“You got to admit, a bite of forbidden fruit always tastes sweeter.”
“I’m not looking to bang her. I said I’d help her behind the net. She said she’d talk me up to her dad. Win-win.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure that’s all it is.”
“Dude, this was your idea.”
“Actually, it was Lindley’s idea.”
“Whatever. You cosigned it.”
Gigi is opening her trunk now. She’s in jeans and a tight white tank top, her dark hair arranged in a long braid down her back. She leans into the trunk and heaves out her hockey bag and a backpack. We do the same from the back of the Jeep.
“Hi,” she says at our approach. She casts a slightly wary look in Beckett’s direction.
He’s unfazed, flashing that obnoxious Australian grin of his. The one that utilizes maximum dimples. “Looking good, Graham.”
“Thanks.”
“What? Not going to return the compliment?”
She snorts.
“Wow, that hurts,” he says, slapping a hand over his heart in mock agony.
“Yeah, like you need me to stroke your ego.”
“My ego? No. But other things…” He trails off suggestively. And where it would’ve sounded slimy coming from any other dude, somehow Beckett pulls it off.
Gigi giggles, confirming my suspicions that Beckett Dunne can do and say no wrong when it comes to women.
Her laughter fades when our eyes lock. She bites her lip and I wonder if she’s thinking about the weekend. I know I am. For days I’ve been trying to make sense of the mountain of sexual tension that suddenly rose between us when we were hiding from the boosters.
When I almost kissed her.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one. Yes, she’s hot. I spent the whole night trying not to stare at her bare tanned legs. And don’t get me started on the rest of her body. Tight and sculpted. Hot enough to scald my blood.
Until the gala, though, I wasn’t thinking too hard about banging her.
Now I kind of am.
“Anyway.” She clears her throat. She has her bags over one shoulder, and a leather purse on the other. She slides a hand into the latter and pulls out a key ring. “Let’s go in.”
I raise a brow. “You got a key to this place?”
“I know a guy.”
“What guy?” Beckett asks curiously.
“My uncle. He grew up here.”
At the entrance, there’s a small gold plaque screwed onto the outer wall that reads: IN RECOGNITION OF JOHN LOGAN
FOR HIS GENEROUS DONATION TO BETTER
THE TOWN OF MUNSEN, MASSACHUSETTS
“Your uncle John Logan,” I mumble incredulously.
“I mean, not by blood, but he’s my dad’s best friend. My brother and I grew up calling him Uncle Logan.”
I try not to dwell on the realization that our childhoods were so drastically disparate, we may as well have been raised on two different planets. But a pang of bitterness rises nonetheless. For all she wishes her family name didn’t follow her around, the truth is, it does. It opens doors for her that I could never dream of opening for myself.
My mind flashes to the fancy, well-kept neighborhood we drove through Saturday night on our way to the country club. Again, a whole other planet from where I lived as a child. First the small two-bedroom Phoenix apartment where I lived with my parents before my mother died. Then the run-down foster homes with overgrown yards and sagging chain-link fences. It’s almost impossible to envision the idyllic upbringing Gigi must’ve had.
“Damn, I want to be you when I grow up,” Beckett remarks.
“Anyway, I told Logan I needed a private place to practice, and he offered up this rink. I grabbed the keys from him earlier.”
“Nice perks you got there from Daddy,” I can’t help but crack.
“Hey, Daddy is the reason we’re here, isn’t he? So I can talk you up to him?” She offers a saccharine smile. “So I’ve either got a famous dad who can benefit you and you don’t complain about it, or I don’t and you’re shit out of luck. Can’t have it both ways, prom king.”
She has a point.
“Locker rooms are down here,” she says, leading us to the end of a fluorescent-lit corridor.
Her jeans are practically painted on, and I can’t help checking out her tight, perky ass. Beckett’s looking too. He catches me doing it and gives me a knowing grin. I scowl at him.
We reach the men’s change rooms, which are locked. Gigi stops and fumbles with her key ring. “Hold on. I’m not sure which one it is.”
As she bends forward to stick the first key in the lock, her purse slides off her shoulder and down her arm. She attempts to catch it before it falls, but to no avail. The bag tumbles to the shiny floor, its contents spilling out on the way down.
A giant box of condoms lands at my feet.
Beckett and I stare at it, then exchange an amused look.
Gigi’s cheeks turn a shade of red that doesn’t exist in nature. She quickly kneels to collect the fallen items, shoving everything back in her purse.
“You didn’t see that,” she orders.
I raise a brow. “Value pack, huh? Big plans this weekend?”
“They’re not mine,” she says through gritted teeth.
“You’re a bad liar, Gisele.”
“Okay, fine, they’re mine. But I acquired them against my will.”
“Out of curiosity, how many rubbers do you require per session?” Beckett pipes up, grinning with delight.
She’s on her feet, trying another key. This one also doesn’t work.
“Goddamn it The keys are against me,” she moans.
Beckett’s still working through the condom math of it all. “I mean, a box of fifty, huh? Let’s be ambitious and say we go three or four rounds a night. That’s three or four condoms. Although I guess if it’s a group thing…you know, like the three of us here—”
“Oh my God. Would you stop?”
“—then we’re talking two condoms at once, three or four rounds. That means you could hypothetically go through six to eight condoms per night. Damn. We’re knocking that whole box out in less than a week.”
Gigi sighs and looks my way. “Is he always like this?”
“Pretty much,” I confirm.
She locates the right key, and the loud breath of relief she releases makes me chuckle.
“There.” She pushes open the door for us. “Go suit up.”
“Should we put the condoms on now or after?” Beckett inquires.
“I hate you.” She moves down the hall toward the women’s locker room. “I’ll meet you guys on the ice. Rink B.”
In the men’s room, Beckett and I change into our practice gear.
I strip off my shirt, then give him a dry look. “You’re not as cute as you think, you know. And you sure as shit ain’t getting a three-way out of her.”
“Bullshit. She was interested.”
That gives me pause.
Was she?
“Nah,” I finally answer, because Gigi Graham really doesn’t strike me as a threesome type of girl.
“That’s a shame. The more the merrier. You know that’s my motto.”
I want to say he’s joking, but he’s not. In the two years we’ve known each other, the kind of debauchery I’ve witnessed from Beckett Dunne has been pretty extraordinary. I also never heard a bad word about him from anyone he ever hooked up with at Eastwood, so that’s something, at least. Hell, most of those chicks remained in our friend group. Those good looks and Gold Coast tan provide him with a lot of leeway.