Adrian: An Ironfield Forge Hockey Romance Read online

  He grinned. “I’m the captain of a brand-new hockey expansion team. I’m not most people.”

  And while I loved that about him, it did worry me. Especially when he saw no problem with abandoning real life to focus entirely on hockey.

  “I’ve got a plan for the gym,” he finally conceded. “Picked that out myself. Should be a good replacement for the off days away from the team.”

  I wished the thought didn’t make me so sad.

  Here I was, offering Adrian the chance to change his entire world, and he could only obsess over the game.

  “We’ve both focused so much on our careers,” I said. “You might be okay with it, but I need something more. Can you understand that?”

  “Yeah.” He tried. He really did. “That’s why I signed with the expansion team.”

  I would’ve had more luck talking to his dirty laundry. “Do you realize your only happiness is found on the ice?”

  “Do you think you can run away from your problems by getting pregnant?”

  “A baby will solve those problems.” I shrugged at him. “Especially if it’s your baby.”

  “And you wanna trust me with a job like that?”

  “Why not? I trust you with everything else.”

  He went still. The man was at a loss for words, which was fine. Adrian was always a man of action and conviction. He acted on what he thought was right.

  And I prayed he realized how right this was.

  “Starting a family with you doesn’t scare me,” he said. “What worries me is making the baby.”

  That was easy. “I can guide you through it. Pretty sure I know how it’s done.”

  He smirked. “Gonna draw me a map?”

  “I’ll even color-coordinate it.” I smacked my hips. “These are the boards.” I pointed lower. “The net, obviously.” I jerked a thumb behind me. “But if anything comes near my tush, you get the penalty box.”

  Adrian noted my warning. “Let’s be real. What happens if I refuse?”

  “I’m offering a self-declared bachelor a night of wanton, dirty sex with me, and he’s gonna refuse?”

  “No.” Adrian wagged a finger at me. “You’re propositioning me in the ass-end of an airplane at thirty thousand feet in the middle of the night. A man has a right to be skeptical.”

  I reached for my blazer’s buttons. “Then take me now, stud. Right here, on top of the refreshment cart.”

  “I just want to know if you’re serious.”

  I dropped the smile, the jokes, the pretense…everything but the panties.

  “I’ll be fertile in two weeks,” I said. “That’s how serious I am.”

  He wavered, retreating to the jump seat. Adrian’s gaze narrowed on me.

  Wondering.

  Imagining.

  Fantasizing.

  And he must’ve enjoyed the same tempting thoughts as me.

  My petite body resting beneath his strong, flexing muscles.

  My tiny hands gripping his powerful shoulders.

  My legs struggling to wrap around his solid hips—those hockey legs thick like tree trunks and solid like steel.

  His consuming, devoted thrusts filling every inch of me…

  And demanding more.

  The prickle of sweat teased my brow. I shook off the fun shivers and rummaged through the cart for a second tiny bottle of whiskey.

  If he only knew the strings I pulled for him…

  “We’re talking sex and sperm here, Clover.” He refused the drink. “Don’t you think we’re beyond a shot of alcohol?”

  “No. Because this is us. No matter what happens. If it stays just you and me, fine. But if there’s a baby on the way?” The thought warmed me. “It’s even better. It might change our relationship a little, but nothing will ruin this friendship.”

  His voice lowered. “How can you be so certain?”

  That was easy. “Because I love you too much to lose you.”

  The man seized a powerful breath. Wasn’t sure if he needed another whiskey, an airsickness bag, or a private place for us to get started.

  His eyes met mine—a dark promise of intensity that nearly stole my breath.

  “I need to think about this.” He was too damned cute.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Adrian.” I leaned close and kissed his cheek. “You can pretend, but I know you. Think all you want. Fantasize a little too. Because I can guarantee it…in two weeks, you’ll be in bed with me, and we’re gonna make a baby.”

  3

  Adrian

  Why did the universe attempt to castrate me right when my best friend demanded I prove my fertility?

