The Shameless Hour (The Ivy Years #4)

“I think I’m done for the night,” I said suddenly, passing my fat wad of Casino Night money over to Big-D.

“What? Why?” he asked. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

“I’m sure you can find another girl to warm you up,” I quipped. “And now you have a thousand extra dollars to play with.”

“You’re just giving this to me?”

“I’m so promiscuous like that,” I said, patting him on the shoulder.

When I turned away toward the TV room, Whittaker followed me. “Hey, you need a beer?”

I could, in fact, use a beer. But I didn’t want Whittaker to get any ideas. “If you’re getting one for yourself, I’d love a refill,” I said, meeting his eyes. There was absolutely interest there. Too bad I wasn’t big on football players. And I really wasn’t big on fraternity houses. This wasn’t going to turn out the way Whittaker hoped.

“It’s no trouble,” he said, touching my elbow.

“Thanks. I’m going to see how the Rangers are doing,” I said, pointing into the TV room.

“I’ll find you,” he said, his eyes scanning the room.

I’ll bet you will.

“Hey, pledge!” he called out to some poor schmo whose lot in life was to be Whittaker’s minion. “Deal this table for me. I’m taking a break.”

Turning my back on him, I went in search of the Rangers’ score.

The TV room was pretty small — it was more of an alcove than a room. But since TV was the lifeblood of the pack of athletes who lived here, it was probably the most popular room in the house.

There were five guys in there already, and I evaluated my seating options. There was a small wedge of sofa available between two frat guys, but I didn’t feel like jamming myself between them. There was a tattered footstool, but… Eew. Fraternity house furniture was a dicey proposition, even when it didn’t look as if it had been recently chewed by rats.

Luckily, one of the chairs had been taken by Pepe, an enormous French Canadian defensive hockey player and one of my on-again-off-again fuck buddies. “Belluh!” he crowed in his thick French accent. “Zhere is no score yet! But your Rangers look like poo poo tonight.”

I walked over and sat down in his lap. He stuck his big feet out onto the coffee table, making both of us more comfortable. And just like that, my seating problem was solved. “Twenty bucks says the Rangers win tonight,” I challenged him.

“Noh,” he said, his accent thick even on the one syllable word. “I cannot take money from a friend.”

I snorted at his overconfidence. He and I had a longstanding Rangers-vs.-Canadiens rivalry, because those were our teams. Pepe and I were the same age, although he was only a freshman. He’d spent two years after high school playing semi-pro on a farm team for — wait for it — the Canadiens. So for him, this game was personal.

Unfortunately, he was right that things didn’t look so good for my Rangers. The score was still zip-zip, but the Canadiens had already taken twice as many shots on goal as the New York team had.

Behind me, Pepe got excited about the on-screen action. “Oui! Oui oui oui!” he yelled at the screen as his team’s forward drove the puck towards the goal again.

“Stop him,” I yelled. But it was no use. The lamp lit before I could even get the words out.

Pepe threw his scruffy head back on his broad shoulders and whooped.

There is nothing cuter than watching a giant man-child get delirious over his team’s goal. Pepe’s hands wandered down my sides, and he gave my hips a squeeze. I felt his erection begin to poke me in the lower back.

Turning to whisper into his ear, I asked, “Pepe, did you seriously just pop a boner because the Canadiens scored?”

“Noh,” he said. “I have zee bonnaire because now we are weening.”

I giggled, while his hand found its way onto my boob, which he gave a single squeeze. Sports, food and sex. Those were the things which made the men in my life tick. It was really that simple.

“I theenk we need a different bet,” he said. “Not money. Les vêtements. Clothing. I score a goal, I choose a piece of yours.”

I turned my head so I could see him. “You want to play strip hockey?”

“Oui. Keep it interesting.”

What a goofball. “Fine. But we’ll have to watch the game in my room if you want to get naked.”

“Not naked. Just take off zee sweater.” Carefully, he lifted it over my head, tossing it aside. “It is itching me.”