“I’m going to look online when you’re at training,” Sutton announces.
My stomach tightens as fear shoots through me.
“That’s okay, isn’t it, Daddy?” she asks, letting me know that I failed at keeping my reaction from my face.
“Just make sure you do it with Gran,” I say, reminding her of the rules regarding internet use.
“Of course.”
“Granny is interested too,” Mom quips.
“Okay, great. I’m going to shower. I need to be at the arena in thirty.”
I rush out of the room, leaving them talking about what color dress Sutton would wear if she were allowed to go last night.
“Fucking hell,” I groan, scrubbing my hand down my face as I take the stairs two at a time.
The second I kick my bedroom door closed, I undo my shirt buttons and shrug it from my shoulders. My slacks and boxers go next, and I walk into the bathroom wearing nothing but the ink that covers my skin.
Without overthinking it, I stand in front of the mirror, my eyes going to my throat.
“Thank fuck,” I hiss when I don’t find any evidence of the night before.
I lean a little closer to double-check that she didn’t leave her mark on me, but there’s nothing.
Shaking my head, I step into the shower and turn it on, letting myself get hit with ice-cold water in the hope it might wash away the memories of last night.
Who was she?
And why did she refuse to remove her mask?
“Rivers.” I wince as his deep voice booms down the hallway. “Wait up.”
Our captain’s footsteps ring out around me, getting closer with each one he takes.
“Hey,” I say when he finally catches up to me a few feet from the dressing room door.
“Whoa, you look like a man who had a good night,” he announces the second he gets a look at my face.
“Can we not?” I groan as he pushes the door open and steps inside.
The dressing room is quiet, but then I guess that’s to be expected seeing as I’m early.
Our training session doesn’t officially start for almost an hour.
“Oh, shit,” he gasps. “Didn’t it happen?”
“Fletch,” I groan.
“She looked so fucking into you. I can’t believe?—”
“Good morning, lights of my life,” Lincoln sings as he bursts into the dressing room like it’s his personal stage. “How the fuck are we all after a fan-fucking-tastic night?”
“Jesus,” Fletch mutters, scrubbing his hand down his face.
“Aw, Cap, was the ball and chain too exhausted after her big night to celebrate?”
“Fuck you,” he scoffs.
