Second Shot K.O.K (The Brooklyn Bears: Season 1)

17. Cancelled

SEVENTEEN

CANCELLED

Koa

I wake to the morning light slicing through the split in the curtain, drawing me out of what started as soul-crushing to the most restful night of sleep I’ve had in a long time, and I did not deserve it at all.

Her scent is still here—plumeria flowers, sweet and rich, and the island, a smell that always makes me want to bury my face in her hair, and I did last night. I stole that while she slept, while I felt her quivering in my arms in her sleep.

I turn my head to her pillow, and that’s when I see black smudges of mascara, the proof of the pain I caused her by pushing her past the point she wanted to go. I reach out and trace the marks with my fingers as if, somehow, I can erase the hurt, knowing it’s not that simple.

I inhale a deep breath, her scent, as I sit up and look around the room. My eyes stall on a pile of folded clothes in the corner, a stack with a few pairs of sweats and an assortment of gray, maroon, and white sweatshirts and tees— Hayward colors.

“Little thief,” I whisper as I push up off the bed and grab a sweatshirt and a pair of sweats from the top of the pile.

When I asked her why she never returned any of my hoodies, she admitted to me that she wore them when I was away for games to keep warm, to imagine I was wrapped around her when she slept. After just a couple nights sneaking into her room and pulling her tight against me, falling asleep like that was addicting. Those away games, missing her, it never got easier—never.

When I exit the room, Dash is still out cold, but he has a weird-ass smile on his face, no doubt dreaming of Paul Bronski, who I have never heard of .

I still know more about football than the sport that’s made me millions of dollars. That Nalani said she knew I would.

Deacon is half-on, half-off the tiny couch. He’ll no doubt be seeing the doc today after practice because of it. The other bedroom door is closed; I suspect the girls are in there, and I wonder if Nalani is holding the baby, Savannah, who she’s already clearly mama bear protective over, and that is a wildly attractive thought, and sight , now that I know she’s not hers. May make me sound like a dick, but there it is.

I walk into the bathroom, get rid of the piss hard-on I awoke with, grab the lilac-colored toothbrush that has “ N.K. ” on it, just like in college, and stick it in my mouth, sucking on it a bit … just like I did back then. The taste of her used to light me up inside, even when it was a fucking toothbrush.

I turn the faucet all the way to hot and let the water run as I get undressed. When I step in, the water is lukewarm, and the pressure is less than the outdoor shower back home that was hooked up to a garden hose.

I see her shampoo, conditioner, and body wash that makes her smell so damn good, fresh from the shower. I’m gonna smell like her all day, or at least until after practice.

I’m eyeball-to-eyeball with the showerhead, so I duck to get my hair wet and close my eyes when I shampoo. I imagine her little fingers in my hair when we showered together at my place for the first time. Most sensual moment of my life.

Nalani.

Every time I saw her naked, which was a lot, was a gift that went beyond her physical beauty. It was everything—the way her curves flowed, soft yet defined; the gentle swell of her hips; the smooth plane of her stomach; and the subtle rise and fall of her chest increasing when I got closer. There’s a softness to her skin and the warmth she gives off, even though she’s always cold. The dip of her collarbone, the curve of her waist, the hollow of her back, and the tight, round shape of her ass.

“Fuck,” I groan, feeling my cock harden and my balls grow heavier.

I place my foot on the edge of the tub as I reach down and grab a hold of my cock, slowly stroking myself up and down, turning my hand like she always did. I use my other to give my balls a tug and roll them in my hand. I can picture her sinking to her knees the first time, looking up at me, and the sounds of desire that escaped when she was hungry for me.

Nalani, you’re fucking with me hard .

I move faster and grip tighter, picturing her tight little cunt strangling my cock and having to hold my breath, afraid if I didn’t, I’d come before she was fully seated. My hips thrust into my hand, and I widen my stance to allow my balls the freedom to swing as I picture rolling her over, going in deep, in doggy, and lifting her to her knees so I could look into those need-filled eyes and taste her delicious lips. We never stayed that way long; there was too much distance. I’d be on my back with Nalani perched on me, fucking me, bouncing up and down on my cock.

I continue pumping myself in one hand, rolling my balls and giving my piercing an occasional tug, picturing her using her teeth, baring her teeth, so fucking hot, so hungry.

My body tightens, the muscles in my legs, my ass tense, my fucking toes curl as I hammer my cock up and down faster, harder, tightening my grip. I see her eyes, those deep brown eyes. She may as well be in here with me, ’cause I swear I can hear her moan in my head. White-hot lightning shoots through my body. I grind my molars together to stop from calling out her fucking name. I pump harder, faster, until I come so fucking hard streams of cum hit the shower, and I bite my fucking arm as I moan while I slow down and savor each stroke.

