Page 84 of Arrogant Puck

“Doing your exercises is helping.”

I nearly choke on my water. “Oh, you’re doing my exercises?”

He nods, and there’s something almost shy in the gesture. “Yeah, and it’s helping, so thanks.”

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I set my cup down on the granite counter, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. “Are you ever going to officially get help? I’m not as qualified as my new boss will be. Riley has been replaced. I’ll meet her on Monday.”

“Cool,” he says.

“Yeah, just got the email. I need to help smooth out the process, which is funny given that I’m new to the job as well.”

He nods.

“You should get your hip checked out, Slater. They’ll give you an MRI to see how bad the tear is. I can be the person in charge of your chart at the arena, but Riley is gone now, so...”

He’s nodding with his hands clasped together in front of him, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. “You want me to go on the record,” he mumbles.

“Yeah. Think about it,” I say, holding onto the glass. “Okay. I’m going to hop in the shower.”

“You can use mine.”

I freeze, my hand dropping the empty glass in the sink. “Why?”

“The hallway one doesn’t have soap.”

I smirk. “I have my own soap, Slater.”

“Okay,” he says simply, turning back to his laptop.

There’s something different about his energy right now—calmer, more controlled. Less of the coiled tension that usually radiates from him.

“Are you okay?” I ask before walking away. “This is like the most normal conversation we’ve ever had.”

He nods politely, fingers already moving over his keyboard. “Busy with homework.”

As I leave the kitchen, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted. The Slater who just offered to buy me furniture and thanked me for physical therapy exercises is a far cry from the man who just said that he would do anything to fuck me.

I wonder if this is his new and improved idea. Charm me until my panties slip off.

I head back to my room to grab clean clothes and toiletries for a quick shower. The hot water feels amazing after the long day of travel, washing away the lingering scent of airplane recycled air.

It’s only when I turn off the water and reach for a towel that I realize my amateur mistake. No towel. I’m standing dripping wet in Slater’s bathtub he never uses. Great.

I knock on the wall. “Slater!”

Silence. Of course.

“Shit,” I mutter, trying to wipe off as much water as possible with my hands so I don’t create a trail of water across his floors. I check underneath the sink for spare towels but find only one extra toilet paper roll and cleaning supplies.

“Slater!” I call again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

I inch toward the door, being careful not to slip on the wet tile. Maybe I can make a run for my room and grab something—anything—to dry off with.

But before I can even reach for the handle, the door opens without hesitation.

“Shit!” I shout, my hands flying to cover my breasts and between my legs while he stands there frozen for a moment too long. His eyes widen, then travel down my body before he seems to snap back to reality.

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