Right Man, Right Time (The Vancouver Agitators, #3)(120)

“So fucking hard, like I am right now.”

“Let me see,” she says, her beautiful eyes fluttering open. I take the phone, and I turn the camera around so she can see my hand on my cock, pumping. “God, that’s so sexy.”

“Let me see you touch your pussy,” I say as my grip grows tighter.

She picks up her phone as well and offers me the same angle. Her bare pussy comes into view right before her hand slides over it, and her finger glides over her slit. “Silas, I wish this was your tongue.”

“Me too, baby,” I say as a light sheen of sweat breaks out over my skin.

“What else happens? Did you fuck me on the counter?”

Knock. Knock.

I glance over toward the entryway of my door.

Fuck, is that housekeeping? I put up the do not disturb. They should leave me alone.

“Silas.”

“Huh? Oh sorry, what did you say?” I ask.

Knock. Knock.

“Dude, open up,” Posey says.

“Is someone knocking on your door?” Ollie asks.

“Yeah,” I grumble as I flip the camera around. “I think it’s—”

The door beeps to unlock, and it opens. Posey, Pacey, and Holmes come charging in. I have about two seconds to cover myself up before they see me.

“What the actual fuck,” I yell as I turn the screen of my phone face down so they can’t see Ollie. This is why I shouldn’t give a spare key to the guys. I thought it was a good idea, given I tend to sleep through an alarm occasionally, but this is not cool.

“We need to talk . . .” Posey’s voice dies down as he takes in the scene in front of him. “Uh . . . were you . . .”

I pick up the phone, and luckily, Ollie is covered and waiting for me. “I’ll call you back, babe.”

“Okay,” she says right before I hang up.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask. As my three friends all exchange glances. “What?” I shout.

“Was that Ollie?” Pacey asks.

“Yes,” I say, annoyed. “And you’re fucking interrupting.”

“Sorry, but . . . you need to read this,” Posey says as he walks up to me and hands me his phone.

Completely confused, I look down at the screen and read the headline of an article.

“Even Hockey Players Can’t Have it All.”

Byline: Ollie Owens.

I glance up at them. “Is this Ollie’s article?” They nod. “Well, Jesus, why are you barging in here? I’ve read it already.”

“Have you?” Pacey asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Before she turned it in.”

Posey looks almost gray as he says, “So you were cool with her talking about . . . about what happened with Sarah?”

“Wait, what?” I ask as my heart stills in my chest, all air escaping from my lungs.

“It’s, uh . . . it’s in there,” Holmes says as he pushes his hand through his hair in distress. “How she cheated on you.”

“No, the fuck it’s not,” I say, tossing the phone back. “She wouldn’t have written that.”

“Dude,” Pacey says softly. “It’s in there.”

“Where?” I say, swimming in the lane of denial.

Posey picks up the phone, and he scrolls through it. Then hands me the phone.

My eyes zero in on the start of the paragraph.

And after a long road trip, where the boys are beaten up and ready for a homecooked meal, there’s nothing more they want to go home to than their family and loved ones. Unfortunately for Silas Taters, that wasn’t always the case. The Agitators paint their organization as picture perfect, but when you lift the veil, you’re offered a glimpse into another side of the story, a side where their players can’t seem to make their loved ones happy. It’s probably not the first time this has happened, but it’s the first confirmed time on record that our Agitators aren’t perfect. Silas Taters’s former girlfriend cheated on him.

The phone slips out of my hand as my eyes remain fixed on the spot in front of me.

No.

There’s no fucking way.

She wouldn’t do that to me.

She cares about me. She knows the damage. She understands the trust issues I suffer. She wouldn’t use me as a piece in her article . . . right?

I read through it.

I approved it . . .

And then something sticks out in my head. The day she told me she turned it in, she said she made some changes. Were these the changes?

“Silas,” Holmes says softly. “What can we do, man?”

“I . . . I don’t fucking know,” I say as I lean back on the headboard. “I don’t fucking believe it.” Then immediately, I ask, “Who wrote that? What’s the name on the article?”

“It’s Ollie,” Pacey says. “Byline, Ollie Owens.”

“You told her about Sarah and what happened, right?” Posey asks.

“I did, but . . . she swore she wouldn’t say anything to anyone.” I shake my head, unable to comprehend this. “She wouldn’t do that . . . would she?”

My mind flies fast with ideas, with notions of what could have happened, but out of all of the scenarios, one thing keeps sticking out in my mind . . . her need to prove herself. Her need to do right by Roberts.