“Would you slap a teammate for twenty-five grand?” “Uh, yeah. There are a few I’d slap for free. Just point me in the right direction.”
Problem number one: My personal life is falling apart. Problem number two: My public life is also on thin freaking ice.
Problem number three: The ridiculously hot NHL D-man with the inability to remove his head from his ass has decided I’m his number one target.
And that last one is a bit of an issue since his idea of targeting me is to have absurdly hot hate-hookups with me in the locker room.
Which I don’t necessarily mind… Except there’s one tiny snag in his plan: I don’t like guys. Or, well, I didn’t think I liked guys.
But when Alexio Zeki drops to his knees and, uh, gets to business, I realize my very narrow view of my own sexuality needs some adjustment. And that’s ironic coming from a blind man.
Admitting I’m bisexual is the easy part.
Admitting I’m kind of, sort of, ridiculously into the man I claimed to hate is something else entirely. But the more he insists that I’m worth keeping, the more I start wanting to believe him.
