Page 11 of Puck Love

Iglanceat the smallcut above my brow. There’s a little more bruising than I realized, but I’ll live. I have a splitting headache, and I look like shit. I’m tempted just to climb right on back in Van’s bed, but I can’t do that . . . because that would be crazy. I can’t sleep here. He might be a famous NHL player, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a psycho rapist. Okay, so maybe psycho rapist is a stretch, but I don’t know the first thing about thesemen.

What the hell have Idone?

I spot the phone on the bedside table and think about picking it up to call Lana, only I don’t know her number. I’ve never had to learn the damn thing, what with it being saved in my phone and her being glued to my side for the last damn fiveyears.

I could always call the police, but then what the hell would I say? I ran away from a stadium filled with twenty thousand people and drove drunk until I crashed into a mountain, and now some nice hockey player is holding me hostage until the snow clears. Oh, and he also pulled me from my car and held me all night to ensure I didn’t catch hyperthermia. Yeah, so not going to work. They’d think I was crazy. Because there’s every chance I may actually becrazy.

I pull on the clothing and nervously wipe my sweaty palms on my new jeans. Opening the door as quietly as I can, I attempt to listen to the men downstairs. Either they’re not talking or this house is huge, because I can’t hear a thing aside from the crackle of a fireplace downstairs. I tiptoe out of the room and find myself on a landing overlooking a huge den with wood and slate and rich brown buttery-looking leather couches, not at all like the ones occupying my Nashville home. There’s a huge open fireplace and a mantel decorated with . . . pucks? I quietly creep down the stairs and into the den. Yep, definitely pucks. That’s weird. Though I guess it’s not like I have photos on my mantel either. I warm my hands in front of the fireplace. I still smell like a distillery, but I don’t trust my new roomies enough yet to shower in a bathroom without a locking door. I walk through the huge house until I find the kitchen. It’s open plan, leading to an informal dining room and another living room that looks as if it’s rarely used. There’s a fireplace set into the back wall, framed on either side by two enormous windows and right in the middle is a hot tub. It’s surrounded by slate and stones, and it’s the weirdest thing I’ve everseen.

Van stands at the counter, spreading pancake batter into a hot skillet while Emmett sits at the dining table. He’s a lot shorter than his brother with lighter hair and a rounder face and body. He has Down syndrome. I couldn’t pinpoint his disability before because I was busy trying to attack the hockey player with an electric razor, and the whooshing of fear in my veins prevented me from making sound decisions andassessments.

I realize I’m staring when Van clears his throat. I glance sheepishly at the man inquestion.

Oh god, he is gorgeous. Not just the kind of guy you’d take a second look at but the “hello, pretty, I know we just met but I want to have your babies” kind of attractive. He’s also huge, which, granted, I didn’t miss when I felt him lying beneath me, but it’s so much more intimidating up close likethis.

“Hungry?” I can tell by his tone that there’s more on the menu than just pancakes—all I have to do is say the word. I don’t trust myself to speak at all so I nod. My gaze rolls over his face. He might be pretty but his beard looks ridiculous after I got crafty withit.

“I’m sorry about your . . .” I trail off, pointing to myjawline.

“Well, I’m not gonna lie. I’m pretty pissed about it because you may have just cost us theseason.”

I frown. “What? How exactly do you figurethat?”

“Team’s superstitious. They don’t shave their beards once the season starts,” Emmettsays.

“Oh. Well, it’s just a beard, right? I mean, how can that keep you from winning a hockeygame?”

“Emmett’s still pissy with you, too,” Van whispers in an aside. “He’s your biggestfan.”

Emmett, apparently, isn’t hard of hearing because he shoots up from his chair and throws a pancake in our direction. It goes wide, but Van jumps out of the way as if it might actually hit him. “God, Van, you’re such adick.”

I have to agree with Emmett, but I don’t say asmuch.

“And, it’s not just a game. Hockey is life,” Van saysresolutely.

“Um . . . okay.” I make a face and then shoot him an apologetic smile. “Well,sorry.”

“Not yet, but you might be.” Van slowly looks me over, in much the same way that I look at chocolate. “I haven’t decided how you’re going to make it up to meyet.”

“Excuseme?”

“The playoff beard is not to be trifledwith.”

Emmett chuckles. “It’s not a playoff beard if you’re not at the playoffs,dumbass.”

“Emmett, shut the fuck up. You know it takes me all season to grow the beardin.”

I give him a smirk of my own. “It’s because of your baby face, isn’tit?”

“You know you’re really ungrateful for someone whose life Isaved.”

I give a scoffing laugh. “Oh my god, you’reserious?”

“Hell yes, I’m serious. Have you seen outside? You’d be a popsicle right now if I hadn’t pulled you from your vehicle to warm youup.”

“Well, thank you for saving my life.” I use air quotes around the last three words of the sentence because I’m almost one hundred percent sure he’s exaggerating. “But I should probably begoing.”

“But it’s PancakeSunday.”

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