12
Gigi
“Congrats, big guy,” I said, giving Trey a huge hug. I could smell the beer on his breath—he was feeling no pain.
“Gigi,” he muttered drunkenly against my cheek before he kissed it, making me laugh before I pushed him away.
“Are you still going to have time to help me with the puppies now that you’re famous?” I teased him, and he stumbled backward a step.
It took him a while, but he leveled his gaze at me. “I will always love those puppies. They give my life—” he threw his hands magnanimously to the side, inadvertently hitting some of the condoms that were strung up as decorations, “meaning!”
I threw my head back and laughed. Gosh, it felt good. Laughing hadn’t been a regular part of my routine for a while now.
A major condom company had officially announced their partnership with Trey Turner. The successful, rowdy hockey player—widely known not only for his right hook, but also for his preference for enjoying more than two women in his bed at one time—was offered a ridiculously enormous sponsorship.
Mr. Ménage was now, Mr. Filthy Rich Ménage.
Trey was my friend, and I never felt the need to ask him about his bedroom antics.
It wasn’t any of my business.
It also didn’t affect our friendship in any way, shape, or form.
He was there for me and the puppies whenever we needed him.
So, I really was genuinely happy for him.
Deals like this were coveted by many—yet offered to few.
Huge screens around the courtyard played his new commercial. I’d watched it a few times.
It started with Trey playing hockey. He shot the puck, scored, then an opponent jumped him and started a fight.
Trey turned around immediately and hit him with his right hook.
The camera panned down as the poor guy fell to the ice. Then Trey said, “If there’s one thing I know about, it’s protection. On—” he throws his helmet off to the side, and the tv flashes to him in a nightclub, “and off the ice.”
Two babelicious, scantily clad, bar gals slide under his arms. “Stay safe out there.” He gets a close up right before he winks.
It’s a funny, yet smart commercial.
Absolutely perfect for Trey.
“In fact, I’m going to pay for the puppies’ daycare from now on,” he said, taking another sip from his bottle.
“No, you’re not,” I said, poking my finger into his chest.
“Then I’m buying the puppies a new house and nanny.”
I giggled and gave him a hug. “No, you’re not.”
“Can I buy them a few new toys?” he asked, squeezing me tight in his arms. I savored the feel of him. I missed having big, manly arms around me. Even though Trey was just my friend, I might have pretended he was Beau for one, brief second.
“That I’ll allow,” I said into his chest. He smelled good. Like fresh, spicy pine.
“Honey, all jokes aside,” he said into my ear in a low, low voice, “we need to talk. Come over tomorrow while I nurse my hangover.”
I gazed up into his eyes. The sad expression on his face crushed my heart. “I’ll bring you soup. But there’s nothing to talk about.”