Thin Ice (Power Play Series Book #2)

Chapter Fifty-Eight × New Year's Eve

Every year, the team has a New Year's Eve Party.

I've never looked forward to it that much because in the past it was just another opportunity to watch couples make out at midnight (and before); while I, and the rest of the single guys on the team, would get drunk while never explicitly saying it, but internally wishing we had someone to bring.

I know most people would think professional athletes just want to hook-up with randoms, but that gets old quick. Sure, there are some players that never want to leave the game - both literally and figuratively. But after a few seasons of coming home to nothing and leaving with no I love yous or lingering kisses, that shit gets old. Life gets old. That's the truth nobody tells you.

"Do you think this looks okay?" Rosie asks me, coming out of the closet wearing another variation of a tight dress.

I think she's nervous to be around so many new people. Possibly also to stay up super late - but we've had some late nights lately, ourselves; so, if I had to say, I would say it's the people. It's funny because she's always super anxious to be around people but to me, she acts totally normal. I would say she's even good with people; friendly.

"Looks great, babe." I tell her, taking one look at her in it before having to look away, wondering how I'm supposed to hide my erection all night. Behind the knee? In the waistband? I guess we'll wait and see.

"Erik." She whines, not a good whine but a bad one that says she's not happy. I don't know what else to say other than there's only so much torture a man can endure before needing to rip someone's clothes off. It's like she's trying on lingerie around me or wearing my clothes without a bra.

"You look great, Rosie." I tell her, leaving out the part about her giving me a boner every time I see her. Or think of her. Or smell her pillow. "You've looked great in everything." I remind her, getting up from where I've been relegated to our bed for this impromptu fashion show.

For me, it's easy: put on jeans and a nice shirt.

Rosie may or may not have pointed me in the direction of what she wanted me to wear. Because she says my back looks really good in it. She's really into my back, and forearms, and other parts of my body. It makes me feel good about myself and our relationship, that she's become more comfortable with expressing how she feels about me.

And in case you missed it, how she feels about me is that I make her wet from thinking about me at work. I don't think I'm gonna ever think about anything else in the shower. Even thinking about it now - that and what we did in the truck, makes me hard as hell.

"But which one do you think I should wear?" She questions, asking like she's a sports reporter looking to get what was really going on, on the ice. Or maybe someone that asks questions that haven't been recycled a million times, like a sexy news reporter that you would burn a house down for, just to talk to.

"Whichever one you want." I answer, getting up from the bed and making my way towards her. She's so preoccupied with worrying about what to wear and what people may or may not think of her, that she doesn't notice my advances. "You always look amazing." I tell her, apparently waking her senses up when my hands find her waist.

"You're obligated to say that. You're my boyfriend." She retorts, clearly writing off my opinion of her as something far nicer than the truth. But the truth to me, is that if the team hadn't booked the entire restaurant, I'd be having to stare down guys all night.

I'm not a jealous person - at least, I don't think I am. But I hate the way guys look at her, sometimes. I don't know what it is, it just pisses me off. Which is why we don't go out a ton to clubs and stuff - well, that and the fact that neither of us like clubbing or going to bars much.

It also pisses me off that people automatically look at women like that; and think unless there's a man with them willing to stake his claim, that they'll harass the shit out of her until she has to pretend to know some random shop owner. Who usually ends up being equally as creepy.

Rosie's told me stories. I know.

"You look beautiful." I tell her - at the same time, telling the vain in my forehead to not pop out when I think about other people possibly mistreating her. Or harassing her at fucking Target. Like, who raised their sons to think it's okay to talk to anyone like that - let alone a woman they don't know.

She nods absent-mindedly, clearly still seeking a second opinion from her anxiety. "Thanks." She chews on her lip, pulling and tugging at it until I have to gently guide her hand away. Not that I want to control what she does; but then she'll end up with her lip all cut up and stinging when she eats.

"Okay." She randomly breaks from my hands - which granted, were about two second from exploring the rest of her body. Fuck, she's so hot. "I know which one I'm gonna wear." She announces, walking back to the closet with more determination than when she's running late for the bus; and also giving me a view of her ass which looks, really fucking good.

Twenty minutes and some groping hands later, we're climbing into my truck. Kayden decided to go get the party started with a couple of the other self-proclaimed free agents, a few hours ago; so, it's just us. Me, Rosie, her anxiety, my intense love for her, and my boner. So you know, the usual bunch.

"Is Makena gonna be there?" She asks, as we're buckling up and I'm adjusting the mirror. I think she went to Starbucks or somewhere while I was at practice and she always moves the side mirrors so that she can't see the cars behind her. People like to ride her ass a lot because she drives the speed limit.

I shrug, entwining my fingers with hers and resting them both over the console. "Maybe. She's been sick, lately." I tell her, referencing one of the usual core components of our friend group, who may or may not be pregnant. I didn't want to tell Rosie that initially because I know our pregnancy was hard on her and I don't want to bring up any pain.

But, you know, we tell each other everything; so I ended up spilling the beans faster than someone with a case of diarrhea using the bathroom.

"Oh, okay." She says, my answer seeming to contribute slightly to creating anxiety for her. I hope she's not too nervous about meeting the team. Granted, she's met a few of them already - between them coming over to hang out and seeing her in the halls, to which they love to yell her name like five year old's and then tell me they saw my girlfriend, later.

Love that for me, definitely doesn't put me in the dog house.

"It'll be fine." I assure her, giving her hand a light squeeze before kissing it. The asshole behind us honks at me because I'm at the traffic light for too long after it's turned green and I roll my eyes before driving forward.

The remainder of the drive there - which is less than a kilometer, but with everyone and their dog going downtown for New Years, takes us way longer than it normally would. Rosie's unusually quiet - because she's nervous; and I play the radio in hopes that hearing Billie Eilish in twenty variations will make her feel better. Or at the very least, occupy her mind until we get there.