“He quickly stripped off his equipment and tossed it inside, wrinkling his nose at the stench—worse than the insides of his rank old running shoes. Mischlue braced his hands behind him on the bench in front of his stall, fine lines forming around his curved lips as he glanced over to Bower, who slouched beside him, shirtless, but still wearing his goalie pads. He said something in French and Bower laughed. Luke rolled his shoulders and cocked his head. "What's so funny?" "He said you should get ...laid more often." Bower grinned. "And he's right. Nice to see you're not moping around anymore." His face heated slightly, but he shrugged. "Some of us can't go months without. When's Silver gonna pop anyway?" "August 5th." Bower's whole face lit up—like it always did when he got to thinking about his kid. He started unstrapping his goalie pads as a blotchy red blush spread out over his darkly stubbled cheeks. "But if you're under the impression that I ain't getting any, you couldn't be more wrong." "Really?" Demyan's brow shot up.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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