When I walk out of the bathroom, Dash is leaning up against the counter, sipping a bottle of water with a shit-ass grin on his face. He sets it on the counter and nods to my attire. “So, how was the Hayward reunion?”

I narrow my eyes at him.

From the couch, Deacon groans as he sits up. “Must be nice to have a change of clothes. Slept in this monkey suit.”

“Found a pile of my old Hayward sweats and tees in?—”

“Calling dibs on, like, anything other than what I’m in.” I run a hand through my hair and glance at the door.

“Nalani snuck out of here with a bag of greens and frozen peas. If she’s hot for Paul Bronski, you better step up your game, KOK.” Dash chuckles as he heads to the room.

“How’s the shower?” Deacon asks as he heads to the bathroom.

“I piss with more pressure than that shower.”

“Hot at least?”

“Lukewarm at best,” I answer honestly.

I skate out while the two are otherwise occupied.

I should feel like a creeper as I stand outside the door that leads to the chickens, listening to her side of a conversation, but in my defense, I heard my name.

“I’ve told him some of it. He’s angry, and honestly, I’m not sure I can rip myself open and tell him the rest because I don’t know what good it will do to expose myself like that to someone who may not ever be able to forgive me fully.”

Pause.

“I believe I could. At least, that way we could remain on speaking terms. Maybe even be friends one day. And maybe ten, twenty, thirty years from now, we could be more.”

Pause.

“That’s asking a lot from one who, just a few days ago, started trusting my head.”

Pause.

“I hate talking about her to you. She’s your daughter.”

Pause.

“I will. I love you. I promised I would call every week, and I will. And I’ll be home to visit.”

Pause.

“Yes, but it may not be the one they want.”

I give her a few minutes to process while I do the same before I open the door.

In the light of day, I see a pitted concrete platform, cracked and uneven, old enough to have seen better days—if it ever had any. There’s no way up or down, just this flimsy wooden ramp someone slapped together, barely wide enough for a chicken to wobble up and looks like it might snap under my weight.

Nalani is out in the yard, dressed in layers, and a winter hat covers her dark, wet hair. She’s petting and talking to one of the hens as the other two strut around, pecking at the ground and clucking. A henhouse sits in the corner, freshly painted a barn red that stands out against the drab concrete and wooden fencing surrounding the area. It almost looks out of place—too clean, too new. The whole scene is a mix of half-finished projects and ones that desperately need to be started. The bottom line is that it appears to be held up by sheer will, not unlike the rest of the place.

As I sit, the rooster flaps its wings and hops up on a platform, which causes Nalani to look over her shoulder at me.

I lift my chin up to the sun. “Good morning.”

She stands straight, wipes her hands on her pants, then walks toward me. “You better plan to return those.” She points to my attire.

“Why? You never did.” I smirk.

“I was never asked to.”

She’s not wrong. I loved the idea of her wanting—needing—me so badly that she wrapped herself in me when I wasn’t there. Still do.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“They’re a”—she smirks—“a bit snug across the chest, shoulders, and thighs.”

“I’m still your type,” I say in barely a whisper, but she hears me.

“If you could bottle up all your confidence and sell it, you could retire tomorrow.” She turns around and rests her elbows on the platform, focusing on the hens. “So, what do you think?”

“Can’t imagine that the man Dash has a bro-crush on lives like this.”

“It’s his and his wife’s of over sixty years home.” She lifts a shoulder. “I think it’s beautiful.”

“Chickens?” I correct myself, “Hens.”

“The little lady over there”—she points to one she was having a conversation with—“she was here when Mrs. Bronski was still alive. They could never have kids, so these little ladies mean something to him.”

“Guess I can see that,” I admit.

She pulls her hair out of the back of her puffy vest and asks, “Do you have a hair tie?”

I pull one off my wrist and hand it to her.

She looks it over then up at me. “How old is this?”

“Old,” is all I’m willing to admit.

She narrows her eyes slightly as she thinks that over while she wraps her hair in it then pushes up to sit beside me.

I tap my knee against hers. “I overstepped last night. My apologies.”

“We were both drinking.” She pulls her sleeves down and covers her hands.

I grip the edge of the concrete to stop myself from taking them in mine, warming them for her. Taking them in my hands and rubbing them up my abs under my shirt like she used to.

“All those sayings, like when the bottle opens, so does the soul.” I shake my head. “Or wine reveals what water conceals.”

She pushed up to stand. “You’re right.”

“That tone says otherwise.”

“You’re tossing out proverbs like you’re at a Chinese buffet, sitting behind a plateful of cracked fortune cookies.”

