Page 72 of In It to Win It

She laughs. “You definitely get an assist for helping today. I can’t thank you guys enough.”

I’m still a tad annoyed about the dirty, flirty stuff, but I can see that Taylor’s not even a little interested, and even Dutch is just kidding around. It’s actually cool that she likes my friends, idiots that they are.

14

JP

My body hurts everywhereas I lean against the elevator wall riding up to my condo. I tug at the knot of my tie, still dressed in my game-day suit, then roll my shoulders back to ease some stiffness. When the elevator opens, I limp off, my foot and my hip protesting.

I’m okay. Got checked out after the game. Just took some hard hits, one into the boards that fucking should have been a penalty—I hope DoPS reviews it and that asshole Marzetti gets suspended. There also was the hit at center ice—I laid it on Brown, and it was clean, but we both felt it. And the puck I took in the foot standing in front of Mac, our goalie, when their D-man took a slap shot. It dropped me, but I managed to walk it off in the tunnel and get back in the game.

I open my door. Lights are on. I leave the foyer light on so Byron has a little light, but the living room lights are on too. I prowl in to check out what’s going on.

Taylor. Asleep on my couch.

I don’t move. Don’t make a sound. I just want to study her. Her gorgeous hair is spread all around her, her mouth full and soft, long lashes fanned on her soft cheeks. She’s on her side, wearing a pair of cropped leggings that leave her calves and feet bare, and one smooth shoulder is revealed by a pink tank top.

Byron’s on the floor next to her and he comes padding toward me, looking like he’s smiling, tail waving. I smile and crouch down to greet him, rubbing his ears. “Hey boy,” I whisper. “You happy to see me?”

I’m getting used to being greeted when I get home. No wonder people love dogs—he’s always happy I’m here, and it’s kinda nice.

I straighten and survey the big coffee table, and my forehead tightens as I take in the assorted pieces of paper cut into shapes, along with markers and glue. There’s also a half-full bottle of water and an empty package of what looks like cashews.

The TV’s still on, but the volume is down. Jill Atkins atSportsCenteris talking. That’s the channel our games are on. I smile as I realize Taylor must have been watching the game.

It’s been a couple of weeks since she moved into her apartment and Byron came to live here, and most of the time she comes over I don’t see her. I almost always know she’s been here, though. Sometimes I can smell her scent . . . the warm, fresh scent of flowers and vanilla that takes me back to the hotel suite and her in my bed there. And it makes my dick stir. Even if I don’t smell her, she’s usually done something—washed Byron’s dishes along with some of my own, tidied up his toys, or brushed him.

Pretty sure she’s avoiding me.

I fucking hate that.

On the other hand, it’s probably better, if we’re just going to be friends. I’m trying to be a good boy, on the ice and off. She has a boyfriend, and I’m not completely confident in my ability to resist the temptation that Taylor unwittingly presents.

But here she is, curled up on my couch, all sleepy and sexy and fuck yeah, tempting as sin.

Guess I have to wake her up.

I let myself indulge a few more minutes, imagining the ways I could wake her . . . kissing her . . . sliding my hands under her shirt . . . easing her onto her back and slipping my hand inside her stretchy leggings . . . then moving over her and pressing her into the couch cushions and . . .

Heat builds beneath the collar of my dress shirt.

Fuuuuuck.

I clench my jaw, step around Byron, and move to the couch. I crouch down next to it and touch her arm. “Hey, sleeping beauty.”

Her eyes flutter, then pop open wide. She stares at me and her lips part.

Jesus. I want to kiss that lush mouth so fucking bad. I can’t help but stare at it, more heat accumulating around my neck, sliding down my body, my groin tightening.

“JP.” She scrambles to push up to a sitting position and shoves her hands into her hair. “What are you . . . Oh my God, I fell asleep. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s fine.” I want to touch her so fucking bad I can’t stand it.

This is me, practicing self-control.

She’s studying me, her gaze moving over my suit and tie. Then she gives her head a shake as if to clear fog away. “I’d better go home.”

It’s a weeknight and she has to work in the morning. I wish she didn’t. I wish I could ask her to stay. In my bed . . .

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