The Best Kind of Forever （Riverside Reapers, #1）
Celeste Briars
To any readers who believe they’ve never been enough for love. You are enough.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Hello, dear readers!
For the best reading experience, I’ve listed below some potential triggers included in this book. While the story is mainly lighthearted, there are undertones of more serious issues that some readers may find upsetting. Please read at your own discretion.
Content Warnings: Suicide
Depression
Emotional abuse Parental abuse/neglect Death of a loved one Explicit sexual content Emetophobia
Alcohol consumption Body image issues
PLAYLIST
Theme Song: Your Man – Down With Webster
Bling Bling – ALTÉGO
Let It All Go – Birdy & RHODES
I Think You’re the Devil – Ellee Duke
Legendary – Welshly Arms
Wonderland – Taylor Swift
Skin – Rihanna
MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT – Elley Duhé
Blue – Madison Beer
Devil I Know – Allie X
MONEY ON THE DASH – Elley Duhé & Whethan
Way Down We Go – KALEO
How Do I Say Goodbye – Dean Lewis
Do Me – Kim Petras
Crying On The Dancefloor – Sam Feldt, Jonas Blue, Endless Summer & Violet Days
Wicked – GRANT
Love and War – Fleurie
Silence – Marshmello （feat. Khalid）
Fire on Fire – Sam Smith
THICK THIGHS RUIN LIVES
HAYES
Tits or ass: that’s the eternal question. That’s the question I’ve been asked my entire life, by friends, flings, teammates, my ex-girlfriend. I’m not going to lie. For a long time, I was a tits man. But tonight, I think my answer is gonna change.
And that’s thanks to the girl’s thighs currently straddling me. They’re lean with muscle, and it’s clear she sticks to a rigorous workout regimen. I’m a thigh guy. Definitely. Is it wrong that I want her to crush my head with them? I really shouldn’t be thinking about this when I should be wining and dining sponsors, especially since my next year in the NHL is up in the air. But she’s wearing such a short dress, so short that from this angle, I can see practically everything.
Her lips ghost the shell of my ear, and her tongue tickles the column of my throat, doing wonders for my hard-on. I understand that I’m fully making out with a girl at a sponsor party. I understand that there’s media around every corner covering the new merger between the Reapers team and Voltage Sports Drinks. I should be mingling instead of acquainting myself with the inside of some girl’s mouth.
I don’t care, though. I need the distraction. Reputation wise, this season’s been shit for me, and it’s only just started.
It’s my second season playing for the Riverside Reapers. I was drafted to the team my senior year of college. It’s been my dream to go pro since I was little. My parents signed me up for minor ice hockey when I was eight, and I’ve been playing ever since.
When you enter the spotlight, there are so many rules that people don’t tell you. Rules like you need to make yourself presentable in front of the press. You can’t be caught doing anything that would shine a negative light on the team.
I’m lucky that my behavior off the ice hasn’t affected my playing time during games. Just last week I got into a fight with a prick who was macking on some uninterested girl at a bar. Granted, he deserved getting his face rearranged, but the cameras only captured the physicality of it all. The tabloids don’t care why I punched a guy; they just care that I did it. And I’m no stranger to getting into fights.
I’m violent when I get on the ice. I’ve already spent the most time in the penalty box my first season than any of my teammates combined. I’m not afraid to hit, I’m not afraid to strike, I’m not afraid to engage in a brawl if some douche gets under my skin. I don’t deal with my anger well.
That’s probably in part due to my shitty excuse for a father. Oh, and the fact my mom is dead. Sherry passed away of cancer when I was eight, and it broke my dad. He became distant, closed off, a shell of the man I remember from my childhood. I didn’t realize I’d lost two parents that day.
I don’t think my mom was even planning on telling us she had breast cancer. The only reason I found out was because my dad got a call from the hospital after she was admitted for fainting. Thankfully, she was outside when it happened, and our neighbors managed to get to her in time. Then the doctors told him everything. We all knew she had been acting a little off more than usual—curt answers, lapses in memory and judgment, distancing herself from us. I chalked it up to her being stressed with work.
I was wrong.
After she died, my father abandoned me and my sister. I had to take care of my younger sister, Faye, while I juggled school and hockey. We still had a roof to live under because of the monthly paychecks our dad sent us, but besides that, he wasn’t in our lives. He disappeared to some faraway, forest-grown part of the Michigan mountains where he made sure his tracks weren’t traceable. He wasn’t there for any of Faye’s milestones. He wasn’t there to see me off to college. He wasn’t even there to cheer me on at my first NHL game. The only contact he’s maintained is the occasional text whenever he needs something.
There are a handful of websites dedicated to capturing all the mistakes I’ve made, and some of the diehard Reapers’ fans have collectively formed a brigade to share in a universal dislike for me. If the stands came equipped with tomatoes—which I’m thankful they don’t—I’m pretty sure the only person people would be aiming at is me.
I never thought that so many people would be interested in my sex life…or maybe “disgusted” is the right word. When you sleep with a different girl every day for the entire month of March, it doesn’t give the best impression.
I want to forget this whole week. I want to stop feeling. The alcohol’s already helped a bit with both, but if I can rely on one thing in this damned world, it’s good sex.
In my defense, I haven’t slept with anyone in sixty days. And that’s a deliberate abstinence, okay? I haven’t really been able to trust anyone after my ex-girlfriend, Macy, broke up with me.
I caught her cheating on me with her coworker, who she’d apparently been seeing behind my back for the duration of our relationship. We were together for two years. TWO.
She then admitted to only using me for my money, my name, and my fame.
She dumped me before I could break up with her. She threw all my shit out her window—at least the shit she hadn’t burned yet—and topped everything off with a few glitter bombs and a passionately worded Notes app paragraph on her Insta story.
The girl in front of me is shaking the bed with how much she’s bouncing on top of me. We went from a fifteen-minute make out sesh to her riding me like rent was fucking due.
I’m not sure I even asked what her name was. She knew my name, though. Sponsor parties are always crawling with puck bunnies.
I can’t stop staring in awe at the way her perfectly proportioned tits recoil as she fully clenches around me, her head lolling back, dark hair spilling down her shoulders like ink.
My hands are gripping her thighs so tightly that red marks are rising in their wake. I love when girls are loud, but fuck, is she loud. I bet the whole party downstairs can hear us, despite the outdated EDM music playing. Her moans are heaven-sent, and they unravel the knot of desire in my stomach. She’s rolling her hips and playing with the curve of her breast, two images that rev the static inside of my brain. The warmth in my groin intensifies, erupting into a fire that sears every inch of me. Her perky ass slaps against the tops of my thighs.