  I’d always considered myself a respectable gentleman. Said my pleases and thank yous, held the doors for ladies, tried not to bash an opposing player’s face into the boards too hard. A little blood was fine, but I avoided knocking teeth out. Real simple stuff.

  But, I was still a man. And, at any given time, men were usually thinking about, and with, their dicks. When presented with the opportunity of a lifetime—the chance to bed and pleasure one of the most beautiful women I could never touch—sometimes that fascination with sex became more of an obsession.

  An obsession that had not only rivaled but exceeded my dedication to the game of hockey.

  Clover was a gorgeous woman, pint-sized yet bursting at the seams with raw intensity and repressed sexual energy.

  But it wasn’t my place to take her.

  Before this insane proposition, I’d never once let myself fantasize about her baby bunny eyes, the way she’d nibble on her bottom lip, or those ferocious curves that packed spice into a sweet booty.

  It was a crime against nature to consider fucking my best friend. Too many complications, too much drama, and too great a risk to the only relationship that meant a damn to me.

  But now she wanted a baby.

  And I was the bastard who got off on the thought of rolling her in the sheets, spreading her legs, tasting that forbidden sweetness…

  Clover had no idea, but my desires were particular in the bedroom. A woman had her place—and that place was under me, thanking me, begging me, all while taking a relentless fucking. And yet, I’d never indulged in my darkest, most primal need: coming inside a desperate and submissive woman.

  The idea was more than intriguing. It burned through me, tightening my cock and ruining an entire night’s worth of sleep.

  Not many guys would refuse a girl like Clover. Even fewer men were strong enough to resist the image of her, naked and wanting, legs wrapped around their waist, eager to be taken hard, fast, and bare.

  Son of a bitch.

  These weren’t thoughts to have of my best friend—a girl so gentle and sweet that the very thought of dropping her to her knees, mounting her from behind, and drowning her womb with my seed should’ve shriveled my cock.

  No such luck.

  My balls were nearly torn apart once, but the fantasy of a night between her thighs would finish the job.

  I was used to that region swelling since the injury—but this was a different sort of inconvenience. Not just for our friendship, but for the packed waiting room outside of the urologist’s office.

  I positioned a Sport’s Illustrated over my lap.

  Good enough.

  Didn’t help that I’d shoved the picture of my new teammate, the superstar rookie Beau Beckett, into my crotch. Not exactly the way I’d envisioned meeting the new lynch pin of the team, but it was better than introducing myself to the receptionist with a healthy appreciation for my new doctor.

  “It’ll only be a few more minutes, Mr. Alaric…” The blonde fluffed the beach waves piled high in her ponytail. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Easier said than done in the middle of an office specializing in the most uncomfortable of practices. Didn’t often see this many pricks outside of a locker room, and, usually, those weren’t seventy years old and running to the bathroom every twenty minutes.

  The receptionist nibbled on the edge of her pen
, glanced down at my chart, and read the reason for my visit. Her pouty lips twisted into shock then dejected resignation. With a sigh, she pushed away from her desk and slowly closed the glass window.

  Great.

  Wasn’t like I wanted to prove anything to the blonde—or any random receptionist or wanton puck bunny. But my injury had healed, and it did nothing for my ego for every woman purring for a little petting to assume that I’d lost…function.

  Or that I’d lost the boys at all.

  Amputated Alaric had trended on Twitter following the accident. As did Asexual Adrian and The Gelded Grinder.

  Fuck it. Why hadn’t agreed to Clover’s demands when I had the chance? What better way to prove I was perfectly healthy than by knocking up a beautiful woman?

  The idea wasn’t all bad. It’d show the world I knew how to have fun—that a man’s most terrifying injury hadn’t slowed me down or shaken my confidence.

  Clover offered me a fertile womb. My only job was enjoying myself and doing what came naturally. Then again, impregnating my best friend had with its own distinct set of challenges. The least of which was the fact that the universe, unsuccessfully claiming my manhood in a brush with terror and pucks, had now come for its revenge.

