Page 70 of Arrogant Puck

I can hear the guys planning to hang out downstairs in the hotel lobby behind me, while others are saying they’re beat and need rest for tomorrow’s game in Milwaukee.

When we arrive at the hotel, I get off the bus first, say goodnight to the coaches, and politely decline when Henderson invites me out for drinks. Then I head straight up to my room, my keycard already in hand.

The hot shower is exactly what I need. The water washes away the stress of the day, the anxiety about my living situation, the confusion about whatever’s happening with Slater. I let myself stand under the spray longer than necessary, just breathing and trying to center myself.

When I finally step out, I wrap a fluffy hotel towel around myself and walk into the main room to grab my pajamas from my bag.

A shadow in the corner makes me nearly jump out of my skin.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask, clutching my chest where my heart is hammering. “You shouldn’t be in here, Slater.”

“Just wanted to check in with my...” His eyes travel down my body in a way that makes my insides clench with something that definitely isn’t fear. “Friend.”

The way he says ‘friend’ makes it sound like a dirty word.

“You could’ve texted me,” I say.

He shrugs, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s invaded my privacy. “I could’ve.”

I try to focus on being professional, on treating this like any other client interaction. “How’s your hip?”

He breathes out a stream of hot air, and there’s something dangerous in his expression. “Always mean business.”

I shrug, trying to ignore the tension radiating off him. “I’m just checking in on you. The game was intense. Do you always play like that?”

He glares at me like I’ve asked him something offensive.

“Can you give me a second to get dressed?”

He turns his back to me but doesn’t leave. “I won’t peek.”

“Slater,” I scoff. “Come on.”

“I’m giving you privacy. Appreciate it.”

“This isn’t privacy. I’m taking my things into the bathroom.” I gather my clothes with shaking hands and head toward the bathroom.

I’m trembling, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m scared of him or scared to be around him. Either way, my nerves are shot. He’s acting like he’s mad at me, and his attitude right now is unlike any other time we’ve interacted. He’s being snarky, an arrogant smart ass with an edge that puts me on high alert.

My plan was to start applying to apartments tonight, but I can’t do that if he’s here in my space, watching my every move with those dark eyes.

I take a deep breath, pull on my pajamas—modest cotton shorts and a tank top—and open the bathroom door.

He’s still standing in the exact same spot, his back to me, like he hasn’t moved a muscle. When I step out, he slowly turns around, and the look in his eyes makes my mouth go dry.

“Better?” he asks. The way he’s looking at me suggests my pajamas aren’t much of a barrier to whatever’s going on in his head.

“Seriously, what are you doing here? The team’s downstairs celebrating. Shouldn’t you be with them?”

“Not much of a celebrator.”

“You played incredible tonight. Three assists, dominated the ice—”

“And got called for four penalties,” he cuts me off. “Not exactly textbook hockey.”

“But still fire,” I point out. “Chicago was terrified of you by the third period.”

Something flickers in his expression—satisfaction, maybe, or pride.

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