Page 93 of Must Love Dogs… and Hockey

He reaches for me and pulls me against him. “Fucking.”

While I am down for that pretty much anytime with Easton, right now I’m not so sure. “You smell like a distillery.”

“Ugh.” He wipes his mouth. “Sorry, babe.”

“Rough night?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Come to bed.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

I pause in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, then Easton stumbles after me down the hall. I head into the bathroom and shake a couple of tablets into my palm. He’s nearly undressed by the time I return, his clothes on the floor.

“Here. Take these.” I hand him the painkillers, and he steps out of his boxer briefs, grimaces, then washes them down.

He drops the bottle onto the nightstand and grabs me again. “C’mere.”

I let him pull me into bed and I settle in against him. But it’s not happening.

“Goddamn whiskey dick,” he mutters, his mouth on the side of my neck.

I can’t help but smile. “Damn.” I stroke his back. “It’s okay. Go to sleep, Easton.”

“Mkay.”

My heart is hurting for him, but also full of emotion. I love him, and I hate that he’s suffering. I slowly run my hand up and down his back as he dozes off. It takes me a while longer, but eventually I sleep too.

—

“Ugh.” Easton rolls over in bed to face away from me. “Pretty sure I stink.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, you kinda do.”

“Gonna shower. What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

He rolls out of bed and stretches, which is magnificent. His back is to me, but I get an excellent view of his firm ass, rippled back muscles, and powerful shoulders. I sigh.

He spends a few minutes in the bathroom but Otis is whining, so I throw back the covers and drag my own ass out of the comfortable bed to take him outside. When I return, Easton is under the covers again, his hair damp, a forearm over his eyes.

“Thanks for taking him out.”

“No problem. How do you feel?”

“Eh. Not bad, actually. I took more Advil.”

“Good. What time is practice?”

“Eleven. I don’t think I’ll go.”

Even I know that’s not possible, so I ignore that. I sit on the side of the bed. “What happened last night?”

He heaves a sigh. “Fuck. I’m sure you know I didn’t play.”

“Yeah. They said you were a healthy scratch. Everyone on TV was confused. So was I.”

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