Page 23 of Coach's Temptation

Drip.

Nope. Still there.

Drip.

My eyes stay stubbornly shut. I'm not dealing with this. Not at—I grab my phone—4:37 AM.

PLOP.

A fat droplet of water lands square on my forehead, and my eyes snap open. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

I stare up at my ceiling where a suspicious dark patch spreads across my grandmother's vintage wallpaper. Another large drop falls. Then another.

"Holy sh—"

The rest of my curse drowns in the thunderous cascade of water exploding from my ceiling. It's like someone upstairs decided to install an indoor swimming pool without consulting physics. Or me.

I leap from my bed, tangling in my grandmother's hand-crocheted blanket and nearly face-planting into the growing pond that used to be my bedroom floor.

"What the fuck!"

The room I've carefully curated over three years of living here is turning into an aquatic disaster zone. My fluffy llama socks squelch against the growing pool of water now forming in my bedroom.

My bedroom.

My fucking bedroom!!!

The soft pink walls, still sporting my grandmother's 1960s floral wallpaper, now sport spreading dark patches that look suspiciously like modern art. My collection of pressed flowers in their delicate frames hang precariously, and the stack of physical therapy journals on my nightstand are quickly becoming very expensive paper boats.

I sprint into action, grabbing the first thing I see—a towel from my laundry pile—and hurling it at the flood like it’s going to do anything.

"No, no, no!" I dive for my phone, yanking it from the charging cable just as water starts creeping toward the outlet. The fairy lights strung across my headboard flicker.

Great. Death by electrocution wasn't on my morning agenda.

A particularly violent surge from above sends water spraying in an impressive arc, somehow managing to hit every single dry spot left in the room. The sound is deafening—a mix of rushing water, creaking ceiling, and my own creative cursing.

"Shit!"

I whirl around, swiping my phone from the nightstand. Water splashes as I run into the kitchen, skidding to a stop just as another chunk of my ceiling gives up on life and collapses onto my already-questionable kitchen table.

I shriek.

"Not my books! Not my books!"

I lunge for my special edition copy of the latest hockey romance, complete with NSFW-work artwork, just as another stream of water crashes down. My kitchen chair groans, wobbles… and then collapses.

I jab at my phone.

“Emergency plumber, how can I—”

“Hi!” I yelp, frantically catching my now-drenched coffee maker and tossing it higher up onto the counter. “Yes, emergency! Very emergency! My apartment is actively trying to kill me!”

The plumber on the other end is unmoved. He yawns.

“Yeah, sounds bad. I can get to you in… three days.”

I freeze mid-panic. “THREE DAYS?! My ceiling just turned into theNiagara-freaking-Falls!”

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