough, I'm opening the door for Brenna and Shea. They're dressed semi-formally. Brenna's wearing a simple black dress with her signature red lipstick. Shea's in dark jeans and a deep red dress shirt. The fabric almost matches Brenna's lipstick.

"Sorry," I say, pretending to close the door. "We're not interested."

Shea sticks his foot between the door jamb and the door. "We did not walk across the street to be turned down." He holds up a bottle of whisky. "I brought the good stuff."

For a moment, I stroke the stubble on my chin, pretending to contemplate his offer. But before I can respond, Brenna rolls her eyes and pushes past me.

"I'm all for the banter, boys, but this bowl is heavy. Plus, I need a mocktail now. Otherwise, I will sit in the corner and glower all night. I really want a goddamn margarita."

Silence fills the air as Brenna storms into the kitchen. I hear the clinking of glasses, then the fridge opening. Her movements sound aggressive, even from here. Shea and I exchange a glance. He points after Brenna and mouths, pregnant.

Chuckling, I open the door wide and step aside for Shea to enter. "Don't worry about your shoes."

He doesn't acknowledge my words. He's too busy staring at me.

"What?" I ask, feeling uncomfortable. Can he tell what was going on prior to their arrival? I thought we had eradicated the evidence.

Shea raises his eyebrows, any trace of his earlier broodiness gone. "Well, looks like Mini Kaleb got some love."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. "Don't know what you're talking about, bro."

Shooting me a smug grin, Shea taps his neck.

My hand rubs against my neck. It comes back with a black smudge. Mel's black lipstick.

Fuck.

Shea snorts. "That's exactly what you were doing. It's all over your neck, bro."

I flip him the middle finger.