Body Checking (Men of Havoc #3)

8

HOURS have passed since Maren sent me a picture of her smiling face as she drank her morning coffee, and it’s been two since I sent her a picture back with no response.

I’m a fairly confident man and while I know I’m not some young twenty-something dude, I feel good about how I look. I can see it in the faces of women that look at me when I pass by. And I’ve never had any complaints from the women I’ve been with. But the fact that I sent Maren a photo hours ago and she has yet to respond has me feeling a little vulnerable.

I pull out the room service menu from where it sits on the small desk in my hotel room, and decide to comfort myself with a big cheeseburger and fries. I’m just about to call down to place my order when my cell phone pings. I fly across the room like a fifteen year old girl waiting for the boy she’s crushing on to call her, and I’m not even sorry about it .

I open the phone and there sits a response from my dream girl. Just below the shirtless selfie I sent of myself when I was lying in bed earlier.

Maren: That’s some pretty good body checking, Coach.

My heart does that little skip a beat thing I’ve heard about but never experienced for myself. My thumbs suddenly feel too big and fat as I try to text back, so I stop for a moment and calm my inner little girl down.

Me: Good enough to let me slam you against the boards?

I hit send then immediately wish I could erase that lame ass comment. What is wrong with me? I can’t think straight or sensibly when it comes to her. And it’s clear that I have now thoroughly driven her away as the little dots appear and quickly disappear with no response.

“What the fuck is wong with you, Hamlin?” I growl at myself.

Now I’m going to need a large shake to go along with that cheeseburger and fries to soothe my sad little heart.

Ping . The sound chimes from my phone and it has me smiling all over again.

Maren: I’d be happy to take a hard hit from the infamous Hammer. attachment

“Thank you Lord Jesus,” I praise when I see the picture attached.

It’s of a fresh faced Maren, her cheeks slightly pink, and her hair down in wet waves. She’s wearing a robe or nightgown or something to that effect, and it hangs low, giving me the perfect view of the best set of tits I’ve ever seen.

Me: Sweetheart, I’d give you anything you want. All you have to do is ask.

Maren: Well since you’re offering…Why do they call you Hammer?

Oh shit. My little Swiss Miss wants to dive right in. I hope she’s ready.

Me: Some say it’s because I used to hammer guys against the glass and leave them damaged. But others say it’s because of this.

I gulp then drop my sweats, grip the base of my cock and tug just enough to wake it up. When he’s standing nice and tall and proud, I snap a quick picture and send it to her .

And then there they are. The dots bounce. Then disappear. Then reappear, then go away.

Maren: I’d say that everyone could say it’s because you leave them damaged. I don’t think anyone is coming back after a hit from you.

Before I can respond, another text pops up.

Maren: Are you PIERCED?

Me: Are you?

Maren: God no. I’m too chicken shit to pierce anything that….sensitive.

Me: You’d be surprised at what you think you can’t handle and what you actually can. Sometimes a little pain is worth it.

Maren: So.

Maren: Is this a tit for tat kind of thing?

Maren: Or rather, tit for dick.

I chuckle at her quick wit.

Me: You can show or not show me whatever you want. I’m here for it all. Show and tell or just talk. I just want to get to know you. All of you.

Maren: How about a little of both?

Me: Count me in.

I wait for her to make the next move and either ask a question or send a picture.

Maren: Two truths and a lie. You get rewarded when you guess the lie.

Me: I’m waiting…

Maren: I’m an only child. I once won a little Miss Houston pageant. I hate chocolate.

I think about it a bit, then guess.

Me: You’re not an only child.

Maren: Eeerrr. Wrong. I LOVE chocolate. Have you ever met anyone who doesn’t love chocolate?

Me: Yeah. Me.

Maren: What? Did you get dropped on your head when you were a baby? How can you not like chocolate?

Me: I just don’t. Just like, if you were to offer cake, I’d ask if you have pie because I don’t like cake.

Maren: OMG. I don’t know if this is going to work. I’m sorry. Bye.

Me: Haha. Very funny

But she doesn’t reply with a haha of her own. In fact, she doesn’t reply at all. And now I’m left sitting here wondering if it was the chocolate or the cake comment that sent her running.

Maren: Sorry. My friend called and she wouldn’t take none of your damn business as an answer as to why I couldn’t talk right now. Your turn. Two truths, one lie.

I breathe a sigh of relief and rest on the bed

Me: I grew up in Kentucky. I’m divorced. I didn’t start playing hockey until I was twelve.

Maren: Well since I know you were once married and hail from the small town of Bellevue, Kentucky, I’m going to say you did not start playing hockey when you were twelve.

Maren: And now my crazy stalker is showing. Feel free to erase my number and pretend you never met me.

Me: Hell no! Never. So you’re not scared off by my divorce?

Maren: No. It happens. I’m assuming it was a pretty low time in your life, but I’m sure it taught you a lot about what you want out of your next relationship and how to be the best version of yourself for it.

Me: How are you so wise at the young age of–I don’t even know how old you are Maren.

Maren: I’m twenty-six.

Goddamn! I’m thirteen years older than this girl. What the fuck is she doing talking to an old, washed up player when she can no doubt have any man she wants eating out of the palm of her hand.

Me: Fuck Maren! I’m divorced and old. Are you sure you want to be talking to me?

I figured she was young when I first saw her, but I was hoping she was at least thirty. It would make me feel less of a creep.

Maren: Does this look like I want to talk to someone else? attachment

I choke when I see the picture she sends. The robe she is wearing earlier hangs off of her shoulders and the camera catches her reflection. Her breasts are resting on her arm that cradles them, and her light brown nipples are erect.

Me: You are stunning, Maren. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.

My heart thuds in my chest, and I try to pinpoint this feeling that I have when I think about her, but it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before. It’s lust or a craving or perhaps a need. Whatever it is, I know that she’s the cause and the cure.