Brogan (Carolina Reapers 9)

My girls. Skye was, without a doubt. But Fiona? When had I started thinking of her as mine?

When you stroked her to an orgasm on your kitchen counters.

I shut that line of thinking down and celebrated with my teammates as the game came to an end.

Game one was a win. Our season was off to a fucking fantastic start!

The mood in the locker room was raucous, and even Cannon had brought out the rare smile as we got out of our gear.

Then there was Maxim, whose face was set in such austere lines that he looked like we’d lost.

“And the problem is?” I asked, knowing full well he had one.

“That second Tampa goal was my fault,” he muttered, ripping off his shoulder pads like they’d done something to insult him. “I was too fucking slow, and he got away from me.”

“Dude,” Sterling groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose, all too familiar with his brother’s unique ability to suck the joy out of any victory with his post-game analysis where he always found himself lacking.

“And?” I just raised my eyebrows and continued stripping out of my gear. “What else you got over there?” It was best for Maxim if he got it all out at once, rather than letting him stew in his hypercritical shit all night.

“And I was slow off the bench in the second period. I could have probably made a play if I hadn’t taken those extra seconds.” His jaw flexed as he tore at his laces.

“So how many laps are you going to punish yourself with?” I asked quietly, tucking my gear away in the locker behind me. “Just fifty this time?”

The guy had a small rink put into his basement—just a little bigger than Cannon’s, and I was one of the only people who knew he used it to punish himself. Well, Caspian had known, and had even managed to temper his best friend’s misplaced guilt, but he was up in Minnesota now, so I guess that only left me...and Sterling.

Not that Maxim was ever going to listen to his brother.

“Shut up.” Maxim rolled his eyes and forced a smile. “I mean, it turned out okay, right? We won.”

“Right.” I nodded. “So, why don’t you take a night off and just enjoy it?”

“But you’re still going to find a way to tell yourself the score should have been higher if you’d just...insert flaw here.” Sterling held out his hand and pointed to his empty palm. “Aren’t you?”

“Why don’t we talk about what bar we’re going to tonight instead?” Briggs interrupted, glancing between the brothers.

“Scythe!” everyone answered in unison.

The popular, local bar was owned by Sawyer’s wife, Echo, and usually I’d be down for a little celebration, but not tonight. I was finding more and more of my happiness at home, in the calm—and fine, equally chaotic—atmosphere that came with having a five month-old baby.

“Let me guess,” Maxim titled his head at me. “You’re headed home.”

“Yep.” I grabbed my towel. For the first time in my life, what I had waiting at home for me was better than anything I could find by going out.

I placed Skye on her back, in the middle of her crib, and backed away slowly as I held my breath. Her noise machine was going, but fuck, even my heartbeat felt too loud. It had only taken a half hour to get to her to sleep, but there was zero part of me that wanted to go through the rocking and pacing routine we’d developed again.

Creeping out of her door, I twisted the doorhandle to avoid the click that always came with shutting the door, then slowly released the knob to close it silently.

I exhaled deeply, my shoulders dipping slightly in a moment of sheer relief. It was only ten, which meant I had every chance of getting a solid eight hours or so before morning skate. If Skye slept all night—which had been about fifty-fifty the past week or so—I’d be ready to kick some ass for the second game of the series tomorrow night.

After listening for Skye for a minute or two in the hallway, I headed downstairs to the kitchen and found Fiona shutting the dishwasher and pressing the start button.

“I told you that you don’t have to do that,” I lectured, going around the kitchen island to the refrigerator. I’d managed to keep my hands to myself for the past two and a half weeks by maintaining at least five feet between Fiona and I at all times...or at least whenever possible. At home we were in pretty close confines, and there wasn’t much we could do about it.

That kiss. Fuck me, that kiss had been on replay in my head every time I’d jerked off for the last couple of weeks.

Not just a kiss.

I swore I could still taste her tongue, feel how slick she was against my fingers—