What the fuck?

She opens the door and huffs. “Life changes the menu; we change our order.” She puffs. “Even our cravings grow up.” And she blows the house down. “The heart wants what the heart wants until it doesn’t.”

I haul my ass up and follow her. “What the hell are you?—”

“You like supermodels and dirty blondes. You’re off the hook, so go fuck with?—”

I take her wrist as she turns the corner, spin her around, take her face, and press her against the wall.

“Nothing screams, ‘I don’t want you anymore,’ like waking up not being impaled by your cock , cock , cock ,” she chants like they do in the arena and slams her hand against my chest to push me away,

I don’t move.

“I woke up with a semi because I was surrounded by your scent. Seeing a pile of clothes in that room made me even harder. In your bathroom, I sucked on your toothbrush, wanting just a taste of you; pictured your little fingers in my hair when I used your shampoo as my need increased. I was seconds from the skin on my cock , cock , cock from ripping apart, so I fucked my hand, picturing you on your knees, my dick buried inside you from behind, from above, and under you. I painted your shower wall and watched as my cum slid down it. My taste has never changed.” I press my lips firmly to her forehead. “I’m still starving for you.”

She grips my sweatshirt, fingertips?—

A loud whistle draws our attention to the front of the house.

I turn and see Dash and Deacon standing at the door. “Costello’s sending a car to pick us up. We’re meeting the cops at the stadium for a statement.”

“Is Dash wearing my Hayward Hockey cut-off?” Nalani asks.

“Appears so.” I silently chuckle.

“I want that back.” She points at him then Deacon. “Both of you better return them.”

“Maybe, or maybe we’ll keep them,” Dash taunts.

“I will?—”

“Can’t call the cops asking them to get back stolen goods,” Dash cuts her off.

“I’m sure I can find a way around that.”

“You’ll get them back when I pick you up after practice and take you on a date.”

“A date?” She licks her lips like she’s testing it out to see if she likes the taste of it.

“I’ll text you the time. If you’re not here, I will hunt you down, find you, and chain you to a wall in my basement.”

“Way to win the girl, Romeo ,” Deacon sputters.

Her eyes flare, my dick hardens.

I turn my back to them, grab her hand, and place it on my growing cock. “My taste has always been you, Nalani Kāne.”

“We ride at …” Dash pauses his obnoxious rally cry then continues with a defeated, “Now. The car’s here.”

She looks down at my semi and smirks, obviously happy to be proven wrong but needing this exact kind of proof.

I press a firm kiss to her forehead and breathe in her scent before heading out, adjusting my dick to hide it … or try to, anyway.

I slide into the SUV and see we didn’t just get a ride. The owner, Dean Costello himself, is driving, and where Dean goes, Drew goes … unless it’s Sunday and her other husband—the one by law—is on the field, QB’ing for the New York Knights.

“I should make at least two of you walk for wearing those colors, disrespecting the Lions,” Costello tuts.

“Is that a crop top?” Drew laughs.

“We were on the lam; we had to do whatever was necessary to survive.” Dash chuckles.

“Not sure how.” Costello nods toward the house. “Who the fuck lives in that broken ass?—”

Dash grips the headrest in front of him and bounces up and down on the seat like a child. “Paul fucking Bronski.”

“Isn’t he dead?” Costello asks.

Drew smacks him. “No, he’s not dead.”

“Not sure that place screams I’m living the good life,” he mumbles.

“He’s got chickens living in?—”

“Hens,” Deacon corrects.

“You for fucking real?” Costello chuckles.

“He and his wife of sixty years didn’t have children, and one of the hens is still alive. It’s honorable,” I explain.

The whole vehicle goes radio silent.

“What?” I ask.

“It is sweet,” Drew says before thrusting the phone toward us. “Do any of you know Claire Holloway?”

“She’s a friend of Nalani’s,” Deacon answers.

Drew suppresses a smile and clears her throat as she looks at me. “So, are you and she?—”

“Working through some things.”

“Well, Claire has applied for the staff psychiatrist. Bitty and Sophie Fairfax are two of her references. Will you have any issues with her getting in if you’re required or need to see her?”

“None.”

“How’s your head?” Drew asks Deacon.

“Been hit harder by better. Thanks for asking.”

“We’ll have the doctor check you out, anyway, before you get out on the ice,” Costello says.

“How much time are we looking at? A year? Five to ten?” Dash asks.

Drew giggles. “You have ‘practice’ an hour from when we tell them you’ve arrived, and I’ll be there to make sure the victims and heroes of last night’s fiasco aren’t inconvenienced any more than they already are. And that being said, let’s hear what went down.”