Caged (Gold Hockey Book 11) by Elise Faber (romantic love story reading TXT) 📕

Or making his morning wood go away.

Groaning as he got out of bed and ignoring the jut of his erection against the fabric of his boxer briefs, he shuffled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, then set about brushing and flossing and getting ready for the day.

It was pretty early by hockey standards—with last night’s match start time of seven-thirty, three-plus hours of game play, press, cooldown and stretching routines, and then a shower, it meant that he hadn’t left the arena until after midnight. Then he’d come home, reviewed the video, had his beer, and watched the first three episodes of that Bridgerton show. He could see why Dani liked it, had felt the urge to keep watching, even after his post-game adrenaline high had begun to fade.

But he had shit to do today, so eventually he’d forced himself to turn off the TV, pried the remote out of his hand, and had gone to bed.

Where he’d slept like shit.

Because he’d been imagining stripping Dani out of one of those prissy dresses from the show and kissing every inch of her glorious body.

After setting his toothbrush on the counter with a sigh, his erection seeming to have no desire to go away, he stripped off his underwear and stepped into the shower. Shampoo, soap, warm water on sore muscles.

A cock that ached for the beautiful, shy woman he’d dreamed about for years now.

It was fucking frustrating.

Not because she’d turned him down when he’d asked her out.

But rather, it was fucking painful that he’d purposely been ignoring his attraction all this time, and then for a few days while he’d worked up the courage to ask her, for a few moments as he’d seen her come out of her office, for one conversation when he’d thought that maybe . . . just maybe they might be able to have something that wasn’t only work-related.

But that wasn’t to be.

“Enough,” he muttered. He just needed to ignore his dick, get on with his day, and do his best to forget about one Dani Eastbrooke. Laughter bubbled in his chest, only it wasn’t because the situation was funny. Quite the opposite, actually. His laughter was a product of incredulity because he’d spent two years thinking about her, dreaming of her, and to think that he could just ignore the attraction that had been brewing and growing for all that time, especially now that he’d gotten a glimpse of that fire beneath the cool shield she kept in place between herself and the rest of the world, was ludicrous.

Groaning, he dropped his head to the tiles, felt the cool material against his skin, though it did nothing to tame the need burning within him.

Then he gave in to the inevitable and wrapped his hand around his still-hard cock . . . and stroked, pretending it was her hand, that her naked body was under the stream, touching him, coming close, her breasts pressing against him, her lips on his—

And he came, her name on his lips.

Fuck, but he was in deep.

Chest heaving, he let the water flow over him, sliding along his back until he started to feel guilty for contributing to the California drought and knew he needed to get on with his day. He cranked the shower off, snagged a towel, and wrapped it around his waist, glad his cock was flaccid but feeling the slightest bit dirty for jerking off to thoughts of a woman who wasn’t attracted to him. Then he pushed down the creeper feeling, promised he wouldn’t do it again, got dressed, and headed out to get his shit done.

The first order of business was the library.

Maybe not the most logical place for a six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-twenty-three-pound professional hockey player, but it was one of his places.

Ever since he’d been a little kid, it had been his main happy place.

Tagging along with his parents, disappearing into the children’s section while they browsed for research books or just novels to read for fun. He still remembered the feeling of getting his first library card, how excited he’d been to have the power to check his books out, all on his own.

Today, he was filled with marginally less excitement.

He was heading in to pick up some books he had on hold for one of his classes this semester. With hockey as a full-time job and the team’s travel schedule intense, he usually only managed two classes a semester. Which meant he was on the four-year plan for his master’s, but that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It was the only way he was able to do both of the things he loved—hockey and learning new things.

Plus, he was on his last semester.

If he didn’t fuck up, he was going to have his master’s in psychology by the end of the year.

What he’d do with it, he didn’t know yet.

But he’d have it, and since earning his master’s had always been a goal of his—one that had sometimes been at odds with his career, with away games and playoffs and travel—he would be happy just to have the degree to shove in a drawer somewhere.

Then he’d do . . . something.

Maybe get a dog, although that would be tough since he was away for half the year. If he wasn’t single, if he had a partner like some of the other guys, he could rely on that girlfriend or wife to be on dog duty. Though, he supposed if he really wanted a pup, he could figure it out with a pet sitter or boarding or doggy daycare. But he’d never actually pulled the trigger because it just had never seemed fair to the pooch if he was constantly leaving and coming back. And dogs aside, it was hard to even find someone to date when he was currently hung up on a woman who traveled with the team, a woman he saw nearly every day who made every cell in his