  The walls gave a dull groan before a chunk of waterlogged ceiling tile tumbled from above and slammed down between my legs.

  A lifetime of hockey had prepared me for a defensemen’s hit at any time, and my reflexes were now as honed as those of a paranoid cat. I twisted, narrowly avoiding certain circumcision by the crashing ceiling.

  Dust billowed at my feet. I glanced up, frowning as a droplet of dirty water landed on my forehead. Fortunately, I’d shielded the worst of the blow with my hand.

  Christ, was I supposed to wear my cup off the ice now?

  “Is this how you guys drum up new business?” I picked my way through the rubble, handing the stunned receptionist the slab of tile. She stared at me, eyes widened with shock. “You know…I’m gonna take that as a sign and go. Tell the doc I’ll follow up with her if I have any problems.”

  The receptionist squealed. “Are you okay?”

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t naive to pain anymore. “I’ve had worse.”

  The phone rang before I could escape. The blonde curled a finger toward me as she answered.

  “The doctor will see you now,” she said.

  “That’s okay—”

  “Second door on the left.” She held a hand over her chest to soothe her jangled nerves. “Wouldn’t want to take a chance, would we?”

  Fuck.

  She was probably right.

  After all…how many more chances did a guy get?

  Still, taking a chunk of plaster to the groin would’ve been preferable to the introductory appointment with my new urologist.

  Doctor Bethany Stone.

  I wasn’t the type to criticize a woman’s chosen specialty, but generally I only trusted that part of me to a woman with puffy lips, gentle hands, and a whole lot of Daddy issues.

  However, if the family portrait on the doctor’s desk was any indication, she knew her way around a man’s parts. Six smiling children crowded within the frame, all sharing her frizzy red hair.

  Maybe I would get decent care here. After all, the Forge’s trainers had assured me she was the best in the city.

  “I apologize for the…accident in the lobby,” Doctor Stone said. She was a professional older woman with thick-rimmed glasses, spastic red hair, and enough models of the male reproductive system positioned around her desk that we might’ve played ping pong with a plastic prostate. “At least you weren’t hurt. No sense re-aggravating any old injuries.”

  I hated doctors. The fake empathy. The sterile discussion of anatomic anomalies.

  The cold hands.

  At least her office seemed relatively warm. No icy metal exam tables that froze a man’s ass or harsh florescent lighting so bright I could count the goose bumps on my own flock of geese. She decorated with leather chairs and soft rugs, bookshelves instead of rubber gloves.

  She might’ve been peddling insurance instead of encouraging men to turn their heads and cough.

  But that didn’t make it any less awkward.

  I sat, shifting against the leather. My boys preemptively ached from this conversation, but the woman had my asshole just as puckered.

  This meeting was a mistake.

  “I promise—you won’t need a helmet to enter my offices in the future,” she laughed.

  Better safe than sorry.

  “It’s not a problem.” I waved away her concern. “Accidents happen. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “Seems like you’re often in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  And I wasn’t about to hang around any longer. Last thing I needed was to tempt fate. Her office didn’t have ceiling tiles…

  But she had a ceiling fan.

  “Look, I won’t waste your time,” I said. “I’m feeling good. I’ve got your number, so I can just call if there’s any issues—”

  “Nonsense.” Doctor Stone tutted. “Don’t be in such a hurry, Mr. Alaric. I don’t say this very often but keep your pants on.”

  Great.

  I returned to my chair as she poured through my file.

  “Now, I’ve received a copy of your information from your doctor’s office in Atwood. And, at my practice, I promise that you will be in excellent hands.”

  I didn’t want to be in anyone’s hands. Not anymore. Though I’d make the exception for Clover…if doing this was even the right decision.

  “So, what brings you to my office today?” she asked.

  Doctor Stone pushed a candy dish toward me and opened the lid. She had a sense of humor, offering her patients tiny packages of nuts.

