Bennett - May
Six Years Ago
How did I find myself standing at a hole-in-the-wall bar in crocodile cowboy boots, cut-off jean shorts so short I fear my dick will fall out, and a cropped top flannel?
For starters, my fuckface brother chose my outfit for the first night of our childhood friend’s bachelor party.
Griffin Turner is getting married next month, and this is the first of a three-night combined bachelor and bachelorette weekend. We’re celebrating the festivities over Memorial Day at the cabin of my other teammate, and Griffin’s future brother-in-law, Carson Wilder. The timing of this trip not only means the lake will be packed, but also that we lost in the first round of playoffs during my first season as the captain of the Minnesota Wolverines.
If I had done my fucking job, we would still be on the ice. Therefore, Griffin wouldn’t have been able to have this last-minute bachelor weekend, nor would he have asked me to get ordained before his shotgun wedding next month. For fuck’s sake, who gets married after only being engaged for two months? Don’t couples typically want to take their time planning a wedding?
But when it comes to McKenna Wilder, Griffin has never thought rationally. The moment he moved in next door to his little sister’s best friend, he was smitten. We all grew up in the same town, which meant I played on the same team as Griffin and McKenna’s twin brother, Carson. Hell, McKenna even played on our team for a few seasons before she switched to girl’s hockey.
The cabin we’re staying in is a few hours north of home. Being born and raised in Minnesota, also known as the state of hockey, it was always a dream of mine to grow up and play professionally. Did I ever imagine I’d be playing for my home state’s NHL team with my little brother and two of our childhood friends? Hell no. Am I incredibly grateful to have been drafted by the Wolverines straight out of high school? Fuck yes. Am I humbled that in my sixth season with them, they appointed me team captain? You’re damn right. Am I also pissed beyond measure that we lost in the first round of playoffs? Fucking livid.
I slam back another shot of whiskey, gritting my teeth as the Jameson burns its way down my throat. My preference is sipping on an aged pour of Buffalo Trace on the rocks, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Usually, I’m not one to get a buzz, let alone attempt to get shit-faced, but I look like a fucking rodeo clown right now.
My younger brother, Jackson, decided it would be a great bonding opportunity to create a fantasy football league with only him, myself, and Carson last season. Being absolutely clueless when it comes to the NFL, I, of course, came in last place. This is how I wound up at the mercy of Jackson and Carson regarding my wardrobe this weekend. Penance is a bitch.
Jackson also happens to love planning and throwing themed parties, so he helped with the weekend’s festivities. Tonight is Reverse Cowgirl, where everyone dresses as cowboys and cowgirls. Tomorrow is Golf Pros and Tennis Hoes, where the guys dress in golf attire and thegirls dress in tennis attire. Finally, we round out the weekend with the Blackout, where everyone but the bride and groom dresses in black. I’m pretty sure they can’t embarrass me as much as they have tonight—or at least, I hope fucking not.
Tonight’s disaster of an outfit is courtesy of Jax. He dressed me in cutoff jean shorts that are so short I had to resort to tucking my dick in my waistband so it wouldn’t pop out the hem of the shorts and land me in jail for indecent exposure. My fucking shirt is a cutoff flannel that also happens to be a goddamn cropped top. And to top off the outfit, he chose a fucking straw cowboy hat that looks like it belongs on a scarecrow.
I’m not a poor loser, so of course I’m following through with my punishment for losing the league, but if the day ever comes for me to get payback, Jax is fucked.
The moment we stepped into the hole-in-the-wall bar on Lake Mille Lacs, heads turned our way. Thankfully, my god-awful outfit has saved me from being recognized by Wolverines fans.
Jax, Carse, and Griff are at a table in the corner waiting for the girls to show up, but I’m bellied up at the bar drowning my sorrows, which will likely be the only way I get through tonight.
I’m momentarily pulled from my sulking when someone bounces into me from behind. A low growl of frustration escapes before I can bite it back, but when I turn to find the offender is a woman, I sigh and attempt to soften my face.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” the woman exclaims as she steeples her hands to cover her mouth with a gasp. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” she asks.
Hurt me? That’s laughable. I’m a six-foot-five defenseman in the NHL. She couldn’t hurt me if she gave it her very best.
Oddly enough, I find her genuine concern endearing. If that feeling wasn’t foreign enough, I also find it somewhat unsettling how adorable I think she is. Rich copper hair frames her face and falls in waves down to her trim waist. And there’s a spattering of freckles covering her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, leaving me strangely curious to know where else freckles lie on her body.
“While I appreciate your concern, I think it’d take a bit more than your, what, five-five frame to hurt me,” I rasp, quirking a brow at her as I look her up and down.
A low chuckle escapes me when her whiskey-colored eyes widen as she takes me in. She slowly lowers her hands at the same time as her eyes roam down my body. Her mouth hangs slightly open as we not-so-subtly check each other out. She looks gorgeous in a black tank top tucked into a pair of high-waisted jeans. I watch as she bites her plump lower lip when her gaze narrows in on my exposed, toned stomach. My stomach flexes on its own accord, which seems to snap her out of her daze.
“I’m actually five-seven. Add in these heels, and I’m closer to five-ten,” she points out as she lifts her foot so I can see her strappy heels.
I swear to god I’m not a creep, but the way her red polished toenails match the red lipstick she’s wearing has my pulse racing.
Catching her checking me out again, I don’t miss her quick inhale just as the emcee for the night announces karaoke will be starting soon. Furrowing my brow, I bite my cheek in annoyance that nobody shared it was karaoke night.
“I take it by the look on your face you’re not planning to partake in tonight’s festivities?” she questions. Her voice has a melodic quality that I find myself drawn to.
In an attempt to get her to talk some more, I answer her. “Honestly, I didn’t have a clue until just now that it’s karaoke night.”
“Not much of a singer?” she asks, and curiosity sparks behind her amber eyes—a shade I’ve never seen before, like a pool of liquid caramel.
“No, not if I can help it. Though, my mom’s always told me I have a great voice.”
“Doesn’t she kind ofhaveto say that?”
I scoff. “My mother is a saint; she’d never lie to my face.”
