Page 71 of Arrogant Puck

I walk over to the bed and pull back the covers, hoping he’ll take the hint that I’m ready to sleep. But he doesn’t move from his spot by the window.

“Are you planning to stay long?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

“Depends.” He leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. The gesture makes his biceps strain against his t-shirt in a way that’s completely distracting.

“I’m pretty boring, actually. Tonight, I am planning to get some sleep before tomorrow’s comes.”

“Sleep.” He says it like it’s a foreign concept. “Right.”

There’s something in his tone that makes me look at him more carefully. His jaw is tense, his shoulders rigid, and there’s a restless energy coming off him that wasn’t there during lunch. It’s like the violence from the ice followed him back here.

“Are you okay?” I ask hesitantly.

“Perfect.” But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just thought I’d check on my friend. See how you’re settling in.”

There’s that word again—friend—but the way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like he’s testing it, seeing how it tastes.

“I’m settling in fine, thanks.” I snuggle the blanket, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave. “Really tired though.”

“From what? You didn’t play.”

My eyes dart to him. “From... the day? Moving my entire life, traveling, working—”

“Right. The moving.” He pushes off from the wall and starts walking slowly around the room, like he’s inspecting it. “Into my house. Temporarily.”

“Yes, temporarily.” I watch him nervously as he stops at the desk, running his fingers along the surface. “Just until I find something else.”

“And how’s that going? The apartment hunting?”

My stomach drops. “I just started looking.”

“Hmm.” He picks up the hotel pen and turns it over in his hands. “Competitive market out there. Expensive too.”

The room feels smaller suddenly, like the walls are closing in. I don’t like the way he’s circling, the predatory calm in his movements. It reminds me too much of the ice, the way he stalked Chicago players before demolishing them.

“You should probably get some rest,” I say, even though this is my room, and he should be the one leaving.

He stops moving and tilts his head. “Or we can talk about earlier?”

“Earlier?” I question, hating this so much. He’s a fucking wild card. I have no idea what happens next.

“The stretches.” His eyes are dark, unreadable. “When you called me your friend.”

My cheeks burn.

He repeats the word like it tastes bitter. “Is that what we’re calling this? Friendship?”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t. The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. I can feel him watching me, cataloging every reaction, every breath.

“You know what I think?” he says finally.

“What?”

“I think you’re scared.”

“Of what?”

He takes a step closer to the bed. “Of admitting that this—” he gestures between us “—isn’t professional. Isn’t friendship. Isn’t temporary.”

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