Page 11 of Second Shot

When the door opens, Caldwell steps out. He doesn’t see me. His blond hair is wet and plastered to his head, and there’s a white towel around his narrow hips. My mouth goes dry as I take in the splendor that is Ryan fucking Caldwell. I may hate the guy, but goddamn, he’s still hot AF.

Water droplets cling to the defined planes of his chest and shoulders, tracing paths down carved abs that speak to countless hours of training. The towel rides low on his hips, emphasizing the sharp V-line that disappears beneath the terry cloth. His skin is flushed from the heat of the shower, muscles still relaxed but clearly powerful even at rest.

When he finally sees me, he looks startled. “Oh, shit. I didn’t know you were here.” He rubs his chest in a self-conscious gesture. “Um, I wasn’t sure where you went, so I brought your suitcase and garment bag up to the room. I hope that’s all right?”

Shocked at that thoughtful gesture, I’m speechless. As nice as Kincaid is, he wouldn’t have even thought of bringing my suitcase and garment bag up for me. But the last thing in theworld I want to do is say ‘thank you’ to Ryan Caldwell, so I just stare at him wordlessly.

He gives a nervous smile. “Um, I’m done with the shower if you want to use it?” He turns and goes to his suitcase. “I usually shower after the game, but I was tense and needed to relax.”

Did I ask?

That uncharitable thought flashes through my brain, mostly because I need something to distract me from the sight of Caldwell’s exquisite ass being cupped by the damp towel as he bends over. His muscular thighs are tanned and his calves beautifully defined. He’s fucking physically perfect and it only makes me hate him more.

It’s obvious he still doesn’t recognize me, and while that’s a really good thing, it also pisses me off all over again. Apparently, I’m a hundred percent forgettable. All the pain and humiliation I suffered at his hands mattered so little to him, it’s evaporated like smoke. Why bother remembering some poor loser he tortured for two years? He had a blessed, perfect life to live.

I realize I’m glaring at him with my fists clenched, and I turn away from him. I grab my suitcase and toss it on the bed. As I unzip it, I feel his gaze. I ignore him and pull out some underwear and my toiletry bag. All I want to do is grab my suit, slip into the bathroom, and dress in privacy. I’ll shower after the game.

He has his back to me as I walk toward him to grab my suit out of the closet. I hate myself for peeking at his body, but it’s almost impossible to keep my eyes off of all that beautiful, naked flesh. I’m only human. I’m only about a foot from him when he suddenly drops the towel and his bare ass is on display. At the up close and personal view of his firm, sinewy ass, I squash the strangled sound that almost escapes me and try not to choke on my spit.

To be fair, it’s not odd for him to drop his towel while I’m in the room. NHL players are very accustomed to being naked in front of each other. Most professional athletes are. We strip down in the locker room or to shower without a second thought. We change clothes openly without feeling the need to hide our junk. It’s a normal part of team life. So, it makes sense that Caldwell wouldn’t think twice about undressing in the hotel room in front of me.

The issue isn’t that he got naked in front of me. The real issue is how close I am to him when he drops his towel. He obviously had no idea that I was approaching him on my way to the closet. I was literally about to brush past him, when he ditched the towel. I’m so close I can smell the coconut shower gel on his warm skin. I can feel his body heat only inches from me. I’m so goddamned close I can see the dusting of freckles across his strong, muscular shoulders and back.

Things go from bad to fucking nightmare status when he takes a step back and bends over to slip on his black briefs. I give a loud grunt as his naked ass bumps into my crotch, and my hands instinctively land on his naked hips. He’s understandably startled that I touched him, and he twists around to look at me.

When our eyes meet, looking into his jade-green eyes brings back so many traumatic emotions, I instinctively shove him away. There’s no logic behind my actions. I simply react, desperate to put distance between us. Unfortunately, I push him so hard, his face slams into the corner of the wall, and blood spills down his face from a gash over his eye.

Eyes bugged, I watch in horror. “Oh, fuck, “ I hiss, clutching my hair. “Shit, I— Fuck, are you okay?” All thoughts of him being my childhood tormentor are gone as I watch him bleed. I can’t believe what just happened. It’s like a nightmare.

There’s a mirror on the wall in front of him and I’m treated to the unobstructed view of his gorgeous cock hanging between his sinewy thighs, but also the horrifying vision of him holding his hand to his brow bone as blood dribbles over his fingers.

When he finally speaks, he sounds amazingly calm. “I think I’m fine.” He peers at himself in the mirror, tentatively removing his fingers from the gash. But when more bloodtrickles down, he swears under his breath, slaps his hand over the cut again, and grumbles, “Head wounds bleed like a son-of-a-bitch.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m an idiot.” I run into the bathroom and I grab one of the washcloths hanging on the towel rack. I run it under the cold water, squeeze it out, and return to him.

He takes the wet cloth, places it gingerly over the gash, and moves to sit on the edge of his bed. It’s not lost on me that he grabs a pair of gym shorts that are next to him, and lays them over his junk.

“God, I really am sorry.” I hate that I’m in a position where I have to keep apologizing to him. But to be honest, I’m flustered by what happened and mortified that it’s my fault he’s now got a bloody laceration on his head.

He deserves far worse.

While that’s true, all the times Ryan bullied me, he never made me gush blood out of my face. The abuse was more mental than physical, although there was some of that too. But even so, I’m not about drawing first blood. I’ll answer the bell during a game if one of my teammates is threatened, but I’m not like Beck, who goes for maximum damage.

He blows out a breath and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Why’d you push me?”

My face feels like it’s on fire. I scramble for an excuse to explain my weird behavior. “I tripped,” I say lamely. “Sorry.”

“You tripped?” He doesn’t sound like he believes me, but he can’t prove I’m lying.

I cross my arms and happen to see the time on my watch. Blanching, I say, “Damn, we’re going to be late if we don’t get moving.”

He looks like he wants to keep talking, but instead he shrugs. “Yeah, you’re right.”

I’m shocked at how passive he’s being. That isn’t the Ryan I remember. The guy I remember from school would have laid into me for being a clumsy oaf. He’d have made me suffer for daring to touch one hair on his head. Instead he’s acting like hemorrhaging from his head is just an everyday occurrence.

Guilt makes me ask, “Do you need anything?”

He sighs. “No. You should get dressed. I’ll just sit here a little longer to let the blood coagulate some more. Then I’ll take care of this. I have some bandages and antibiotic ointment in my suitcase.”

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