Hard Checked (Ice Kings #4) - Stacey Lynn Page 0,22
the day off since we have to hop on the plane again tomorrow. I have all day and nothing to do with myself.
Stupidly, a woman who isn’t my wife is the only thing on my mind.
I might not have a chance in hell of making things okay with Madison, or saving my marriage, but I can make things right with Gigi.
At the very least, I can apologize for my asinine behavior. I’m not ready to talk to the team yet. I don’t want their pity-filled looks or slaps on the back. It’s become such second nature to hide my struggles over the last few years, it feels much too difficult to begin explaining now.
Starting with Gigi will be easier. Then I might grow a set of balls and get the courage to return one of Jason’s phone calls and texts he fired off last night as soon as I took off.
I used the excuse I was driving for not answering him when I was in the car. Once I got home and spent a few minutes playing with Bruiser before allowing him into my bed—somewhere he was never allowed before—then I used the excuse it was too late to call Jason. He’d be home with Tessa, his girlfriend and sister to teammate Sawyer. No way was I interrupting their late night.
But now it’s morning, I hate feeling like a dick.
And if I don’t get out of my house, the walls will start to close in on me despite the five thousand square feet of space I have here.
“Hey Bruiser.” I pick him up and scratch his head.
When I mentioned getting a dog to Madison years back, I was thinking something big, loud, and scary looking. Like a mastiff. Or Pitbull. Or a Rottweiler. I wanted a dog who would protect her when I was on the road.
She insisted on a Maltese.
So a Maltese it was.
When I’m on the road, I feel like shit leaving him alone so much. Even though Cara practically lives here now while I’m gone, he still goes batshit crazy for attention from me when I’m here.
I swear he misses Madison. When he sleeps, he curls up onto the spot on her couch where she always sat when he used to have to stay on the floor. I didn’t even bother telling him to get off the couch the first time I saw him there, looking so pitiful.
Probably a lot like myself lately.
“Aren’t we a matching pair?” I say, setting him on the floor where he does his standard three-circle spin before taking off down the hallway, barking at nothing.
After grabbing a shower, dressing in casual black athletic pants and a tight athletic top that zips from the collar to mid-chest, I slide into my running shoes and grab some coffee on my way out the door.
Bruiser, who hates car rides and almost always pukes during them, is tucked away in his doggie room since I won’t be gone long. I’ve fed him, scratched his ears a few more times and promised to give him lots of attention as soon as I get home. Probably outside in the pool because he loves to swim despite the mess it makes of his fur. He’s one of the reasons why I keep it heated and ready to use all year.
Not that he cares about that, but I do.
I’m pulling up to the alley of George’s Bar where there are very few parking spots. Most are marked for deliveries but since I’m only coming to apologize and not stay long, I take my chances. I close my door, push my sunglasses to the top of my head when the door to the second-floor apartment where Gigi lives opens and she steps out.
She hasn’t seen me and for some reason I can’t fathom, I don’t call out to her to grab her attention. Instead, I take in the thin, black nylon bag strapped to her back like a backpack, the larger, black bag draped over one shoulder. Her skintight leggings match the black bags and cling to her short legs. On top, she’s wearing a sweatshirt and on her feet are lime green sneakers. A groan bubbles in my throat as I watch her maneuver her way down the rickety metal stairs.
Something stirs inside me, in my groin, and I quickly pinch my eyes closed.
I should not be having this reaction to her. To any woman.
You’re a married man, for Christ’s sake. Get it together.