  “Help yourself,” she said.

  “Thanks, but no.” I stood, awkwardly positioning my hands in front of own walnuts. “I thought I needed a consultation, but…I’m fine. No other issues since the injury, and I’ve made a full recovery. If I need something, I know who I’ll call.”

  I unsuccessfully retreated from her desk. I could skate backwards across the arena, but I couldn’t fucking walk through her office.

  My heel knocked into a podium, rocking a scale model off its stand. The male anatomy was not flattering in its natural state, but it looked even worse in a model stripped of skin and musculature. The heavy plastic teetered, tipped, then tumbled off the stand.

  I flinched as the tap-tap-tap of the model’s bouncing testes ricocheted across the floor. Meanwhile, my dash for the falling penis came too late. The shaft plummeted off the model and imbedded itself in a knothole on the hardwood floor.

  I grabbed the penis and yanked. Bad move. The knothole shredded the plastic and snapped off the tip inside the floorboard.

  Doctor Stone peered over her glasses. “Mazel Tov.”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “I’ve seen worse. Think you have too.” She dryly laughed as she flipped through my chart. “Better a dummy than the real thing, huh?”

  I dropped the penis to the floor, deciding to let live and be erect. “I’m just gonna leave before anything or anyone else gets neutered.”

  “I bill by rounding up to the nearest hour, so we have some time yet…” Doctor Stone glanced at me with eyes the color of sterilized surgical steel. “You’re sure you’re not having any issues? No questions or concerns about any potential complications?”

  Complications.

  I hated that word.

  Complications meant more ridiculous visits to countless specialists and scrutiny from the trainers and coaches. Worse, it forced managers and agents to get involved in private matters made public. If my manhood had featured in the imaginations of the entire league for any other reason, I might’ve been flattered. After all, I wasn’t undeserving of the praise.

  But for an injury?

  Last thing I needed was anyone in the coaching staff dwelling on my power play line.

  “Everything�
��s fine,” I said. “Never better. Back to normal.”

  “I suppose that’s a good sign.” The doctor arched an eyebrow. “A nice young man like yourself…approaching thirty. I’m sure being back to normal must be a relief.”

  “Sure.”

  “Especially with a brand-new contract, brand new city…brand new family, perhaps?”

  Fuck.

  She read my expression. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. Alaric. I know when a man is concerned if his…printer is out of ink.”

  And I wouldn’t need to worry about it provided I never spoke the fears aloud.

  “We’ll find out next time I…print,” I said. “It’ll be a nice surprise.”

  “Why be surprised when you can be certain?”

  Doctor Stone reached into her drawer with all the subtlety of the snapping of a pair of latex gloves. She plunked a plastic medical cup onto her desk.

  “Listen, doc…” I wasn’t touching that thing. “I’m peeing fine.”

  “Oh…I’m not interested in urinary issues today, and neither are you, or you wouldn’t have made this appointment. I’m wondering if you’d care to deposit a different fluid into this cup.”

  “Whoa. We just met, doc.”

  “Flattered as I am, I think we’re both more interested in the results than the process.”

  Maybe.

  But that sterile cup had thunked onto her desk with a hollow, cold thud.

  The sound pitted my stomach.

  “I’m not worried.” I lied. It felt dirty, but so was the test she wanted me to take. “No problem anywhere. I’m operational. I just…point and shoot.”

  “And I’m sure you’re a regular gunslinger, but, the question remains…just what are you shooting?”

  “If I gotta explain that, what the hell are you doing with the medical degree?”

  “A good sense of humor is supposedly a sign of virility.”

  “Really?”

  She smiled. “Only one way to find out.”

  I checked my watch with an apologetic shrug. “Well, darn. Looks like I’m late for team workouts. I’ve gotta go.”

  Doctor Stone didn’t fight me. She simply tapped her desk.

  “You can take the cup with you—I’ve got plenty here. Perk of the job.”